Day dreaming, and I'm thinking of you ...

Yo, people. I've been doing a little writing. Here's a small sample of something I'm working on... It's the start of this screenplay idea that's working through my mind and onto my laptop slowly but surely. Here's a sample.

WADE
It’s when you start dreaming with your eyes open, that’s when you really begin living.

JAY
A wet dream, right? That’s what you’re talking about? (Jay laughs, Wade smirks but isn't amused) For real, that’s about the only type of dream I want to experience awake.

WADE
You need to find some way to get the sewage out of your mind.

JAY
Wade, please. You act like you’re holier than thou. Last time I checked, which was about three minutes ago, you were determining whether or not that breezy over there was questionable or probable for a late night extravaganza.

WADE
But what does that have to do with what I’m talking about? (JAY shrugs his shoulders) Right. I’m on a serious tip. I feel like I’m having a midlife crisis, man.

JAY
You’re like 25, so unless you want to die a young corpse at 50, you might want to rephrase that to “quarter-life quandary.”

WADE
Quarter-life, mid life, I just know I don’t want to spend every day of my damn life waking up at seven a.m. to get to a job where I begrudgingly sit behind a desk, typing and responding to e-mails that end with exclamation points, only to come home with just enough time to catch two minutes of SportsCenter before I fall asleep and wake up to do the same thing the next day. I want more. Ya know?

JAY
Yeah, I know what you mean. You start feeling like a zombie.

WADE
And I’m not spending the best years of the rest of my life sleep walking. I need to live.

JAY
Then you need to find a few dreams to live for – a wet one and a real one. (they both laugh)

WADE
I couldn't agree more.

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Don't Get it Twisted

Just because I sometimes spell Vic Damone, Jr. "Vick," please don't think I started that to have any affiliation with the idiocy that is now known as Michael Vick, veteran quarterback of the Atlanta Falcons and currently No. 1 enemy of PETA.

If you haven't heard about Vick's latest mishap, you've been hiding under a boulder somewhere, maybe in Colorado.

Vick, for all intensive purposes, is done. He may play football this season, but he may also find himself playing for the gridiron gang in the federal penitentiary. He was indicted yesterday by a federal grand jury on charges surrounding his alleged ties to the dog-fighting subculture.

I was watching ESPN when the news came down. My first thought: "Man would it be hilarious if ESPN had given him a slot in its Who's NOW bracket. He certainly would get ousted by the fans because he's done."

But he wasn't a part of the bracket. But that I checked to see should tell you how majorly crazy this is. In Black America (especially the South), this is the equivalent to Martha Stewart being indicted and heading off to the slammer.

Mike Vick is the Atlanta Falcons. He personfie(d)s a sense of cool. He's one of Nike's front men. He's on the cover of one of the past editions of Madden. It makes little sense that he got himself in such a precarious situation. I guess this saying is true, an idiot with money is worse off than an idiot without.

When you make that much money and are as high-profile a name and figure as Mike Vick, there are things you just cannot do - and being involved in illegal dogfighting is one of them.

When you get his type of notoriety you go to work, red carpet events and then home. That's it. You don't go Nate Newton and get caught with nearly as much marijuana as your playing weight.

You don't make it rain in strip clubs and cause unnecessary drama to unfold ala Pacman.

And you surely don't, especially if you're as big as Mike Vick is, get brought down like this. That said, there's a better chance that Barry Bonds get to 850 home runs than Mike Vick runs for another 1,000 yards in his NFL career.

The Feds are going to make an example of him, and it sucks. But then again, maybe the ignorant sector of Black America wakes from the slumber its been in since Laurence Fishburne's character in School Daze yelled at the top of its lungs.

"WAKE UP!"

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Your heart is true ...

I've become a bad blogger. I used to give you two to three posts a week. Then life kind of happened. It was already going on, but I just kinda got mad busy. But anyways, as always, I'm going to try to be better about this.

Here are a few thoughts running through my mind:

I loved Transformers and Ratatouille, though the later bothered me some when it first started. Ratatouille is the movie about the cooking rat, but it started off as though it were about a family of rats who were black slaves in the 1800s with references to rats "not being able to read" and the rats taking a trip on an "underground" waterway. I wonder if anyone else noticed this. Beyond that it was a good film.
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I had two very drunken encounters this week, one was justifiable. On Independence Day, I forgot to eat before I started drinking, and that led to black spots in my evening and a two-day hangover. Ugh.

I swore off alcohol for at least a month. But I didn't last 72 hours.

On Saturday, seven of the nine of my line brothers (or pledge class) were in Kansas City. A few of us got together, and it was an ignorant, but great time. I felt like I didn't have much of a choice but to enjoy the time with the fellas. At least I ate, and didn't have any semblance of a hangover when I woke up the next morning.

The one bad thing I did do was have a Red Bull and Vodka. I think I only got two hours of sleep before I woke up and couldn't fall back into my slumber.

No matter, though. I'm still taking a prolonged break from alcohol. Approximately, a month.
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One of my good friends ended an AIM conversation with me last night by typing "thank you for being a friend."

She was in a bad moment, and I didn't want to laugh, but I couldn't help it because the theme song to the Golden Girls started running through my mind.

Hopefully you get the title because of this last bit. If you didn't, good for you. That means you had your head in a book and probably didn't watch too much television as a child as I did.

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Karaoke is for the birds

I went karaoking with a group of friends on Friday night. I've only done karaoke twice before. On both occasions, I was ridiculously drunk and that fact aided in my screwing up a couple of good songs - Kanye's Gold Digger and the timeless classic, Marvin Gaye's Let's Get It On.

On Friday, I thought that if I monitored my adult beverage intake and only got tipsy before it was my turn, I'd be able to have the gall to do it and still be sober enough not to embarrass myself.

Boy, was I wrong - about the embarrassing part.

I chose an extremely safe song. Kanye's All Falls Down. I've been singing along to this tune since it dropped in February of 2004. I know every word. Every ad-lib. It was a lock, right? WRONG.

The song started so quickly. I expected to hear the chorus ("Oh, when it all ... all falls down") like I heard a million times to introduce the song. It never came.

So there I stood, looking at the words change colors on the karaoke machine's screen, and nothing was coming out. I felt like 50 Cent during the 2007 BET Awards.

I would post the link to my silence, but then I'd be embarrassing myself on the Internet. I recovered, like 50, and got through the second and third verses without pause. But I felt so bad that I kept drinking.

Next thing I know, I'm singing lead to R. Kelly's Bump N' Grind to close the evening out. And no, I didn't mess it up. I finally found a song I can karaoke to and not screw up.

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