The Best Way to Get a Text Message Response from Me:

send me a message to which I can throw a witty comeback your way.

Such was the case last night when my brother texted me drunk from some undisclosed location. His message reads:

Have you ever wondered when you have to stop living up here and you have to start living down there? 10:37p.m.

I didn't know what the hell he was talking about, but I knew how to respond within one minutes. Of course, because I happened to be typing with my thumbs, it took me two.

It's too early in the morning for that ... 10:39p.m.

We went to lunch today, and I asked him how long it took for him to get my reply ...

"At first, I thought you were mad at me," he said. "I thought I'd done something. But then I started thinking, why would he say morning? Was he asleep?"

Yeah, that wasn't it. He finally figured it out 20 minutes after he'd sent the first text message and replied:

Tell your mom thanks for the ride. 10:57 p.m.

If you haven't caught on, it's a paraphrased dialogue from 8 Mile, Eminem's movie. I still have no clue as to what my brother meant in his first text message, hell, I don't even remember what Eminem meant when he first said it. All I knew was that I had to find some way to get the conversation to my level at the moment.

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Ya Man Flav Is Out of Rotation ...

"I guess I’ll go Bill Cosby on you, but it’s about time we as black people quit letting Flavor Flav and the rest of these clowns bojangle for dollars." ~ Jason Whitlock, Sports Columnist and media personality.

I have an admission. I watch Flavor of Love each week. I also tune in for every episode of Forensic Files, every Girlfriends re-run (you know about my infatuation with Toni Childs) and good History channel bits I can find. I pick up magazines and a decent book on the regular. I do like the idea of expanding my mind and horizons.

But on Sunday nights, 9 or 11 p.m. (depending on how good the Sunday night football game is), I'm propped up in front of the tube looking at Flavor Flav slob down some of the sleaziest women known to man.

It's an aberration of my habits because there is nothing to be gained from this aside from losing an hour of life to ignorance, which is not gaining anything. I know it's bojangling and idiocy at its best, but I can't stop watching.

I guess that ever since that blonde female Pumkin spit in New York's face, I've been hooked. I didn't really watch it before that. Pumkin's infamous incident reminded me of Bill Romanowski, the NFL player who was caught on tape spitting an opponent, minus the helmets. It was barbaric, something you rarely saw, and you just wondered what would happen next.

It's kind of, and I mean kind of, the same reason I tune in to as many football games (NFL or NCAA) as I can. It's why I watch the fourth quarter of NBA games, and the playoffs. It's the same reason I watch Mariano Rivera when I get a chance and why I'm always curious to see if Barry Bonds hit another home run.

(Crickets chirping)

In episode one of Flavor of Love Season 2, a woman lost control of her bowel. Honestly, watching Flavor Flav slob down woman after woman might be worse than the aforementioned. And though it's not real entertainment - it's ignorance - I watch. We watch.

We tune in faithfully as though the next great moment in civilization will happen before our eyes, and we know that is impossible unless aliens cart Flavor Flav off on their UFO on national TV. We, as a society, prefer popular ignorance to sensible entertainment.

We tune in as though hearing Flavor Flav behind the "do not disturb" sign with New York is similar in some way to Mike Jordan in the fourth quarter or Joe Montana to Dwight Clark. But unlike Jordan or Joe or even the famed Cosby Show, Flav doesn't fail.

We get the ignornace we want, the ignorance (Flav) gets to pay child support and the ignorance-providers (VH1, er MTV - another ignorant brand of its own right - er, Viacom which also owns the relative King of Ignorance ... I'm not even going to shame you with the name of that company) they get paid mad money. One-Hundred percent guaranteed. It's totally reminscent of one thing, and J-Dub said it best: bojangling.

And because the show rid itself of the one girl with a shread of decency (Bootz, who really wasn't that decent cause she still put her lips on Flav - yes, I'm having a superficial moment. But I call her decent because she "says" she's not having sex until marriage. I really just think she wasn't going there with Flav.), I'm done watching it. I'll catch happens in the end on Wikipedia.

