Happy New Year, and Fuck The Rest!

Ah, yes, the year end blogpost for a blog I rarely post on.  I consider this my most personal one, seeing as I literally go through the motions and post them through my words.  Originally this was supposed to be the place for that.  Now it isn’t.

Today that changes.  I can’t promise a slew of emotions but a slew of reality: sure.  I always hear the phrase “Whatever’s meant to be is meant to be”.  I hate the phrase.  I don’t want whatever is meant to be to be, that’s shit.  And yet, I kind of go through life as if that’s how I want life to forever be like. 

No, I don’t want to be a lazy writer.  No, I don’t just want to be her friend.  No, I don’t feel like being that broke nigga at the age of 21.  Jesus Christ, I don’t even have a car!  Well, a lot of 21 year olds don’t, and granted, I don’t even like driving but the point remains.

I guess fear plays a major factor, and maybe restraints, but I suppose the biggest issue is that you take on the concerns of everyone but yourself when you’re someone like me and you mold yourself to those concerns even when you don’t want to.

I’m an old soul.  I enjoy the Ink Spots and a good game of golf more than any 21 year old probably should.  I only get excited over liquor when I’m drinking something with aged value or something of a special mix.  My greatest joy comes from sitting down and writing or reading a decent book.  I have a passion for movies and I plan on getting into that business for a living.  I drift so drastically from the pack that I really do look like the outcast of virtually all my friends.

But I always play a special role in this: I’m the sage.  I’m the guy that offers guidance at the expense of my own well being.  I honestly look at the people I’ve helped and say, “They’re two steps forward and I’m three back.” 

Well fuck that!  That’s to an end.  I’m about tired of being the guiding light that goes nowhere.  I blame myself and no one else too.  But worst of all, I’m an old soul trying to adapt into a young one. 

Yeah, things don’t work out like that.  Time to throw a big middle finger at that.  I’m an old soul amongst a sea of younger ones.  My ambitions are the same but I’m already at a stage where I essentially skipped over a few full years of mental life.  I’m only 21 in body, hence my constant disappearances in life.  I can’t be just me anymore, not for real. 

So here’s my big “fuck you!” to everybody, whether I love you or not!  Here’s my big “fuck you!” to my friends, my family, my life, YOUR life, everything!  It’s truly the dawn of a new day, and I’m done trying to conform into something that fits the wave of society’s expectations of me. 

In other words, if I start a revolution in the next few years, you were warned.  I love you, and I hate to turn my back to you, but I have to get mine too.  See you New Year’s Eve 2011.

Peace.

Would you rather date a lot of different people, or be in a committed relationship?

Committed relationship; always been a practitioner of monogamy

Ask me anything

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Dear Big Sister: You Ain't Shit

So I'm a student in the AUC, the Atlanta University Center, which is comprised of a number of historically black colleges and universities (HBCUs) and I like to read.  Now saying I like to read is an understatement; as a writer and a reader I tend to critique a number of things, most notably the school and AUC newspapers.  Case in point: I hate them.

I don't see how any of them really deserve any reward; the claim is that they get national recognition for their stories (mostly the Maroon Tiger; the CAU Panther and the Spelman Spotlight don't get as much recognition) and format and all of that but why?  I was more than pissed at an article in the latest issue about a student that claims to believe in God but doesn't agree with religion, drawing on the disconnect from religion of Norwegians and the such, only to earlier claim that Christianity (her biggest beef) was created by white people and as such as evil.  There are SO MANY glaring inconsistencies with this, from calling God "God" when she has "no religion" to claiming Christianity was born in Europe (birthed in Africa; read a fucking book).  The article wasn't a celebration of mediocrity; it was an exhibition in ignorance.

The blame doesn't rest solely with the Maroon Tiger though.  The Clark Atlanta paper, and this is my school, tends to celebrate mediocrity from time to time.  Last week there was an article about how some students have become "beacons of hope" for freshmen (ONLY freshmen; keep this in mind) as transporation to Wal Mart  for a price after they closed down the local Publix (supermarket for those of you that don't know).  I know a hustle when I see a hustle, but the issue is that they were called "beacons of hope" when in fact they were just hustling freshmen.  I told you to keep that in mind for the simple fact that they were only really targeting freshmen; sophomores and up KNOW that they can take the MARTA for cheaper or catch a ride with a friend for free.  THAT is a celebration of mediocrity.

