The World According to Teef

Why Must My Arms Feel So Empty for What My Heart Still Holds?

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Sat, 26 Apr 2014 17:00:00 +0000

No one has the right words for you. No one can understand your pain. But I wrote this for you.

When you’re reciting your vows, there are words you say, but you’re really not invested in. For instance, “in sickness and in health” or “’til death do us part”, don’t matter at the time, because your love is invincible. But what happens when illness insinuates itself into your marriage and ultimately death ends your love story? How do you stop crying? How do sleep in the bed you’ve shared? How can you not be angry at God?

As believers, we’re taught that God has a plan, but it’s hard to understand how this can be part of His plan. I know it seems selfish, but how can I live life abundantly when love has been ripped from my arms? What’s the lesson to be learned? What’s the test? Who was being tested?

You close your eyes and think of the moments you’ve had together; you curse yourself for days spent angry or not loving one another as much as you should have, but you remember that smile and it brings you to tears. You remember that you and her slept beneath the same stars separately for years before you found your way to one another and stared at those same stars holding hands in places your love touched.

Somehow you have to soldier on, make arrangements, and be strong for everyone else when you really want to lock yourself in a room and listen to her favorite songs, hoping to catch a glimpse of her through your tears or smell her scent on your pillow. There’s pain, real pain, pain that could never be quantified and all of the phone calls, visits, thoughts and prayers will never alleviate. But you smile. You smile because you realize these people loved her and they love you because of how much you loved her. It doesn’t remove the pain and take away the fact that you can’t hold her again, but it helps comfort you in the first days.

But what happens when the calls stop coming and the plates of food are no longer being dropped off? When your home is just a house? How do you not give up on life when so much of your living was because of this love? The clichés and usual statements have little meaning and you pray until cry and cry until you begin praying, hoping that something points you in the right direction. It’s hard, because through this person you’ve experienced the highest of highs and now you’ve reached your lowest, so I can’t blame you for being angry at anyone, everyone. Sometimes you just have to let people be who they are and deal with their emotions the ways they feel best. You’ve been reshaped by this love and God has held you long enough for you to know this isn’t the end.

In a world of disappointment, God blessed you with her and that can never be taken away.

Marching On: George Tandy Jr.

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Wed, 09 Apr 2014 21:50:00 +0000

“Old Soul” is a term generally reserved for the comparatively young who have tendencies reminiscent of a time clearly beyond their years. In the case of George Tandy Jr., his debut single “March” reminds many of a time in music often spoken of with nostalgia and usually punctuated by, “they don’t make music like that anymore.” But young Mr. Tandy does, and his sound could be directly attributed to his pedigree: George Sr. is a jazz artist and mom a singer, creating an environment that developed not only an appreciation for the wonderful sounds that enveloped him, but influenced him as he set out for a career of his own.

That journey began when his mother, sensing his need for creative expression, encouraged him to move to Florida and connect with his father. Through music, a bond between father and son was forged, as they realized they were speaking the same language and from there, the younger George began applying some of the tricks dad was teaching. There was still work to be done; George was juggling two jobs when he began to develop a relationship with a customer who often came into his gig at Starbucks. That customer turned out to be Cima Georgevich, CEO of RedStar Entertainment; the two developed a rapport and over time, George let on that he had aspirations of being a singer. What happened next is the stuff of legend: Either a demo CD was passed along with a cup of tea or Georgevich heard him singing while on break, but the result was a partnership that brought George Tandy Jr. into the RedStar Entertainment family.

Read the rest at Soul Train

Marvin Gaye Day - The Worst April Fools' Day Joke Ever

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Tue, 01 Apr 2014 13:58:00 +0000

I was only five, but April 1, 1984 was one of those days that millions of people will remember for the rest of their lives. That was the day the worst April Fools’ joke ever was played. I recall sitting on the floor in my grandmother’s room watching the news when the story ran. Remember I’m 5 at the time; my relationship with Marvin Gaye was relegated to “Sexual Healing”, his Motown 25 performance, and watching him perform the “Star Spangled Banner” at the NBA All-Star Game. Over the years, I’ve grown far more intimate and acquainted with him through his music, interviews, and biographies.

However, that night, I can only remember watching how my grandmother reacted to the news of his murder and then watching her in disbelief when it was reported that his father pulled the trigger. Now, we know of the turbulent relationship the two of them had, the demons in Marvin’s life, and so much more. But that day, the son of soul music passed and with him went the hearts of millions of fans that had grown up on his music, used his music as the soundtrack to their lives, started their parties or capped their nights.