CourtTV and the History Channel best step their game up.

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The One Edorsment Deal No NFL Player Should Take

If you're an NFL superstar, there is something you want no part of no matter how much they pay you or how cool you may look. The Madden cover.

Some of you may not know who or what Madden is. In the world of males, Madden is the battleground on which most of us live out the fantasy of playing NFL football. It's one of the best selling video games in the history of video games. It's named after a Superbowl winning coach John Madden, who also happens to be one of the most decorated and worst color commentators (along with Bill Walton) of his time. For some reason, people love him and idiotic statements ("90 percent of the game is half mental.") And every year, people line up in droves to get the next edition.

Every year, though as well, the player who graces the cover of the game's case seems to get injured.

Today, Shaun Alexander, the NFL MVP of the Seattle Seahawks, found out he broke his foot, and he's out indefintely. Doctors called it a small crack in his foot. I'll diagnose it properly for them. It's the Madden Jinx.

This is the seven straight season the player who graces the cover has either had a horrible season, made a bonehead play that cost his team it's season or had an injury make his season horrible.

The List:
2007 - Shaun Alexander, broken foot.
2006 - Donavan McNabb, sports hernia and T.O.-itis.
2005 - Ray Lewis, Zero interceptions, good team missed playoffs.
2004 - Mike Vick, fractured right fibula.
2003 - Marshall Faulk, injury caused him to rush for under 1,000 yards.
2002 - Daunte Culpepper, 4-7 record before season-ending knee injury.
2001 - Eddie George, ran for 1500 yards, but bobbled pass and cost team postseason win.

Needless to say, there's a reason you've never seen Tom Brady or Peyton Manning, the two best quarterbacks in the NFL, on this cover. There's a reason, Ladanian Tomlinson, the best running back in the NFL, isn't on this cover. No NFL player should ever be on it again. Why would you? The result of your next season is inevitable.

This is what needs to happen.

I propose that they hold a national Madden tournament with a $100 entry fee and 18 and older entry fee. Get about 50,000 people (trust me, there would be more who wanted to play), take the money and donate some half of the pot to New Orleans and make the rest of it prize money. And the winner not only takes home a grand prize of cash, but gets to grace the cover of the next summer's Madden edition.

That way, no one gets hurt. There would only be one problem. The jinx would continue because the grand champion would probably be fired from his job because of his obsession with Madden and his lack of performance.

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Who Else Is Gonna Be There ...

Ed's Note: This is not the result of a recent occurrence, but rather the culmination of about eight years of the same ignorance that has not changed in a multitude of fair-weathery types you'll probably be able to relate to as well. If you think this is about you, in some indirect way, it probably is. Hell, I'm probably even guilty of this one.

You wanna go out and have a jolly good time. You pick up the phone, and scroll through your electronic rolodex searching for jolly good people to kick it with, and you happen upon a few friends.

You make the mental list of your eclectic team for the night, and start calling to see who's in and who's out.

"So yeah, I was thinking about heading to 'The Hangout' tonight," you say. "You wanna meet me there?"

Before your friend takes their next breath, you already know he or she will respond. You know the drill better than you know your television remote in the dark.

"Who else is coming," they ask?

Does "You wanna meet me there?" beget another question like the aforementioned? Isn't that a yes or no question? Fifty/Fifty, right? I mean, why do we insist on knowing whose presence we will be in before we make a decision to grace wanna-be luminaries with our presence?

My first thought any time I'm asked this question is to say, "The door man. The xtc man. the bartenders. A few cute females. More busted ones. A few wanna-be thugs. Too many dudes, period. The DJ, and oh yeah, I'll be there, isn't that enough," which obviously wouldn't be considering that they're asking you the question.

Is it that the Inquisinator has a quotient of cool that must be met before they're allowed to make an appearance? Or are they trying to avoid running into some ex-friend or butt buddy that you're still cool with?