Why haven't I mentioned the Spelman Spotlight?  It rarely comes out.  The newspaper that sort of glues the campuses together, however, is the AUC Digest, a small newspaper that highlights some of the biggest stories of the week, and normally I appreciate this.  For example, this week the front page article was that Devonni Benton, the man charged with murdering Spelman student Jasmine Lynn, was found guilty of his crime and sentenced to life and 25 years in jail.  That's a very worthy front page article.  In the Maroon Tiger, it was a blurb at the bottom.  I know I seem pretty angry about this, but when you got that not even taking up a fourth of the page and the news of a transgender Morehouse grad taking up a front page spot AND half of a page inside, there's a problem.  What are the priorities here, people?

Don't fret: I will NEVER stop complaining about the quality of the newspapers on this campus, but I have to focus my argument.  Today is March 1st, and I just picked up the new AUC Digest.  Again, front page article is good, inside articles are good, but the thing I always have a problem with in this is the "Dear Big Sister" bullshit advice block.  You know how "Dear Abbey" works, right?  Well this is not "Dear Abbey".  "Dear Big Sister" just tends to state the obvious and never really seems to help out the person in need.  I won't get into the new thing here, the whole big story of this week's disturbed female, but in short: she's in a bad relationship, she wants out, she doesn't know how to do it.  How does our  beloved "Dear Big Sister" answer this? 

"You deserve better!" 

No, really?  I didn't gather that, not at all.  What else?

"...there are professionals on your campus who can help.  Please go directly to your dean's office..."

How about you call the fucking police, woman?!  No, I need to put it into context.  This girl's boyfriend is a drop out in a nice apartment; has no job but his roommate has plenty of money.  She thinks he is in "the drug thing".  Her parents love the man and he apparently abuses her and swears that she'll be his woman for life.  She's scared.  She wants out but doesn't know how.  Can Big Sister help?

No, the bitch can't!  Pardon my French.  Allow me to offer some more logical advice, piece by piece.  For one, if you been with a guy for two years that abuses you and deals drugs, something is just as wrong with you as it is with him.  You might like that kind of lifestyle or you might be scared to do anything about it, but rarely, and I'm dead serious, RARELY does this kind of behavior occur overnight: you had to know SOMETHING!  For two, another warning light should of went off as soon as you saw him drop out and have no job and have a nice place.  There's no roommate nice enough to completely support someone not keeping up their end of the rent, not unless that dude saved his life early on.  Your parents may love him, but I'm going to refer you to Madea's Family Reunion (oh God I hate that pice of shit movie) and ask you to recall how Blair Underwood's character and the older lady (I forget her name but she's a great actress) conspired against the daughter.  Abstract I admit, but anything is possible.  Of course, say he's putting on a facade around them?  Why aren't you calling him on his bullshit?  For three, if you're being abused then why are you not calling the police?  He's hitting you and maybe selling drugs, that's worthy of a phone call to the cops, yes?  Don't talk to people on campus; talk to the police first, get the nigga arrested and maybe, just maybe, things will start to look up.  You need to build up that self esteem and confidence though because it's not "the pride factor" keeping you from doing this (as Big Sister thinks) but fear, not just of what might come but of a broken heart.  \

Yes, a broken heart.  If you've been with a man for two years and you don't love him then it has to be sex keeping you around, good GOOD sex, but if abuse is present then that more than likely is NOT the case.  I assume this might be your first love too, and yes, the pain from that breakup is indescribable, yes, but, as Will Smith said (yes, a much better reference for advice than Big Sister), "Pain is the mother of change."  Into each life some rain must fall, and that rain is pain, and pain is the mother of change, and change is necessary right now to advance with your life.  You don't need any man that abuses you, point blank, that isn't even something I need to say.  However, you have to find that power within yourself and break the chains you keep around yourself.  There's a sick comfort in a relationship, even an abusive one, but you have to have the nerve to bust free and take it upon yourself to steer the boat that is your life.  Get on that phone, preferably from somewhere far away from this possible drug dealer, call the police and start the bumpy road to recovery; once you start down it then it only gets easier.