To a 5 year-old, he became a question, “Why did Marvin Gaye’s daddy shoot him”? The answer was complicated then and even more complicated if I were to ask as a 33 year-old. It seems as if Marvin and his father, Marvin, Sr., had always been at odds, and the younger could never please his father who had grown increasingly despondent over the years. Marvin says he was beaten often as a child and the torment became mental and emotional through Marvin’s adult years, as his father insisted on living off of his wife and later his son.

The level of mental illness the two of them dealt with was ignored, much in the way we continue to ignore it today, but it spontaneously combusted that day. The resentment the two men built over the years, coupled with Marvin’s mental decay and cocaine abuse, proved to be a combustible mix on a Sunday morning in that Los Angeles bedroom. What is clear, however, is that there was a physical confrontation between Marvin and his dad after an argument between his parents. What happened next ended with two shots into Marvin’s chest and millions of fans left without the voice of Black America…

Disposable Parts: DeSean Jackson, The Philadelphia Eagles and an Oversimplification of Their Ugliness

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Sat, 29 Mar 2014 22:06:00 +0000

When news of DeSean Jackson’s release by the Philadelphia Eagles first broke, my first reaction was wow, but that reaction was replaced with a sour taste moments after. In those moments after the initial Twitter and Facebook updates, an article ran on NJ.com alleging DeSean to be associated with two murders attributed to Crips back in LA; the implication was that these are his friends and they’re murderers, so of course, he’s a murderer too. In the wake of last summer’s Aaron Hernandez saga, there was urgency in the need to drop their top receiver and not trade him, “because we (the Eagles) didn’t want to unload his problems on another team”. There’s only one problem; the article is based loosely on facts and Instagram photos and one of the subjects was acquitted of murder and the happened in front of a house his sister was renting.

I wonder if Ronald McDonald is linked to all of the crimes that happen in his establishments daily.

What has really bothered me is over the last few months at the institution of so-called higher learning at which I work, I’ve seen this same type of behavior towards students of color, specifically Black males. Faculty members engage a student (passive) aggressively and once the student reacts, they become a threat and now have to be removed from the class and sit before a disciplinary committee. The fear of Black men, real and imagined, is enough for students to be dismissed from college, for a team to absolve itself of a now-unwanted contract and of course to be stalked and killed in a gated community.

We’ll do what’s best for our team

That’s what Eagles head coach Chip Kelly a few days before the team cut Jackson, a day after the trade talk was reportedly put to rest. For weeks the Eagles have been tossing items at the wall regarding Jackson hoping one would stick with its fan base, garnering the support for trading arguably their best playmaker. However, after 82 receptions, over 1300 yards, nine touchdowns and being a threat each snap, nothing worked, until they were able to connect to the gang ties. For their part, the Eagles are trying to sell this is a football-related decision, blaming Jackson’s work ethic and attitude, that’s the word they’re leaking to ESPN and other outlets. They knew that wouldn’t fly with their rabid fans, especially in a city where it’s most recent sports icon gave a press conference about practice.

The reaction to the gang story was what you could expect, a chorus of “he had to go” and “we know what happened with Aaron Hernandez” and of course the old-time adage, “where there’s smoke, there’s fire”. The problem is, sometimes where there’s smoke, there’s just a smokescreen. Or a smoke bomb in this case. A smoke bomb to mask the fact that Chip Kelly believes wide receivers to be nothing more than moving parts in his system and after an unexpected division title, the city has bought it to that system. With Jeremy Maclin returning from injury, Riley Cooper’s new contract and a deep crop of receivers in this year’s draft, Jackson and the $10.7 million he was owed became expendable.

A funny thing about systems: Andy Reid’s system worked until it didn’t and Phil Jackson’s system has never been tried without the best player in the league and not having the most talented personnel in key positions can cause system failures like low enrollment, high turnover and a disgruntled consumer base.

Chip Kelly will go unscathed in this fiasco, but he’s not without fault. There were whispers that Jackson wasn’t one of “his guys”, which really earned him his exit, but Kelly has to realize this isn’t college, where the boys are on scholarship, playing on a hope and a dream of making it to the NFL. These are grown men, making millions of dollars and while they may not all be your favorites, they deserve to be treated as men, not roster slots. But that’s the way of the world in the NFL; they sell everyone on the shield and emblem on the helmet, rendering the name on the back of the jersey disposable. The team eats the youth of its players and then spits them out with a lifetime of concussion and aches, once they no longer fit a system or their salary exceeds their prescribed value to that team.

