Archive for April, 2013

Black Radar…..

Black Radar…

Now there’s a piece of technology you’ll never see.

Something a Black man could wear that makes him look White. Make it look like a cell phone, or, better yet, a Bluetooth earpiece. Turn it off while you’re at the pool hall or barbershop, but when you walk into the bank, press the button, and suddenly, Tyrone Johnson looks like Braham McGregor. Credit score goes up by 100 points, and the teller’ fingers don’t instinctively reach for the alarm button. Loan officer smiles, and reaches for the YES stamp on his desk, ‘cause this gentleman’s loan is approved.

What would we call it? Hmmmm……

We need a funky, hip name, something instantly cool to buy and carry.

BlacJac!!!

….. of course!

Kinda like “Blacula”, without the fangs…

Of course, we’d  simply call it “Jac.”

(We always trim the extra syllables, that’s how we roll.)

Retail price, $399.95, plus the cost of the monthly plan…

What?

Well, of course there’s a monthly plan involved! Whaddya think, pay once, and that’s it?

(White people…gotta love ’em!)

Just like every other piece of technology out there, there’s different monthly plans, depending on how many minutes per month you need.

From the “I just need 100 minutes per month, so I can go to the bank and shop in Dillard’s,” to the “I work at IBM, so you know I needs me an unlimited plan,” there’s something for everybody.

Of course, the BlacJac will come with different cool features, depending on model. The Basic BlacJac will “jac” you (hey, if you can “tweet,” we can “jac”) from Black to White. That’s it.

For $499.95, the BlacJac II will jac you from Black to White, or, to one more culture of your choice. Comes in handy, sometimes. Like when you go to Chin Lee’s for the Tuesday Wing Special, you’ll get real wings from a real chicken, not the…uh…never mind. What you don’t know won’t hurt you.

The BlacJac Elite, fondly known as the BlacJac Baller, or “Baller” for short, $599.99 (that’s why it’s called the “Baller.” The most expensive model is always called the “Baller.” That’s how we roll.) will instantly transport you to any race, creed, color, gender, culture, whatever you need to be here in America to smoothly and seamlessly blend in wherever you go. From Black to Asian to gay to Jewish to Pentecostal to handicapped to…whatever.

You White guys might want to get one, too. Comes in handy if you make a wrong turn and end up in Compton. For example……

Gangbanger: “Yo, homie, what set ya claim?”

Trevor: (hits switch) “Hoover Street Crips! Whatup, fool?”

Gangbanger: “Whatup, dog!”

The appropriate handshake takes place. (This Jac is amazing, aint it?)

Trevor: “I-45?”

(White people, note the brevity of the question. You people use way too many parts of speech to make a sentence. We find that annoying, which gets you in trouble in the first place. Black language is all about context. They are not on I-45, so obviously he wants to know where it is.

“I-45?”

See?

Simple, and concise. The only reason these blogs are so long is, I’m writing to White people.

Ebony Magazine blogs?

2 lines each.

Gangbanger: “Three blocks down, you know whut I’m sayin’? Hang a right, you know whut I’m sayin’? Go over the underpass, you know whut I’m sayin’? Take a left, and it’s on!”

(We use the phrase, “you know whut I’m sayin’?” to ensure clarity in our attempt at dialogue, It’s also part of Black Secret Code. None of your business what it means. Only those who need to know, know.)

Trevor: “All right, dog, later!”

The appropriate handshake takes place.  Two minutes later,Trevor re-enters his BMW without bloodshed…

Huh?

Two minute handshake? Yes, Trevor is in a hurry, so the Quick Dap is in order.

Whaddya mean, “Quick Dap”? Read the Black Lexicon, I don’t have time to explain “Dap” today! Geez! And y’all want to rule the world?

 

Autumn: “Trevor, honey, did you get the directions?”

Trevor: “What’ja think I was standin’ there, fo’, bit— wait, I forgot…”(hits switch) “Yes, dear, the African-American gentleman was very helpful. Turn up the stereo, I don’t want to miss this Beethoven selection. We’ll be on the Interstate in about five minutes!”

Autumn (squeezing Trevor’s arm, while imagining him with a deep tan and a ‘do rag) “Oh, Trevor, you’re amazing!