Fun Fact: You're not that damn cool if you can't walk in a room full of people who don't know you (and vice versa) and make friends with a select variety.

You never know. All I know is that it's frustrating when you're trying to get plans off the ground, and the first (second and third) person you call wants to ask ignorant ass questions like, "Who else is coming?"

Does it really matter? That's all I'm asking, and if it does, should it?

Ask me a better question in response like, "What is the cover gonna be," or better yet, tell me that you think I've got a great idea and the first two rounds of drinks are on you. Surprise me.

Stop coming with the "freshman year of college" line that proves your insecurities to be larger than your ill-fated ego. Change the game up, before calling patterns change.

Ed's Note: Please remember, this is not from a specific incident, but rather a culmination of memories and thoughts collected over the course of several years. No offense given, thus none should be taken.

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I had a thought-provoking post about how Black Magazines suck. It wasn't meant to be because Blogger somehow erased it. That sucks, because I'm not taking the time to write that ish again. Just know that I wish I could start my own black mag with a few friends that would put Jet, Ebony, Essence, King and a few others to shame.

that's all. more thought. less talk. i'm out until the next day.

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Cell Swap, and With Good Reason

As you can see I haven't been writing much, just thinking. I've been doing a lot of mourning for the loss of the Chiefs season in week 1. Your condolences are truly appreciated.

But for real, my mind has been stuck on this thought of ex-communicating unnecessary horrible people, that is plural, from my world so that I can continue to progress. So with that said, I'm about to change my cell number in the next few days (not really changing, just getting and extra line and stop answering my current one ... you can leave a message and I might get to it like a few weeks later).

The idea comes from a good friend, and it makes good sense. It pretty much stops any major urge to answer the phone when someone who doesn't deserve to talk to you calls. It's me admitting one of my faults and saying it's time to correct it and get off the perpetual merry-go round because Mary has been running laps around my sanity for years now.

It's a tough decision for me because I've had the same cell number for almost four years now (and four years of the same problem, and omen perhaps?). Before that I had three different ones in three years (still had problems, no omen). I don't even remember my first number (I ran up a phat ass phone bill month after month. What? There were no free nights and weekends yet).

But, to me, my number represents so much. So many of my friends have it, and reach me on it on occasion. So many sources have it, and get at me with random info. 816-679-7??? has been my calling card for so long.

But it's time for change, and I finally believe change can be good. It's time to be proactive. It's time to jump off the merry-go round, even if it's still circling the play ground at blistering pace. It's worth the injury, worth the scars.

When it comes the celly, though ... I guess the good thing is that I can send out mass text messages to the people I want to have my number. I hate texting (any information disseminated with only ones thumbs is ignorant technology), I guess that makes sense.

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Meet Me ...

1.FIRST NAME? Damon
2. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE? My grandmother named me Damon so my name would have the same intial as her maiden name DS.
3. WHEN DI D YOU LAST CRY? When I saw World Trade Center. I didn’t think I should see the movie, but I’m glad I did.
4.DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?? Yes
5. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCHMEAT? Roasted Turkey
6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU? Yeah, a lot of people think I’m good person, and I am.
7. DO YOU HAVE A JOURNAL? A blog, dmansmi.blogspot.com.
8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS? Yes
9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?? Not unless forced to do so by someone with a gun.
10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL? Bran Flakes with sugar.
11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF? Most of the time.
12. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG? When necessary.
13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM FLAVOR? I don’t like ice cream really.
14. SHOE SIZE? 10
15. RED OR PINK?? Blue
16. WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF? How I can be too nice at times.
17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST? My grandmother Ola.
18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO SEND THIS BACK TO YOU? That’s not my decision.
19. WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING? Jeans, and tan/brown Steve Madden’s.
20. LAST THING YOU ATE? Panera’s Sierra Turkey on Asiago Cheese Bread.
21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW? Nothing, but Beyonce CD’s playing in my head, and I don’t even own it yet, and I don’t like Beyonce that much.
22. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?? Black
23. FAVORITE SMELL? Marc Jacobs Cologne or Marc Jacobs Essence perfume.
24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE? Park Forest’s Finest.
25. THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE YOU ARE ATTRACTED TO?? Eyes, Hair, then lips.
26. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU? We’re cool.
27. FAVORITE DRINK? Mixed: Bacardi and Diet.