I’ve come to expect about this much from sports franchises, the telephone tough guys and Internet thugs who chimed in on the conversation, but I was extremely disappointed in the people who look like me and DeSean that fell in line with the decision like a Manchurian candidate. Those so blinded by fandom they couldn’t reconcile the smear campaign with their status of being Black in America. For those of us not signed to a $50 million contract, it will take much less than 1,738 and an afternoon of ESPN "analysts" to take us down, despite our connections to the community, participation in anti-bullying campaigns and commitment to alma maters. That was all it took for folks to forget all that Jackson did in the city of Philadelphia and back in his hometown of Los Angeles. The same way New York City sells “Stop & Frisk” to Central Park and my gig muddied the waters while removing people of color from its faculty, the Philadelphia Eagles smeared DeSean Jackson’s name and reduced his chances at another big payday with the way this all played out.

While teams lineup and certainly begin their independent investigations into DeSean Jackson’s private life, I’ll start dissociating myself from all the felons and thugs I’ve known throughout life. I’ll be cutting my friends down a considerable amount, but I guess I could always find a would-be hate crime offender to rely on like the Eagles. That’s pretty much what Jason Kelce and the organization did yesterday; they chose a story filled with holes over the guy who would “kill all the niggers in here”. Think it’s time to talk about the racial divide in the city of Philadelphia?

What We Talk About When We Talk About Love: Laying Here Quiet Ain't Working For Me

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Wed, 26 Mar 2014 17:37:00 +0000

Nosy folks often ask if my wife and I ever fight. We don’t argue or yell; we may disagree from time to time and being that we’re both stubborn, spend an hour or two in our separate corners. However, we both realize that we didn’t get married to waste minutes with petty arguments or overblown fights, so those moments are far and few between. But, they happen. A couple of weeks ago we both got beneath the other’s skin and spent some time in silence, but I still made her lunch for the next day and she prepared my side of the bed the way I like it.

We’re adults. We can take the time to blow off some steam and discuss what the issue is or was, or even just let it blow by, because usually it’s just me overreacting. When you really sit down to look at life, you realize that New Year’s Eve seems like it was last week and Valentine’s Day yesterday, so time is going much too fast to spend angry, upset or forgetting how to smile. When I say I’m sorry, I really mean it, because I don’t like not kissing my wife before she goes to bed or sleeping without her encroaching on my side of the bed. That’s what you miss when you’re in the throes of a fight, the little things.

Pretty soon those little things become dinner for one and nights on the couch, while those moments that were few and far between, become the way of life. We’ve all seen it and I don’t think any of us want that, but the choices we make don’t necessarily call for anything different. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had my share days of unhappiness and loneliness to spend any more time on the wrong side of right. So baby, I’m sorry for things I haven’t said yet and attitudes beyond our sight; I don’t want to waste any more time that could be used loving you.

The Hump Day Song of the Week: Luther Vandross "Never Too Much"

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Wed, 05 Mar 2014 20:44:00 +0000

Who needs to go to work to hustle for another dollar...when you have dozens of days to spare?

The Hump Day Song of the Week: Erykah Badu "A.D. 2000"

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Wed, 26 Feb 2014 22:44:00 +0000

Happy Birthday Erykah Badu!

The Hump Day Song of the Week: Jaheim "Florida"

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Thu, 20 Feb 2014 00:25:00 +0000

This song has been stuck in my head for a few days...wish it wasn't.

The Hump Day Song of the Week: Otis Redding "Try a Little Tenderness"

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Wed, 12 Feb 2014 23:32:00 +0000

The Hump Day Song of the Week: Bobby Brown "Good Enough"

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Wed, 05 Feb 2014 18:25:00 +0000

Happy Birthday to the King!

I'm Disappointed in America: Friday Night Tykes

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Sun, 02 Feb 2014 19:10:00 +0000

It’s Super Bowl Sunday, which means they’ll be great plays, big hits, trash talk and ultimately a team crowned the champions of the National Football League. Throughout the game and days following, we’ll watch highlights of all the action, commentary from former greats, coaches and journalists, but someone will invariably ask, “How did these players get to this point”? The answer can be found on the Esquire Network, where “Friday Night Tykes” airs the untold story of youth football, by documenting five Texas teams in their eight and nine year old rookie division.

That’s the key to this entire series; these kids are eight and nine, no older than your babies in the other room right now. However, the coaches talk and inspire these kids like grown men. Curses routinely fly out of their mouths and violence is always a sentence away, but winning never strays far from the conversation. When I was that age, it was all about learning the game, developing the skills to make you into a player. It was about fun.