 

Okay Donald Trump, I need some venture capital!

Whatup, fool???

Ha!

Snitchin’ (First posted in 2012)

There’s a new commandment, an odious, reptilian slug, slithering its way into the consciousness of Black Culture.

Thou shalt not snitch.

From a historical perspective, “snitching” was defined and confined to a police informant, secretly and informally giving inside information to a police officer, usually for pocket money. To be known as a snitch was only hazardous if you found yourself incarcerated, giving your jailhouse peers an object to vent their spleen. For most of us, however, snitches were only seen on Starsky and Hutch or Baretta, street hustlers who were an accepted part of the mosaic. Huggy Bear and Rooster was considered to be “down with the brothers.”

No longer.

Snitching, or its less regal nome de plume, snitchin’, is no longer confined to unsavory denizens of urban life. There is a move on now, successful in many quarters, to define snitchin’ as any cooperation with the police in the investigation in any crime. To be seen in a conversation with police officers is verboten, even if the crime is perpetrated against you.

There is an industry now, T-shirts, hats, etc., evangelizing the gospel of snitchin’, used to make the message clear: snitchin’ will not be tolerated. Judges have had to forbid courtroom observers from wearing anti-snitch shirts, some of which had target crosshairs or bull’s-eyes prominently displayed on them, which was designed to intimidate witnesses to crime.

The ACLU (White bastids) tried, unsuccessfully, I might add, to prevent judges from making snitch-wearing observers change clothes, citing free-speech concerns. The Supreme Court (White bastids), fortunately, ruled in the judges’ favor.

Which brings me to my point: As far as crime is concerned, especially crime committed in my neighborhood, I will snitch on you.

Let me repeat:

 

I will snitch on you.

 

Got that?

 

And, if you don’t like it, I hereby invite you to the warm, dark place that only Mr. Whipple has access to.

Why?

I have a visceral hatred for anything that keeps my people down. Racism, drugs, teen pregnancy, illegitimacy rate, etc., everything that prevents us from being strong, vibrant members of the society we helped to build. It’s bad enough when the damage to our communities are perpetrated by the majority culture, but to do it to ourselves?

Hell, no!

Especially, especially when it’s done by an ignorant, criminal subculture, whose only objective is to commit crimes in our communities, and stay out of jail.

Cowards.

If you can’t do the time, then don’t do the crime.

 

In our communities. 

That angers me.

 

They don’t go into suburbia and tell the residents there, “don’t snitch.” They save that crap for us, and expect us to swallow it, indeed, embrace it as some kind of cool and hip philosophy of life. We’ve got little kids, walking around with “DON’T SNITCH” hats on. You little nitwit, somebody needs to snitch on your behalf, so you don’t have to live in a crime-ridden neighborhood, so you can walk home after school and not have to worry about some gang members beating your butt senseless. Somebody needs to snitch on your behalf, so you can get a good education, and get a decent shot at the American dream your grandparents slaved for and never got to enjoy. Somebody needs to snitch so that we can have the crime stats the folks on Nob Hill take as their just due. Because you know what their dirty little secret is?

Superior neighborhoods don’t tolerate crime.

 

Don’t believe me?

Go stand on a corner in Nob Hill and deal crack.

 

Go ‘head, with yo’ bad self!

 

Go run some hos, go jack up some golf cart driver, go do something on their streets, and see how the “don’t snitch” message flies there.

 

I ain’t mad at Nob Hill, in fact, I admire them. They, unlike us, don’t tolerate that B.S. They expect a superior police presence, and they cooperate with police efforts to fight crime.

 

Period.

And we, stupidly enough, live in crime/drug infested neighborhoods, living in fear of our lives, and we walk around with T-shirts that bear the message that keeps us in our toxic environment, like Three Mile Island residents wearing shirts that say Don’t Blow The Whistle.

 

Insanity.

 

There are a myriad of solutions, however. I’m a practical man, so I believe the solution starts with me. So, in my neighborhood, I not only report crime, I don’t tolerate it in my presence. On my block, no one loiters. I have a like-minded neighbor, so we tag-team in that little effort. He’s ex-military, and somebody forgot to tell him the war’s over. Yeah, he’s one of those who think camo baggies is dress wear.