That's all I have to say for right now.  I'm the DiZ.  Giggidy giggidy, giggidy goo.

Still Dreaming: Plotting the Death of Deadlines

They say the black rose is an old symbol of death.  I don't know, from my ever increasingly aesthetic mind state I can see both the beauty of a black rose and the poetic glory in death.  I'm not goth or anything, certainly not praying for death, but I'm also able to see beauty in war.  People tend to shy away from what isn't instantly pleasing to the eye, but secretly a great number of these very people find a strange sort of satisfaction (how's that for alliteration?) in the very things they consider grim.  There is a beautiful aesthetic in violence, often used in movies by Quentin Tarantino, more so in literature.  I just thought I'd put that out there for the time being; if you're wondering what this has to do with this post... not much.  I mean, I do have something to say but it has little to do with black roses (which I really do find beautiful) or violence.  It has to do with my attempting to murder something: deadlines!

The irony in this blog post is that the very reason I'm writing this is to reach the thing I want destroyed: a deadline.  Deadlines have been pissing me off for years, two decades now, and the pressure put on me from them is the reason.  I hate pressure; pressure leads to stress, and I don't do stress, just don't  Besides that, the pressure is only increased when, if you miss one deadline, you have to make up for that one AND work on yet another one. 

See, some people excel under the pressure; I admit that ONE deadline I've had actually helped, just one, and that was because it was something I love to do.  Granted, I do like to blog, but I LOVE to craft stories and narratives; that's actually the reason my last deadline wasn't met: I'm working on a big project based on the characters of Grand Theft Auto, a big narrative from the point of view of the silent protagonist Claude of Grand Theft Auto 3 (and maybe 2, it's possible).  It's so big I may need to break it up into a few parts, but it's not finished yet.  In any case, I didn't plan on using it for my deadlines, but now deadlines might force me to.  I'm shaking my damn head at that; I don't want to waste it on this yet. 

There's the constant issue, however: why don't you just write something and call it a day?  Simple answer: I can't.  Complex: being that I am the writer (notice I said "the", not "a", implying I am very cocky) I can't do anything half assed, and considering that I have a surprisingly large ass on me even quarter ass could suffice, but not for me.  It's all or nothing, no less, and I've had to compromise some of my best for deadlines. 

I don't strive to meet deadlines: I just do what I do and it gets done when it gets done.  Usually that meets a deadline, whether it was intentional or not.  That's about all I have to say on this topic.  Guess I'll break up my narrative, my brilliant story, and use it for a deadline.  Damn shame, but hey, what's more important?  Personal accomplishment or academic security?  I'll leave on that note.

As I Take Time To Reminisce: Kerner Plus 40

So what can I say?  Journalism is a heavy topic and the Civil Rights Movement was a prime time to be a reporter.  Even more so than that, however, was how important the African American was during this time.  It didn't take long after the death of the Civil Rights messiah Martin Luther King Jr. for black people to completely lose composure and act a damn fool.  Riots and racial conflicts started to take over and journalists, nearly all of them white at this point, had the duty to report on these riots and risking getting killed.

In the immortal words of David Chappelle, "Fuck that!"  It's not hard to understand or even appreciate that people value their lives (save for the suicidal) so being a white person in the middle of a black-owned riot has the distinction of being a deadly situation.  The solution was to have a black bodyguard, something of an African American guide through the wilderness of a riot-run city; a ghetto safari if you will.  That failed.  Solution 2: have the African Americans do the reporting themselves; the risk for death is much, much lower, nearly 0%... for the white people.

But the people need their news and as such the Black journalist was, more or less, established in a professional realm.  Black people had the honor of going into the riot zones and being able to actually talk to their looting and shooting brothers and sisters, right at the scene of the crime.  This, much like news coverage of the stupid War on Terror today, added a personal and to the point, on the spot feel to the news reports.