Football is big business in Texas, second to oil by many estimations, it’s a culture that thrives from the little league up to the Dallas Cowboys. In fact, of the nearly 1,700 players in the NFL, there were 172 from Texas, second only to California’s 216. That answers the first question to come to mind when watching the show, yes, it’s that serious. But it’s not as serious as these coaches and parents make it out to be, arguing, spying, running the score up and I imagine fighting when the cameras aren’t rolling. The hopes and dreams of so many are being wrapped into the ability of kids who can’t possibly carry the weight of expectations being placed on their shoulders. One scene I watched last night found a mother on the sideline mimicking the drills her son participated in, then questioning his heart and ability as he began to struggle through parts of the practice. Her rational, “If I can do it, why can’t he,” disregarding the fact that his mind and body may not be capable of achieving what the coaches are calling for at the moment.

Let me say this, I grew up in youth sports, so I’m thankful for every man and woman who committed their time to me and the thousands of kids who came through the ranks with me. However, the coaches on “Friday Night Tykes” have gone a step or two beyond normal, carrying on as if they’re auditioning for gigs at the University of Texas or the Dallas Cowboys. The premium is placed on winning, winning big and hitting hard, not gathering the fundamentals. At least that’s not what’s being broadcast. I’m sure there are weeks of practice cut out, where the basics were being taught, long before Jr. Rockets played the Colts and pride of the coaches was tested. But that’s not what we see. We’re shown coaches telling these kids to knock the other players on their ass, score touchdowns as the clock winds down in a blowout in an effort to humiliate their opponent.

In other words, we’re watching the training of young men who’ll grow up to respect nothing but aggression, being trained into football machines whose directives are big-time college football or bust. History tells us a few of these kids will become some of the most sought-after recruits in the nation, a couple may make the NFL and one may become a star, but far too many will miss out on the requisite skills needed to succeed as men. This show, this culture, needs to be examined for the potential damage it may cause to a community, to a generation. The vicarious dreams of being the next Adrian Peterson and RGIII are being passed from coach and parent to child, creating dreams some of these kids don’t even accept and manifest in long runs and hard hits at an age when these kids are still trying to learn their times tables.

The Words

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Sat, 01 Feb 2014 17:04:00 +0000

The Words escape me from time-to-time. I think, I sit, and I go blank. Other days, I read, I hear, I see and the words cascade from mind to fingers and there’s something on the page. Yeah, The Words are fickle in that hard-to-get way; hot and cold, nowhere to be found when I want them to come, but swimming around my head when I’m trying to sleep. They show up when there’s money involved, so I can’t complain too much, but our association was never about money.

Sure, who wouldn’t like to get paid for something they love to do? However, any dreams I may have are completely separate from what I intend to do in this space. It’s been eight years since I decided to combat insomnia by chronicling what I experienced on a daily those. Those experiences, and observations, became The World According to Teef and helped develop a writing style that’s placed me in some pretty good positions to today. This site has always helped me become more aware of the world around me and the potential impact I could have in certain segments of my immediate surroundings.

The Words have made me a better man.

I’ve drank, hurt, cried, struggled, laughed, loved and lived through The Words you’ve read and as I contemplated adding a final period to the site, I remembered that this blog has been a part of me since those cold nights in my basement thinking of the craziest things to come to mind. The Words have provided a refuge for me, a safe haven for my thoughts and fears, yet have also acted as the tip of the spear as I decided to fight against my own insecurities. The Words have allowed me to be my most vulnerable; stripped bare in front of an audience that has grown from the seven or eight people I used to e-mail every morning to the couple thousand who check in weekly, even when there hasn’t been any new content added in weeks.

I find joy in learning someone is new to the site. I can always tell, they read one article, then start picking through the archives and the next thing you know I have a new subscriber. Yet, there still are disappointments. For instance, I spend a couple hours trying to get The Words to come together and the numbers just aren’t there. Conversely, I put a few minutes into something inconsequential and hundreds of people read within hours and the views continue to rack up weeks, months, even years after it was published. That happens more times than not, which causes an internal struggle, because though I don’t want to be as serious as some of the sites and writers I enjoy, I don’t won’t to be pedestrian either.

The Words have always had rhythm to them in my head; they seem to flow to music only I could hear and I’ve translated that music into the thousands of blogs written through the years. At times, I can’t catch the beat and I’m off-kilter trying to write through the silence in my head. I’ve started and stopped many blogs in recent months, scrapping ideas as soon as I think of them, hoping the moment comes when I can merge what I thought before into something that happens when I hear the music. It’s happened one or three times, because the world moves at a similar rhythm and affords me the opportunity to sound off often.