I don't know what happened to 28 and 29 ....

30. HAT SIZE? What? 7 ½. I have a big head. 3
1. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS?? Yes.
32. FAVORITE FOOD? A Fantastic Burrito (Wink, wink, shan)
33. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?? How about a happy movie with a scary ending….
34. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?? Gray.
35. SUMMER OR WINTER? Summer.
36. HUGS OR KISSES??? A good kiss all day.
37. FAVORITE DESSERT? Cheesecake.
38. WHO IS MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND? I don’t know
39. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND? I don’t know.
40. WHAT BOOKS ARE YOU READING?? A GRE prep book.
41. WHAT'S ON YOUR MOUSE PAD? a mouse ...
42. WHAT DID YOU WATCH LAST NIGHT ON TV? Monday night football.
43. FAVORITE SOUNDS?? The waves of the ocean.
44. ROLLING STONE OR BEATLES?? I’m black.
45. THE FURTHEST YOU'VE BEEN FROM HOME? Miami, Florida.
46. WHAT'S YOUR SPECIAL TALENT?? I plead the fif … No, I’m a good friend. That’s enough.
47. AND WHERE WERE YOU BORN?? Kansas City, Missouri, Research Hospital.
48.WHO SENT THIS TO YOU? Dunno, I knew when I started with question one, but the 47 since have made me forget.

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They're Probably Popping X Anyway

In recent past, I've lamblasted Saint Louis for how ghetto (I'm hearing that Busta and Rick James' song in my head right now) it is with the females with the tattoos on the titties and the red hair.

Today, though, I'm going to take a shot at my own city, Bourgeois City, er, Kansas City. So a good friend who was in town and I decided to hit up the young club scene last night in the City.

After partaking in some home-furnished libation, we proceeded to our first destination, this hotspot called NV (pronounced envy), which is downtown off about 7th and Grand. NV's a swank spot with a few levels with different music on each one.

I've been there twice before, and enjoyed my time there. I've also waited in line for an hour outside that club listening to the music bumping, and watching more people walk out than in only to realize when we finally get in that there aren't that many people inside. Not fun.

After finding a parking spot, we got in the line, which was moving surprisingly fast. We ran into a couple of my high school classmates, Ev and The Rocket (a baseball nickname), of mine. They were walking away after being denied entry because, well, their polo shirts were "too baggy."

It really wasn't the case, but I just thought to myself, there's no way "I get denied because I'm knotted up" meaning I was wearing a dress shirt, a tie and a sweater vest (one of my favorite looks).

I got to the door, and I heard the host (really a hostess) whisper into the bouncer's ear "she's fine (talking about my friend), but those jeans are too baggy (talking about my jeans)."

He was talking about my Ralph Lauren jeans that were cuffed because they were too long. I started to open my mouth, but before I could, my guest blurted out her in her own disgust.

"So you won't let him in unless you can see his balls through his pants?" she queried. "You want to see his balls."

I was speechless. I was about to ask them to find the dude I knew who did promotions for the club. But at that point, it was just time to roll out.

So we headed toward Blonde, another swank spot down on the Plaza. We got to the front of the line quickly, but found a similar problem. They were only letting in people "who were on the list."

They weren't checking the list, but they were letting people in. After a wait, we left in disgust. It was cool because I was very tipsy. But I still want to be in the club, not on the outside.

In Saint Louis, at least you can get in the club without worries. At least you can be around your people without extreme drama, no matter if there are tattoos on the titties and what not. I just know it'll be a while before I hit the swank scene in KC anytime soon.

Those bitches can suck on my chocolate salty balls.