Alas, despite the African American getting a new position in the media, racial hatred was still alive and kicking... sometimes literally.  Black reporters were finally behind the desk but that didn't mean the desk wasn't ravaged in anger.  You had black reporters that submitted stories, but those stories might mysteriously disappear.  It was a vicious cycle that isn't as bad as it was then now but it's still not completely clean.

Kerner Plus 40 chronicled this mass event and did it with style, from the major players of the game to the Miles Davis playing in the background (started with So What of "Kind of Blue" and maybe going into his soundtrack of "Lift to the Scaffolds).  Overall it was informative and painted the perfect picture of the press in that time.  On a scale of one to ten, perhaps it deserves an 8, 9 maybe.  I'd have preferred Blue in Green myself... So What was a little too upbeat for the story...

Crying in the Sink: When Did I Become That Cunthole Steve?

"I like playing games by the pool/Who invited Steve?/That dude's a cunt."

Did I become Steve or something when I touched down in Virginia again? Seriously, what the hell? It seems like a bit of a strange thing to talk about, especially when the circumstances aren't really understood. Are you familiar with the group known as the Lonely Island? They're that comical rap group off of Saturday Night Live. They've brought to the world such classic hits as Jizz in my Pants, Dick in a Box, Lazy Sunday, I'm on a Boat, and most recently, Mother Lovers. The songs I'm referencing are Just 2 Guys and We Like Sportz, which both feature straight-forward lyrics from the aptly titled Guy #1 and Guy #2. The character foil in both circumstances is the lovable "cunt/hole" Steve. Steve just looks like a guy that wants to party with Guy #1 and Guy #2, but he's always called a cunt/hole and walks away disappointed after a spirited entry. Poor Steve.

So why do I call myself Steve? Quite simply, I feel like I want to belong but I'm denied entry. It's a cold world, I think, but I don't think geographical positioning should be the deciding factor between a feeling of warmth and a feeling of harsh chilling temperature. When I was in Atlanta I felt great. I could take or leave the school, but the environments and the people were great. I was happy to be down in that humid dorm of mine with my loud, obnoxious neighbors. I was glad to be around people I consider family (and not just in name but in good faith) and, hell, I was even glad to meet my female counterpart, even if future meetings will probably end in violent verbal wordplay. When the date approached for leaving that city I grew more and more depressed. I didn't show it; why would I? It's not in my nature to show others my pain (a trait taken from my mother, more of which will be revealed later I'm sure) so I wore a mask of a man so strong and saved my tears for nights when I was in my dorm alone.

I keep saying that I'm a good man and that karma is going to kick in soon. What would karma be? A job for one. The money for school would be even better. A couple of stress relievers (situations, not drugs) would help too, but since my lifestyle doesn't make room for stress the need for them alone is scary. A good girl? That would be a plus. Some way to go to several concerts taking place here in VA would be great too. I hear Method and Red are putting on a concert in a few days. I'd love to go. I can, I have the money, but I feel like Steve. Steve's a cunt.

It's hard for me to write this one. It's like no one is really listening but God, and God's making a way for it to resolve itself but it won't come around for a little while. While we're on the subject of God, let's narrow that down to the meat and potatoes of this post: my church. I can't say I don't love my church because I do love it. I've been here for nearly 20 years, I'm almost obligated to love it. I was baptized at my church, learned Catholicism from my church, hell, that church should be my second home.

But it isn't, not anymore at least. When I was in Atlanta I discovered a few things about Catholics and I have to say that they piss me off. It all follows a very strict chronological order too. When you're a baby you're just that: a baby, a trophy of cuteness and social status that gains the parents and godparents entry into various ministries and excuses into not going into others. When that child gains sentience he or she becomes a fresh recruit. He or she is put into various jobs and duties that he or she has no clue about. There's no explanation, no reason, just a notion as basic as procreation: it has to be done. The kid gets older. They get a bit smarter. They start to question what's happening and this is bible study, Sunday school, the works. The education is nice, but the explanations can leave a nasty under taste or a false impression. Everything isn't always explained and it could be, and now the kid falls into either one group or the other: one that follows the code blindly or one that follows the code while maintaining an air of personal conviction. Guess which category I'm in.