I’ve learned that I don’t need to put words to everything; I struggle more with that concept in life than I do with the blog these days, but not everything needs my commentary. For instance, the Grammy Awards last week were ripe for me to destroy, but these days music plays a huge part in my relationship with The Words, so it was in my best interest not to comment as harshly as I wanted to. That’s not to say those thoughts won’t materialize somewhere else, but I’ll be removed from the emotions associated with that night and possibly talking about something completely different. I’ve learned there’s more than one way to skin a cat.

The Words have made me question myself.

I didn’t want to quit without being able to answer the questions related to trying to create something meaningful, something associated with art. Was I creative? Did I challenge myself and others enough? Was I complacent or too in love with contemporary structures? Those questions are directly related to my inventory of the artists I’ve come to admire and love. They were and are challengers, contenders against the status quo and representatives for those whose voices have been obscured by time, circumstance and institutions. To me, that’s the beauty of the Internet and social networks, the creators of art of curators of culture are so much closer now than they’ve ever been.

The inspiration to develop your art is mouse clicks away and your words, your music, your voice, your art can travel further than your eyes and mind in minutes, allowing you to see the benefit of your energy. There are moments when my words are dwarfed by those who dedicate their lives to thought and actions, making me feel like a part-time observer, a weekend warrior of sorts. It’s in those moments I want to delete every word I’ve ever written and pretend as if this space never existed.

The Words have a way of making you unjustly critical of yourself.

Instead, I’m here, closing in one thousand more words to convince myself to continue writing, for you to continue reading. Besides, your cousins are still living out their “Real Housewives of Atlanta” fantasies and our kids are struggling to grow in an environment that stifles them. Not to mention, I’ll go crazy without an outlet for all of the nonsense that runs through my head on a daily basis.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to the World According to Teef.

The Hump Day Song of the Week: Quincy Jones "Secret Garden"

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Thu, 30 Jan 2014 03:35:00 +0000

Sho ya right!

The Hump Day Song of the Week: Sam Cooke "Bring It on Home to Me"

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Wed, 22 Jan 2014 22:49:00 +0000

Happy Birthday Sam Cooke!

Win. Show. Place.

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Tue, 21 Jan 2014 00:53:00 +0000

I’ve done my best to steer clear of all the Richard Sherman talk in wake of his post-game interview after the Seattle Seahawks’ victory over the San Francisco 49ers last night. (If you haven’t seen or heard it yet, Google it.) As is par for the course, his outburst spawned dozens of Internet memes and parodies, but also unleashed the hate generally reserved for moments like this, the requisite racist replies and overblown media coverage. Sure, he was loud and brash, but there wasn’t any foul language and the things he said were confined to what takes place on the field. In fact, his was the kind of chest pounding millions of us do weekly as our favorite teams fight for victories and our perceived honor, he just happened to be rich, Black and standing next to a white woman.

If you know anything about Sherman, you know he is arguably the best cornerback in the NFL, excelled in two sports at Stanford (two positions in football) and while finishing his career as part of the Cardinal, began courses towards his Master’s degree. We learned something else today, the feud between he and Crabtree extends to an event last offseason at which Crabtree allegedly attempted to start a fight with him after he tried to shake his hand. Funny, Crabtree also mushed Sherman yesterday, once again after he extended his hand, this time minutes before the Fox cameras and microphones were thrust into Sherman’s face. After that sort of battle, the coach or the quarterback is a much better candidate for interviewing, not the guys who spend their time in the trenches. The emotions are too high, the adrenaline still pumping, the memories of last summer too fresh.

However, I find it funny that closing in on 24 hours after the game, this story is still leading SportsCenter as we’re preparing for the Super Bowl and Sherman had to spend his day defending himself and his words, instead of celebrating or preparing to face Peyton Manning. Even funnier, two weeks ago when Charlie Strong was hired as the coach at the University of Texas, comments made by billionaire Texas booster Red McCombs were met with gasps and a few shame on you gestures. McCombs, a booster who’s donated over $100 million to the school, was audibly perplexed at Texas striking out on the “big name” coaches and hiring of Strong, the former Louisville University coach. By the way Strong is Black, not that it should matter, being that he led Louisville to a 37-15 record over the last four years (23-3 the last two seasons), while Texas was 30-21 in that same time frame.

None of that mattered to McCombs at the time, nor did it matter that all of the “big name” coaches turned down what he alleges is one of the top three schools in the country; he was only concerned that Strong was not fit to be the head coach at the University of Texas. In fact, he thought Strong would make “a great position coach, a coordinator maybe”. Seriously? This guy won the Sugar Bowl last year and you’re saying he could be a coordinator, maybe? His remarks were dripping with condescension and the racist undertone that would have been liberating if he had come out and called Strong a darkie or Negra. However, this was second or third segment ESPN, billed as an entitled booster going off the reservation. A couple of apologies, a timely endorsement (suggested donation) and it’s all good in Austin.

