I Walked Out of Her Life A Long Time Ago ...

If you knew me back in the 90s, you knew I had a thing for the original Miss Thang, Monica.

I loved that jam "Don't Take It Personal," but more so "Before You Walk Out of My Life." Nevermind that I was 15, and no one was walking in and out of my life aside from classmates day to day. I just loved the jam for some reason, and wished I had a bit more Monica in my life.

Well, my wish came true. Back in 1998 when Monica dropped The Boy is Mine the album, one of my colleagues at the time set up a phone interview for me with Monica over the phone. At the time, I triumphed it as one of my greatest moments in life. Bump everything else I'd done up to that point in life. Monica and I had a 20-minute conversation.

A year later, I met her in person at some concert and got to interview her again and pen a concert review.

I was excited for this opportunity to meet my "celebrity" crush of the mid-to-late 90s. I put on my best fit, threw on some cologne (co-log-nay) and got a fresh fade for the occasion.
I left in total disgust.

Why you wonder? The interview went well, aside from the fact that i couldn't stop staring at her tattoos. The main one of concern was the one on her right forearm near her wrist.

Mind you, I was sheltered to a degree. I didn't think such a beautiful woman had a need or desire for a tat. I was in shock. My thang for Miss Thang was over.

It was hard to take her seriously after that. I refused to buy her next album, or really give the music a chance because all I remember about her were her tattoos, and how she couldn't hide them. On TV, they hid those tats from us for much of the 90s. But it was impossible in person. The little girl was gone.

So to see Monica now? All tatted up the left arm and singing to the tune of "Everytime the Beat Drop." I'm kind of like, there's no comparison between her and Brandy now. Take Brandy, hands down. I don't think I want to hear anything else Monica says or sings. It's not going to live up to "Before" so I'm good.

Although, I'll admit, Brandy's situation (The whole fake marriage thing that involved an newborn baby) was a little bit worse than having a few tattoos. But, to each his own.

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I disgust myself ...

I can't lie. I'm not worthy. I got sucked in again, into the Flavor of Love. Somehow, someway, it happened.

All I can say is this, New York takes after her mother (through actions and looks) and I can't understand why or how her father puts up with those two women. He must love him some drama.

Secondly, (this is wrong) New York's momma looks like she just stepped off the set of Planet of the Apes, make-up job still intact. I don't feel bad because I'm talking about a crazy woman.

Finally, Flavor Flav is still disgusting, but he churned out a few OK-looking kids somehow. Translation: THEY LOOK NOTHING LIKE HIM.

I'm done.

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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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