 

Fine with me.

 

He owns a very large dog who occasionally accompanies him on patrol. I don’t own a very large dog, but I do own a very large pistol, which the denizens of my neighborhood see on my hip as I serenely observe the 1500 block of St. Jacob Street.

Oh, no, baby, Matlock don’t play. Every now and then, some boys who spend too much time watching videos on BET (the Holy Grail of “Do Not Snitch”) wanna stand on my corner and talk loud and drink 40s. Loitering and open containers are illegal. The Nob Hill in my town don’t allow that sort of behavior.

 

Well guess what, son?

 

Neither do I.

Simple solution: I stand in my yard, lean on my hoe, and eyeball them. (My hoe is made from wood and metal. Miz Matlock don’t allow me to have the flesh and blood kind. Rats!) I lean, with Aunt Mary prominently on my hip. (Aunt Mary is my mother’s oldest sister. Both she, and my pistol, claim to be 45.)

 

After 2 or 3 minutes, the tension is too much for these young thugs-in-training, so they move a block or two over to greener pastures, and if the residents of that area tolerates their presence, well, that’s on them.

It’s really a matter of tolerance. Crime, like water and electricity, flows in the path of least resistance. Crime occurs more often where crime is tolerated, and any neighborhood that embraces the concept of DNS, well guess what?

 

You deserve whatever happens where you live, because you allow it to breed.

 

Wait a minute, I see a dice game in progress.

Excuse me, I need to drop a dime on crime……

 

Gay Marriage????

(First posted in 2011)

 

Is gay marriage Constitutional?

Right now, a majority of Americans don’t believe that it is.

Plain and simple as that.

Change the number of Americans who believe in gay marriage, and Jim and Bob can become husband &……uh…… (insert politically correct, socially acceptable word here.)

Wait! Hold on a minute!

If you want to get married, there has to be a word to define and identify the partners.

My wife is my wife. Get it?

Yeah, she’s my partner, but there’s a gender-specific word to describe her.

Come on gay people, get with it!

You’ve succeeded in getting “homophobic” in the American Lexicon, now come up with a term to describe the two people in a gay partnership, other than “partner.” That’s so lazy!

Now, let’s look @ the Big C for a minute. Is there a place for the GLBT community to hang their hat, feathers and all?

Of course there is, and some of you have already seen/acted upon it. It’s Article X, which states:

“The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people.”

That’s clear enough, is it not? It’s already a reality in a number of states, as the G-forces mobilize their members to get off their butts and do the hard and dirty work to get what you want. (“Hard?” “Dirty?” Ha!)

Now, as far as Black folks are concerned, it’s pass the popcorn and watch the show. Nothing personal, it’s just a every-man-for-himself-devil-catch-the-slowest mindset that’s inherent in our culture.

When you guys get your schit together, and get a bill started in your state Legislature, or a state Constitutional amendment, and it comes up for a vote, and it passes (in spite of my “no” vote…isn’t that ironic? Here in Louisiana, deep in the heart of Dixie, I, a Black man, can vote “no” to something a White man wants. As Don King likes to say, “Only in America!”), you will have won.

Legislative protection is one thing, acceptance is another.

Hey, don’t get mad.

A frank discussion that identifies the issues pertinent to you is a good thing. If I’m going to dialogue with you as a member of the Christian community, let’s not waste words chatting about irrelevancies. I only chat about fluff with people I don’t respect.

As far as acceptance goes, you won’t have a problem with the Black community, as far as being gay is concerned. Can I be honest?

It’s your White-ness that gives us a bit of trouble.

If you and Nathan move next door to us, well, let me give you a taste of the conversation:

Me: “You seen the new people movin’ in?”

Wife: “Yeah, I’ve seen ‘em” (arches eyebrow) “Have you seen ‘em?”

Me: “Mm-hmm!

(Male Blackspeak for, “Yes, I’ve seen them, two gay White males, upper middle class, respectable-looking, one of them needs a shave. I wonder if more White people are planning to move in this neighborhood. If so, our property values are probably going to go up, unless one of them pulls a trailer up in here. You know White people, they love them double-wides. I don’t think we’ll have any trouble with these two, however. They look cool enough. I might barbecue a little sump’um-sump’in, and bring it over, check ‘em out.”)