Richard Sherman doesn’t have the luxury of the 24-hour news cycle; he’s heading to the Super Bowl. His perceived arrogance and “outburst” is going to be a topic of conversation for the next two weeks. It may not be at the front of the conversation, but it will be mixed in at some point. He’s done a great job of speaking from a cooler head today, not backing off his comments, but giving context to a nation that largely ignores it. Unfortunately, he’s stuck somewhere between the glory of the game and making people pay attention to the name on the jersey not the shield, a definite no-no in the NFL. That is, unless your name is Manning or Brady or even Tebow for that matter.

It’s similar to the way the media dealt with Johnny Manziel and his multiple fractures of the NCAA’s rulebook throughout the summer, until his slap on the wrist of a suspension (the first half of the season opener) was served and then it was back to praise dancing in his name. Conversely, Jadeveon Clowney who’s thisclose to making millions and changing the fortunes of his family, was dogged all season about his effort and whether he was dogging it this season as he closed in on being a top pick in the draft. He didn’t break any rules, only had to abide by the rule that kept him in college for an additional season. Yet, his heart and integrity have been routinely challenged since practice started last summer. I wonder if anyone took into account that Clowney watched on the sideline as former teammate Marcus Lattimore suffered two knee injuries that ended his season and caused the promising running back to fall to the 4^th round of the 2013 draft and not play a down this past season.

The big picture shrinks in sight of the big game or the big dollars. The glory of the game seems to rule over much of anything having to do with its participants and the lines that divide offense from defense aren’t nearly as wide as the lines that continue to divide and define us. Richard Sherman stepped to that microphone and said what was on his mind at that exact moment, he didn’t let tired sports clichés loose, he spoke the truth. America has too.

The Hump Day Song of the Week: "King Holiday" - King Dream Chorus

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Thu, 16 Jan 2014 00:18:00 +0000

Couldn't let today pass without dropping this on you...

The Hump Day Song of the Week: Leela James "Say That" featuring Anthony Hamilton

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Wed, 23 Oct 2013 23:06:00 +0000

Always a good time when two of my favorites decide to get on the same jam!

The Radiant Sunshine: Giving Domestic Violence a Face

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Fri, 11 Oct 2013 19:07:00 +0000

In the last few days of March 2001 you came to stay with me as we buried our favorite uncle; you brought your daughter and your man. Your daughter was just as I imagined, precious and beautiful, a reflection of you. This man you brought in to my home was “different”, he seemed to be a man of many requests (iron my shirt, get my drink or plate, etc…), but I thought nothing of it at the time. We stayed up all night talking and reminiscing about our hectic past, I mean we talked about everything; the good and the bad.

We reconnected in a way that only first cousins can understand. I felt so relieved that I was not the only one affected by the things we saw and was not allowed to discuss. Your presence held a certain freedom; which came from realizing I hadn’t made our past all up in my head. We vowed that day, as we shared what would be our last hug, we would not let time and distance become an obstacle for us ever again.

Over the next six months, we would talk here and there and I learned quickly how easy it was to reconnect with you as an adult. It wasn’t long after I planned a trip down to Maryland; I still can’t place words to my anticipation. The trip was planned for Thursday, November 29th and I knew it was going to be a quick trip to attend a concert, see you and be home for work the next morning.

Read the rest at The Radiant Sunshine

The Hump Day Song of the Week: Algebra Blessett "Nobody But You"

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Wed, 09 Oct 2013 22:19:00 +0000

The Hump Day Song of the Week: "It's All Because of a Woman" Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Wed, 02 Oct 2013 16:10:00 +0000

Teddy was sangin'!

What We Talk About When We Talk About Love: I Keep Forgetting We're Not in Love Anymore

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Tue, 01 Oct 2013 23:28:00 +0000

After a night of laughter and good times with good people I was feeling good, laughing in my head about jokes said over dinner and feeling renewed after a particular rough week of work. Then I looked at you in the passenger’s seat; stone faced and straight-eyed, like the last four hours never happened. Sure, you laughed a little with our friends, even told a joke or two, but once we were alone, we were back to our norm. Yeah, I keep forgetting we’re not in love anymore.