As Sunday school became a distant memory I started to grow a voice in church. Unless that church is run by youth then anyone under the age of 25 is dismissed. There were many occasions where I spoke out and would have been right, but my voice was dismissed. Granted, there were times when I spoke out and I would have been wrong too, but my voice was still unheard. Everything I did was a testament to my blind loyalty to the church, and despite the notion that they have I don't. I don't have blind loyalty to anyone or anything. My loyalty comes with long periods of observation, experience and trust, so only so many people have my loyalty, and even that isn't completely blind. It could be clouded.

Today was another time that my voice was left to drift carelessly in the wind. For the longest time I've said many things, some of them being:

• Younger folk in position in the church
• More scheduling, less spur of the moment
• New volunteers
• Less usage of the dependable

I can understand why I've gotten some flack for the last of the posts but that ties in directly to my greatest beef, at least the most recent one. This morning I was woken up by a phone call from my mother. She told me to call my friend and to go help out at the church. Was there a reason? No, not to the best of my knowledge. It was simply an order; I say order because it wasn't really a request. A request can be refused and there will be no hard feelings on the side of the one that made the request. Orders are expected to be done without any sort of disagreement. Because I know how argumentative and unproductive an argument with my mother could be (yet another trait I picked up from her) I just called up my friend and a few hours later we were out of our respective houses and at the church. We expected work to do, a lot of work at that, but that wasn't the case. In fact our arrival was just as unexpected as our lack of work. Sure, we were given times and assignments for tomorrow, but that could have been done on the phone. So we were at church for a total of eleven minutes before we left and got some chicken. Then we went to the mall and complained for a little while before leaving.

The circumstances lead me to bring up something I had mentioned before: poor communication and negative reliance. Why were my friend and I contacted? One, because the eldest at our church like to make the younger ones do things without them knowing the reason. Two, because our dedication to the church is so strong. There's a problem when you always call on those that will be there when there are others that could be and want to be. That's not to say that we didn't want to be there, but we DID want something to do. It was convenience and I personally have a problem when I'm contacted simply because of convenience. Why me?

But why do I feel like Steve? I want to belong to my church, but right now I feel like a perpetual book stand. I'm there, and I'm a great help, but I'm unnecessary and I can be easily replaced. The irony is that when I reach the age where I get respect I'll more than likely be somewhere out of this state. Why were we contacted? Because we don't get respect.

That's a little extreme. It's more like I'm dismissed and disrespected. I can see the hypocrisy of it all, but I can't do anything about it. I'm howling at the moon basically, trying to gather something I can never reach. I'm not literally crying in the sink but that's what I feel like doing... in a proverbial sense. It doesn't accomplish a thing, but it helps to vent.

The point I'm trying to make is that my age is my downfall for the moment. Poor communication and lack of support results in my damages. Besides that, getting people like me to do so much stuff at such inconvenient times just isn't a good look. I was going to take today to work on job applications, scholarships, football games and possibly a female or two, but instead it was spent doing just one application, desperately seeking more, doing no scholarships, playing one football game and wasting about two hours of my time doing nothing but waiting to go home. There were a few hours where I was chilling with a friend of mine and that was fun. It may even be enough to redeem the rest of the day (would have been for sure if that trip to the mall didn't result in so many rejected job requests). But you can't constantly call the same people for the job; it pushes them away. For a long time I had to wonder why people didn't come around the church I frequent in Atlanta. There's something called dedication, and it has to be built up. I stay around because if I really didn't want to do something, if I absolutely and unequivocally didn't want to do something then I wouldn't have to. I didn't want to feel like Steve today. I want to be part of it, but I don't want to be rejected. I felt like Steve. Then again, maybe because I'm that loudmouth I have no choice but to be Steve.

"He's not a loudmouth like that cunthole Steve"