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Sprint to Sprint Pays Off in the End

Long Distance. Thanks to cell phones, no longer do we look at these two words and think of an insurmountable phone bill.

Instead, it's strictly thought of as a relationship that has a 5 percent survival chance/rate in minds of most who aren't in one. I'll be honest with you, I'm not a big fan of them personally.

Area code relationships - that are committed - take an extreme amount of patience. Patience that most inhabitants of this earth don't have. Think about it. What other species do you know that commits to relationships of long distance? Right. I can't think of any either.

But, to some degree, I came to the conclusion that a long distance experience can be a healthy learning vice during one's life. In essence, the two most important aspects of any relationship, conversation and trust, are the only things that really matter in a long distance situation, and they can stabilize a relationship that has true commitment.

I'm not discounting the importance of face-to-face interaction, and the growth that is achieved from seeing someone frequently. Nor is this some ill-fated plea to seek out my own personal long-distance drama.

I just believe that say a month or two of long distance at some point in your relationship, if not more, can go a long way as to show where your relationship really stands. I mean, if there's great converstaion and you can trust the person while they're gone (meaning there's no need to deduce their whereabouts) then I think you have a good foundation to sustain your relationship in person.

But if your partner is brand new - i.e., you can't get the nourishment that you need for yourself in the relationship or even 20 minutes of "hey, how was your day?" - once they've changed area codes, maybe it's time for you to jump ship for a while.

I mean, what if you're in the same city, pursuing your careers at 60 hours a week, and there's not much face-to-face time? It's almost exactly like a long distance relationship. You converse and trust that your mate isn't dipping out on you. And if they can't do that from Florida to New York, I doubt that they'll be as faithful as they should be if the distance is say I-95 to Collins in Miami.

I've realized from past mistakes and long distance relationships just how important conversation and trust are. If you're missing one, you have nothing. Operating long distance makes these two things blatantly obvious, and give you the ability make the decision to jump ship or stay aboard a lot sooner than than they otherwise would.

And as a good friend once told me, jumping ship isn't that hard "when the person is 2000 miles away." Hell, go deep-sea diving until you find whatever it is that your heart truly desires. Be thankful that you at least gave long distance a try and grateful that it didn't cost you an arm, leg and two fingers because of Sprint to Sprint.

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Every Woman, Every Man, Join ...

Chatting with Wildcat-Squared on Sunday we came across some messed up news. No, not the Croc hunter (that was Monday's news). On Sunday, news broke about Mr. Biggz b.k.a Ron Isley heading to jail for three years for tax evasion.

The first thing I said to Wildcat-Squared when she gave me the news?

"There's going to be a Caravan of Love on his ass pretty soon."

All jokes aside, how do you not pay taxes for 20 years, and then the goverment decided to do something about it 30 years after you started your delinquency? The government is deliquent itself, but we learned that with 9/11 and Katrina.

I think we need to stop naming things with dates and names. I have a friend named Katrina, and cousin born on 9/11. How do you think they feel. What happen to cool names like D-Day or naming an event after the place like Pearl Harbor? Ya know.

Anyway, I got completely off base. Back to the Caravan of Love.

I just feel bad for Mr. Biggz, because someone is going to Float on his Love. He'll probably be Biggie Smalls once the cell door shuts and he's Between the Sheets. And his perm? Damn. This is probably what Michael was in for if they locked him up.

Damn. No more Baby Makin Music. Just the Jail House Rock.

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Ah, Shit ....

I searched frantically for the misplaced phone, but didn't find it. But you know I found something else, right?

Don't you hate how that happens? every time you start searching for something you lost, you stumble upon something else you misplaced months ago. This time, the house phone was misplaced, and I found a white Kangol brim that had been missing for about six months or so.

It was well hidden beneath a living room chair's seat cushion. But I was excited to find it. So excited that I gave up my search for the phone.

Then I started thinking about that "no white after Labor Day" rule, and I just put the hat on my head. I walked around the house as if I had somewhere to go with the hat on because I'd missed out on the entire summer usage of this Kangol that I loved. It's one of the cleanest hats I have.