Of course I love you and I think you still love me, but we haven’t been in love in quite a while. We haven’t found the strength to dissolve our relationship and walk away from one another neither. Instead, we pose for pictures with smiles remembered from a lifetime ago and kiss one another like strangers. Yet somehow, people think we’re still going strong. I feel like I’m holding you hostage, keeping you away from the happiness you deserve, while I’m serving out a sentence for the previous cats to have broken your heart. I know I’m not without my shit and at times I’m bad, but not as bad as Eric Benet. Most of the time you treat me like I don’t exist, except when you want to yell at me, the rest of the time you stare through me.

The people at work always ask how you’re doing and my standard response is, “She’s doing great, keeping me busy as always”, when I really want to tell them you were abducted by aliens a short time past our 2^nd anniversary and replaced by a drone hell-bent on my destruction. That’s exactly how I feel. That’s the first time I’ve been able to articulate it, but that pretty much sums it up, you want to destroy me. Maybe not physically, but you want to obliterate any chance at happiness I have. If I say it’s nice out, you point out rain in the five-day forecast. When I want to watch the game, you want to talk. When we talk, you scream or even worse, don’t say anything.

We’ve said nothing far too long and maybe that’s fine for you, but I don’t live in this house alone and I know I didn’t say those vows to an empty space. Remember our vows? That day seems like it was so long ago, almost like it didn’t really happen. If I wasn’t still paying the credit card bills, I would swear that it didn’t, because our marriage is nonexistent. There’s not partnership, no connection, no love. Just you. Just me. No us.

There’s us in photos and our relationship status on Facebook, but that’s about where it all ends. We’ve both suggested counseling at times when the other wasn’t receptive and separation seems to be a non-starter, but how long can we go on like this? Are we supposed to stay together because people expect us to be together or remain in our relationship because we can’t live without one another? When the fact is, we’ve been living separately for so long that I’m feeling like we’re roommates, going half on the rent and trying not to eat your leftovers from The Cheesecake Factory. Perhaps you think I’m not strong enough to leave you; though it may hurt, I have to be strong enough save my sanity, because I’m going crazy in a loveless home.

As our anniversary approached, I wondered, almost aloud, what we had to celebrate. Were we to exchange gifts for another year of unresolved fights and unending pain? Would we end the night in bed together trying to string together the passion needed to make love? After the stream of phone calls, texts, emails and well-wishes from those who think they know us, I remembered your smile, and mine, and then I remembered we’re not in love anymore.

The Hump Day Song of the Week - Alicia Myers "I Want to Thank You"

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Wed, 11 Sep 2013 23:32:00 +0000

Many people remember September 11th for the tragic events in New York in 2001, but my memory if the date extends five years further to receiving a phone call in my dorm room telling me my grandmother died. This week's song doesn't just remind me of my grandmother; "I Want to Thank You" is reminiscent of a time when my family all woke up on Saturday morning to clean the house and this was usually the first record played to get the day started.

Yeah, Alicia Myers reminds of when things were simple, when they were whole.

The Lamont Sanford Syndrome

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Thu, 22 Aug 2013 02:01:00 +0000

Part of my evening routine now consists of watching an hour of “Sanford & Son”; the laughs are much needed after a day in the world and Fred Sanford always deliver. One thing I’ve noticed in watching the series as an adult is how big of a loser Lamont Sanford is. Let’s be clear, I’m not referring to his status as a junk dealer (it kept the lights on), I’m talking about the way he went about handling his business, how he treated Fred and ultimately, how wack he was with the ladies. The more I watched, the more I recognized the Lamont Sanford in the way I’ve observed a lot of cats moving lately. We’re surrounded by shiftless dudes who lack the skills to fulfill their own bare minimum, but they’re out here having children and getting married, compounding their issues, but frontin’ like it’s all good.

I can’t count the number of episodes in which Lamont overreacted to one of Fred’s harebrained schemes or attempted to bust up his relationship with Donna or anything he had going independent of Lamont. His emotional immaturity and poor self-awareness showed over and over again; his behavior was childlike in many cases and more akin to a woman’s in others. It’s almost like he lived in his feelings and they were ultimately what guided him to make the poor decisions he continuously made. I see far too much of that in cats these days. I’m not sure where this brand of soft man came from, but dudes seem real emotional and sensitive lately; it’s almost like there’s something in the chicken or weed these days that’s increased the estrogen in men.