Wife: “Okay…humph!

(Female Blackspeak for, “Don’t put too much pepper on the meat, you know White people, they don’t season their food. I’ve seen ‘em, too, they look kinda cute. I wonder if they really sho ‘nuff gay, or they just dabblin’ like my Cousin Willy. You know him, he just gay on Monday, Wednesday, and every other Friday. He got that girl on Fourth Street pregnant, but she blamin’ it on her boyfriend, the nasty heifer, she don’t know who that baby for. When you go over there with the barbecue, let me know, I’ll go with you, give me a chance to check out their house, get me some decoratin’ ideas…I wonder what color their curtains are, you know White people, they shop from a different catalogue than us…”)

Me: “Hmmm.”

(Blackspeak for,” I wonder if I got some charcoal?”)

Wait a minute, this isn’t Blackspeak, it’s Old Married Couplespeak. I forgot, we’re bilingual.

 

Daughter: “That tall one is fly! I’m going with you, before Tanisha spots him. I wonder if he can dance. Probably not, you know White people, left…right…left…right, oops!”

Me: “Take Tanisha with you, use her for a decoy.”

Daughter: (rolling her eyes) “No, Daddy, let me handle this. I aint using Tanisha as no decoy, I take her with me, she’ll mess up the play. When you gonna light the pit? I wouldn’t mind seeing them White boys faces when you fire that Old Smokey up. You know White people, they don’t barbecue, they grill on the Barbie!

Me: (raising eyebrows) “You roll your eyes at me again, gal, I’ll slap ‘em on them White boys porch! See, them White people aint been here one week, and they already starting trouble. Boy, I tell you, give White people an inch, they wanna take a mile! You know they like to take over, every neighborhood they move in….”

You get the idea.

Now, after a few weeks, we bring over some ribs, you reciprocate with a quiche …..you do know we gonna talk about your frickin’ quiche, don’t you? Never bring a quiche into a Black household. It will be talked about for years

“Hold on, baby, let me make you laugh! That White boy walked over here holdin’ a package, I thought he was carryin’ the lost books of the Bible, he was walkin’ so careful! He handed it over, so proud, and he say, “Open it,” so I had to unwrap it…open that bad boy up, I say, “What the heck is that?” Sheila hunched me with her elbow, an’ say, “Why, thank you!” like it was a twenny-piece from Popeye’s! When he left, I say, “Sheila, what the heck is that?” Sheila say, “It’s a quiche!” Haaaaaaa! ….oh man, my sides was hurtin’….”

Moral of the story: We don’t care what you do, just keep your quiche to yourself….

Ha!

 

Welcome, Part 6

WARNING: POLITICALLY INCORRECT STATEMENTS MAY BE FOUND IN THIS POST!!! PROCEED @ YOUR OWN RISK!!!

 

Anyway, Category 3 is the Gay dude, commonly referred to as “the punk”.  Out of the closet, and everybody knows it. Their motto is, “aint no shame in my game!” It’s a philosophy, a take-me-as-I am mentality that is defiant of our culture’s rules concerning manhood.

We really find it confusing, irritating, and annoying, (as well as hilarious), both as Black people and straight men. Our basic premise is: given a choice between feminine lips, breasts, thighs, and buttocks, not to mention Beulah Land, why would you want to lay up with something hairy and hard?

Makes me shiver just to think about it.

The gay dude is what we call “out there,” openly flamboyant in manner and dress. It’s funny, (strange funny, I mean), when we as Black people get into something, we go all out. You are much more likely to see a Black gay dude act and behave in a stereotypical manner than a White dude.

I’ve know some gay Whites whom, if somebody hadn’t told me, I would’ve never known they were gay. And it’s not that they’re trying to hide it or anything, oh, no. They are what they are, and they are comfortable with it. But it seems to me that Black gay men are more likely to feel a need to express their gayness in a way that leaves no doubt as to what they are, like if there’s a question about it, they’re not being “gay enough.”

