Who would your ideal presidential candidate be if you could choose anyone? I mean, Barack Obama is cool and everything, and I am certainly happy about his impending Democratic Party nomination, but how about Malcolm X for President in 2008? Yep, that’s right…Malcolm X.
So you’re probably thinking, “All right, Cole. Where are you going with this one? Why on earth would you want a dead man to be President? Better yet, of all the dead men to choose from, why Malcolm X?”
Well, here’s how the idea popped into my head. A few weeks ago, TheRoot.com published an article by Melissa Harris-Lacewell entitled, “Happy Birthday, Malcolm.” The piece begins by quietly highlighting that although the anniversary received little to no hype, May 19th would have been Brother Malcolm’s 83rd birthday. Harris-Lacewell went on to encourage readers to stop identifying Malcolm X as some sort of affectuous pop culture icon and actually revisit him as a man who taught us many “important social and political lessons.” The article hit a lot of points that are very true about Brother Malcolm; that he was a man of “dramatic change,” that there are things about him that remain elusive, difficult, messy and challenging,” and that he had the capacity to “learn, to grow, to discern, and to change direction.” Most importantly, he did so openly, except when he was dealing with the pressures of conflicting emotions about the supremacy and all-knowingness of his leader in the Nation of Islam, the Honorable Elijah Muhammad.
The piece is good. I suggest that you read it. Melissa was on point. But, you know me being a Wiley and everything, I always have to carry things a bit further. I started reading the article and by the end of the column my wheels were turning. Mrs. Harris-Lacewell was right, we would be in much better standing right now if we took some time to revisit El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz, AKA Malcolm X. Then again, I’m not so sure that would be enough to get the job done. I think we need Malcolm X to revisit us.
All of this came about at the perfect time because I just finished rereading The Autobiography of Malcolm X this past week. It was the first time that I picked up the book since I was about 12 or 13 years old, around the time that Spike Lee’s film Malcolm X was released and during the period that “pop culture” Malcolm reached a peak in popularity. Although the book had a significant influence upon me as an adolescent, I cannot begin to compare that experience to what I have gone through in dissecting the text as a full fledged adult. We all know what they say about books and how one can pull very different interpretations from the pages when one reads the text and different points in one’s life. Well, I just got pimp slapped by Brother Malcolm’s words. Reading The Autobiography as a relatively carefree and idealistic youth is very different than reading the book as a somewhat skeptical and world-weary man. That is not to say that I am no longer idealistic in any way, but that idealism now comes through in a much more grounded and narrowly-tailored package. In other words, I am an idealist about what I can do, the progress I can make, and where I can end up as an individual, but I am no longer sure that the rest of the world is quite so malleable.
I have a lot in common with Malcolm X. Well, at least I like to think that I have a lot in common with him. The thought makes me feel that I have more significance in this world than I actually do. A dream that I am more provocative and engaging than I actually am. What am I in actuality? Probably just another “educated” brother that is generations removed from the last real collective of black leaders. Just a young guy who is trying to find his relevance in a world that regards the most irrelevant things in life with the highest esteem.
But, one thing is for certain, I do at least have one thing in common with El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz…I live and work in Harlem. I sometimes think about how Brother Malcolm used to roam Harlem when he was working the streets for the Nation of Islam. I also wonder about the things that he may have been up to when he paraded around the neighborhood as “Detroit Red.” I imagine myself striding down the same sidewalks that he did, looking at the same sights that he once laid his eyes on, and maybe even living in an apartment building that he once occupied. One thing is for sure, he and I both view Harlem with a deep affection on some days, and with a depressing dispassion on other days.
“I combed not only the bright-light areas, but Harlem’s residential areas from best to worst, from Sugar Hill up near the Polo Grounds, where many famous celebrities lived, down to the slum blocks of old rat-trap apartment houses, just crawling with everything you could mention that was illegal and immoral. Dirt, garbage cans overflowing or kicked over; drunks, dope addicts, beggars, sleazy bars, store-front churches with gospels being shouted inside, “bargain” stores, hockshops, undertaking parlors. Greasy “home-cooking” restaurants, beauty shops smoky inside from Negro women’s hair getting fried, barbershops advertising conk experts. Cadillacs, secondhand and new, conspicuous among the cars on the street.”
“Harlem’s famous image spread until it swarmed nightly with white people from all over the world. The tourist buses came there. The Cotton Club catered to whites only, and hundreds of other clubs ranging on down to cellar speakeasies catered to white people’s money. Some of the best-known where Connie’s Inn, the Lenox Club, Barron’s, The Nest Club, Jimmy’s Chicken Shack, and Minton’s. The Savoy, the Golden Gate, and the Renaissance ballrooms battled for the crowds…”
“Blacktown crawled with white people, with pimps, prostitutes, bootleggers, with hustlers of all kinds, with colorful characters, and with police and prohibition agents. Negroes danced like they never have anywhere before or since.”