I’ve been watching the way some fellas manage their social media outlets with the consistent rant about their baby-mothers, non-existent haters and the like and I wonder where was this behavior learned? Robin Thicke sings about blurred lines and though I’m sure he wasn’t making any type of sociological observation, it’s the perfect way to explain the new dynamic in our culture. The lines have been blurred across a number of areas; there’s almost no distinction between age groups, decorum and nearly every other area we can think of. The most glaring area where there seems to be no barrier is how men seem to mimic what they see on Reality TV. We’ve discussed how the cattiness (rachetness) of Reality television effects young women, but it seems to have also infected a population of the men. To put it bluntly, many cats have a lot of bitch in them. There’s just too many soft men out there, who’ve either grown up without proper male figures or simply eschewed everything they’ve learned through the years in favor of this new breed of bitchassness we’re now face with.

During one of his fits Lamont told his dad he was going to quit the junk business and mentioned that he may go into shipbuilding, because of all he’d learned about iron and metal over the years. That may have been a good idea if Lamont actually had experience in anything but junk. If he had a high school diploma, perhaps a little college and a few connections, who knows what he could have done with himself. I’m sure he could’ve done more than go into the family business, but Lamont lacked the sense the Good Lord gave him as well, which is why each time he attempted to step out on his own, he came running back to the umbrella his dad’s “empire” afforded him. Lamont was a dreamed, not unlike your husband, son, brother or you. We’re all dreamers. However, many of us take strides toward their dreams by acquiring the necessary skills to turn those dreams into goals and ultimately reality.

I’ve met too many 35-year-old rappers who believe they’re biding their time in day jobs (or no jobs at all) until a record label snatches them up. Even worse are these guys who get caught up in all of these come-up fast ideas like Primerica and other organizations that feed off the poor. The goal of being this major success is so driving that it defeats common sense and leads to someone asking me to lunch to talk about my financial future. Let’s keep it funky, how is your broke ass going to help me invest, save and plan for a rainy day? There are cats out here running around without bank accounts and ducking the repo man thinking they’re about to be sitting on a half a million without putting in the real work to get there. Django please! It’s time to wake up and deal with the reality you live within, then set measurable, realistic goals based on the skills you have, and those within means of acquiring. We dreamt as little boys, we set goals as men!

I really thought social media would be the age of transparency, but it has seemingly allowed many to place a veil on what their lives really look like. The status updates, tweets and photos being shared allow many of us to “fake it ‘til we make it”, lip profess and be self-righteous, then glorify some of the most basic aspects of our lives, while the rest of it is in shambles. There’s cats out here still frontin’ like we’re in high school, but I’m unsure who the audience is or why there’s a need to think the competition is on. It’s almost like there’s this constant period of redefining happening in public view and social media has become the medium to try on new personas or promote the “new you”. But like Jay-Z said, “Man you was who you was ‘fore you got here”, and all of your trifling ways will show eventually. We’ll never know, because no one wants to share their hiccups, but we’ll know when you vanish or go on the defensive with one of your Drake-like tangents.

Lamont Sanford would always try to portray like he was a big-time commodities dealer to the ladies, frontin’ like he was running a viable business and had things together. However, the ladies he got with usually got hip to his game and found out he over 30 and living with his dad. The occasions when he tried to strike out on his own, he failed miserably, largely because he didn’t have what it took to make it alone. Conversely, Fred would be living it up, ripping and running the streets with woman after the woman, while Lamont was striking out like A-Rod. It doesn’t take most women long to see through wack game, especially when its built on falsehoods and a poor replication of a healthy, successful relationship. I guess that’s what all the frontin’ is for, the ladies. I don’t quite understand that, be who you are, share who you want to be and work together to get there. But it’s cats out here projecting images of something of which they’re so far removed that it’s no secret why they’ve been in and out of bad relationship after bad relationship, with status updates to track their ascent and subsequent downfall.

For most of my adult life I’ve been on the wrong side of right in my relationships with women, but every decision and mistake I made was done as a man. I don’t say that in justification, I’m just saying that I own my foolishness and while I may have caused a considerable amount of pain, I’ve been able to grow from it. I’m no stranger to the emotions connected to relationships, but they haven’t ruled or steered me to excuse my own actions in the name of a broken heart or a bottle of vodka. Lamont Sanford always pointed the finger at his father when things went wrong with one of his foxy mamas, but never looked inwardly to see how his emotional immaturity and shiftlessness was often the cause of his broken relationships. Lamont never quite got it, many cats will never see how trifling they really are. When I think about it, it was better to be Rollo most of the time…

The Hump Day Song of the Week: The Fugees "Ready or Not"

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Wed, 21 Aug 2013 23:51:00 +0000

Frontin' ass niggas give me hee bee gee bees!

The Hump Day Song of the Week - LL Cool J "4,3,2,1"

noreply@blogger.com (Teef 3000) — Wed, 14 Aug 2013 19:19:00 +0000

Beats. Rhymes. Life.