Forgive me, I’m just trying to relate to you what I have observed. They remind me of people who are really into a hobby or fervent member of a particular organization or a fan club. They wear the T-shirts, they got 500 bumper stickers on their car, and our response to them is “Dude! We get it!” It’s the same with the Black flaming gay guy: “Cuz! We know! Stop with the cross-finger snaps, okay?”

Honestly, our reaction to the openly gay dude ranges from amusement to annoyance to downright hostility. I fall somewhere in the amusement/mild annoyance crowd, depending upon how they approach me. If they’re cool with it, not caring if I am accepting of the whole gay thing, then fine. I can be down with them, long as the lines are clear.

Pushy gays bug the hell out of me. Pushy people, in general, bug the hell out of me.

I’m going to say something here that will give you an idea of how deep-rooted our poor understanding of the gay lifestyle really is. There is a perception, that runs really, really deep with us, that homosexuality in the Black community?

That’s something we learned from White people.

Stop yelling; I said it’s a perception, not a fact. I used to believe it myself; I filed it under the Things We Picked Up with Integration. Then I found out that in some African cultures, gay men are considered outcasts, and even go so far as to separate themselves from the main group, and live in their own section of their village. Even in the Bible, when you read the Kings and Chronicles, the gay men had their own separate sections within their cities. One of the things that a new king would do as a part of religious reforms would be to “break down the houses of the sodomites.” Homosexuality has always been around, it was intellectually lazy on our part to blame White people for it.

 

I think.

 

There are some things that are your fault, though.

Tofu, for one.

Country line dancing, for another.

Organized, unified spastic movements in a perfectly straight line is not cute.

U.S. drug laws, for another. Cocaine was nice, cheap, and legal in this country, a common ingredient in many over-the-counter medicines, until some good ol’ boy came up with the notion that cocaine was causing Black men to rape White women. “Oh-oh, we need to pass a law…” and there you go. Coke prices shot straight up, and crack came along as a marketing solution to the problem.

Gee, thanks, Bubba.

There’s a guy I know, good, strong family man, whose son is gay. You know the drill: son hid it for years, while his father encouraged sports, and other activities to “make a man out of him.” His parents made good money, and put him into a predominately White private school, where he finally came out of the closet.

Well, that’s when the diaper hit the fan.

Some of you can relate, I’m sure. Dad hit the proverbial roof, Mom blamed Dad, said he “pushed Junior too hard.” Some of you are nodding your heads, you’ve been there. (You know, the more I write and read your responses, I realize that we two peoples are more alike than we really realize.) To this day, Dad blames “that effin’ school with them freaky-azz White folks” for his son’s lifestyle. I could tell him the truth, that boy been gay…

One of the reasons why I chose this topic is because I want to encourage feedback from gay people in order to help us understand where you’re coming from.

 

That ought to be fun, eh?

We’re not trying to make fun of you, trust me, but you guys can feel free to make fun of us. Should make for interesting discussion.

What is the gay groupthink?

Inquiring minds want to know!

Ha!

 

Welcome, Part 5

 

Now, I don’t mean no harm…(Warning: when a Black person starts a sentence like that, especially an elderly Black person, prepare to get your feelings hurt.)…I really don’t mean no harm, but for my White gay friends reading this:

We really don’t consider a bisexual truly gay.

I’m serious.

I should have placed the bisexual brother at number one, and put the down-lo at number two. I was trying to be sensitive towards you. I know you claim the bisexual as one of your own, and that’s cool. But you’re hanging with us now, so I’m gonna treat you on the straight-up.

(“Straight up” has nothing to do with sexuality, it just means “fairly and honestly.” Stop being sensitive! Geez!!!)

We believe that Bisexuals, even after all you have told us, aren’t really gay.

Sigh.

Go ahead, rail away….

See what I get for building a bridge between cultures?

Sigh….

Okay, look, this is just one of those things we’ll have to save for another conversation, after we’ve settled a few more basic things, like: why do White people think Jimmy “J.J.” Walker was funny?

“Dy-no-mite!” was downright embarrassing.

We were really, really upset when John Amos got killed off the show. When Esther Rolle said “Damn! Damn! Damn!!!” we felt exactly the same way.

Poor John Amos. From James Evans to Kunta Kinte…now he’s Charlie Harper’s girlfriend’s daddy’s lover….

Damn! Damn! Damn!