My luck, though. I had a place to wear it the next day, Sunday. You see, I had about 150 (if not more) relatives in town for a real Harris Family Reunion. The family tree that we know of goes as far back as 1860 in Kansas City, Kan., my hometown.

It's the first the only reunion I really can remember, although I did attend previous ones as a little kid, but I'm missing those brain cells from all of the alcohol I've since consumed.

I pimped it out. For real. I put on my white Kangol with the tan linen pants, a Banana white tee, a Kenneth Cole stripped button down and some white Steve Maddens to finish it off. Clean for the last day for white, no doubt.

But what's the first thing I do as soon as I get to the Family Reunion BBQ? I stepped in some shit! Let me re-phrase that, I got shit on my white shoes! No, not some smallish poodle-like like shit. Some elephant king-sized shit, or so it seemed.

I immediately tried to clean it off with some paper towels, but the stench was entirely too strong. I almost threw up. Literally.

Once I finished the clean up, I started having a convo with a few cousins, first and second cousins (you have to stick around people you know at these things) about the family.

"You know, I'm glad we're having this," My cousin Tony says to me.

"I am too," I replied. "I'm glad I get to see all of these people, you know our cousins from Minnesota that we never see, and all these people I never knew."

"Yeah, it would just be bad if you started trying to talk to one of these girls and found out she was your cousin," he says. "We have some fine women in our family."

"I know."

"That girl over there, she works with me," he says. "I was eyeing her at work, but I'm glad I know she fam now. That would be horrible."

Wouldn't that just be a good movie? Kissing Cousins who have to stop seeing each other because they find out they're related. Sick, I know. Anyways, I'm out. That's my random weekend in a nutshell. I'll be back with more later.

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Simplicity Wins

This comes from the pages of a friend, Ms. Key. I thought it was insightful, so here it is ...

The simple things always satisfy. Of course, many of us wish we had the big money, houses and cars; but at the end of the day, we still end up sitting on the sofa, TV remote in hand, flipping through the basic television channels.

Life kicks in... You get your job that earns the big money, house and car (even then, the big TV with Tivo) but there is something missing.

The relationship develops... The man gets the woman that gets the "DAMN" reaction when she walks down the street. He falls for the woman with the long hair, just the right height, an ass to be damned but there is something missing. The woman gets the man with the phat wallet, nice car, minimal issues, great family life, a body that makes her drool everytime she thinks about it....but there is something missing.

When you take the time to weigh all of the things you have with the things you had divide it all by the things that you want, multiply that by what makes you happy, you end up with the simplist product. I don't know what that is for you, but think about it.

Is it true that the BIG things masks what really makes you happy. For some, the BIG shit is compensating for something. Many people say that when they "come up"...."Man when I come up, I'm not gon leave the hood. I'm not gon forget where I came from". When the come up goes down, they are the first to jump ship.

BIG happiness is temporary. When you take the time to really ponder what it takes to make you happy, you still end up sitting on the sofa, TV remote in hand, flipping through the basic television channels.

In the end...You get older, you only have one car, a decent house, all the cash is in the bank, and you learn to invest. Time becomes more valuable, bullshit is less important. You take a look at the photo album of years past. The man ended up with the woman who didn't have that much ass, but her presence demanded the "DAMN" reaction when she walked into a room. She does that little thing that he likes. Her smile can brighten the darkest corridors. His stomach is never hungry for more, or anthing different. He LOVES her.

The woman falls for the man who can stand to lose a few pounds. His wallet is not obese but satisfying, his car is not flamboyant but it serves its purpose, his family life is great, and she still drools at every thought of what he is, was, and is going to be to her. She LOVES him.
The man and woman are happy. They work, love and share all that that is thrown their way.

They spend their nights sitting on the sofa, TV remote in hand, flipping through the basic television channels. Although they both had it all at the beginning, they still ended up where they were comfortable. On the sofa, with the remote, watching the basic channels. Simplicity wins.

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