“The first room I got after I left the railroad was in the 800 block of St. Nicholas Avenue. You could walk into one or another room in this house and get a hot fur coat, a good camera, fine perfume, a gun, anything from hot women to hot cars, even hot ice…In several of the apartments the women tenants were prostitutes. The minority where in some other racket or hustle – boosters, numbers runners, or dope-peddlers – and I’d guess that everyone who lived in the house used dope of some kind. This shouldn’t reflect too badly on that particular building, because almost everyone in Harlem needed some kind of hustle to survive, and needed to stay high in some way to forget what they had to do to survive.”
Sometimes I wonder: would it have been better to be in the Harlem that Malcolm described, or in the Harlem of 2008? There are some things that are quite different, but unfortunately there is a lot that is still the same. On the positive side, I don’t see many prostitutes running around Harlem these days. As far as I can tell, that market somehow dried up. Another thing you won’t see in Harlem anymore are glamorous, thriving nightspots. Whether they “[cater] to white people’s money” or not, they just simply don’t exist anymore. I would have at least liked to have spent one night in Harlem lindy hopping at the Savoy Ballroom during those days. There must have been a lot of fun to be had.
Alright, I’m sorry. You’ve had enough of the H.G. Wells day dreaming, so I’ll tell you what you do still see in Harlem these days. Rat-trap apartments (trust me on this one, I looked at a couple first hand when trying to find my place), garbage littering the streets, dope addicts, beggars, hustlers, and pushers (except those hustlers aren’t just driving Cadillacs anymore, there are plenty more makes and models to choose from now). More than that, it seems like there are an awful lot of folks who just seem like they don’t have a damn thing to do all day.
There are days when I love where I live. Soulful music bumping out of apartments and cars. People walking up and down the side streets and avenues as if they never fall out of rhythm. Barbeques in Bill “Bojangles” Robinson Park. Basketball up at the Rucker. Chillin’ at the rec center in Jackie Robinson Park. A late night Jimbo’s meal. Walking up and down Sugar Hill to catch the A and the D train to various parts of Brooklyn and Manhattan. Yet, for all those days, sometimes I look around and wish that my people had something more to their daily routines than they do. I wish they cared enough about their neighborhood to pick up their garbage and clean up after their animals. I wish there were more suits and loafers, and fewer doo-rags and Jordans. It’s kind of funny when you think about those doo-rags too. We stopped wearing conks, Jheri curls, and activator years ago (well, most of us), but those doo-rags ain’t goin’ nowhere. And before you get upset, I know there ain’t nuttin’ wrong with a doo-rag. I used to wear them myself. But, you have to wonder where all these young dudes (and sometimes not-so-young dudes) are going with them on their heads. With rare exceptions, I don’t know of many business meetings where the people in charge sit around with polyster wraps on their heads. That’s why I think it’s best to get your hair right at night and get your mind right during the day. Either way, Harlem is where you’ll find me, just like you could find Malcolm.
Nevertheless, I have digressed. Choosing a President is not about identification with where he resides, it’s about his leadership abilities and the principles that he stands for (or at least it ought to be). Personally, I would rather not have a President that is a politician. At least no more than he has to be in a Machiavellian sense. Hedging is for losers. I would rather have a man that takes a stance for what he believes in. I support a man that has conviction. Brother Malcolm certainly had that. At the same time, he was also a man that learned from his staunch beliefs and realized that no man’s convictions should be absolute (aside from a belief in one’s God) because no man’s knowledge is absolute. I especially respect those whose convictions allow them to criticize their own country, their countrymen, and themselves. There isn’t enough of that these days.
Here’s what Malcolm had to say about American society after the government split up his family and institutionalized his mother once an insurance company’s shenanigans prevented the family from collecting the insurance money they were due after their father’s murder:
“I knew I wouldn’t be back to see my mother again because it could make me a very vicious and dangerous person – knowing how they had looked at us as numbers and as a case in their book, not as human beings. And knowing that my mother in there was a statistic that didn’t have to be, that existed because of a society’s failure, hypocrisy, greed, and lack of mercy and compassion. Hence I have no mercy or compassion in me for a society that will crush people and then penalize them for not being able to stand up under the weight.”
A world without mercy and compassion is not a world that I would want to live in, but I often feel that is the world that we live in. People wonder why Malcolm X was so aggressive and militant in his approach for so many years. Maybe it’s because he just started remembering how America dealt with him and his family. You’ve got to give the dude some credit. Until he was sent to prison on an armed robbery bit, he acted like these atrocious events didn’t even happen to him. Everything that he and his family went through was pushed to the back of his brain. Only when he finally “woke up,” did he really start to figure out what was going on and call people out for what they were doing to the black masses.
More than anything, what I want in a President is someone that works for the benefit of those that need the help the most in the way they need it the most. Inciting them to gain the courage to stand up on their own as men and women and as human beings, entitled to not only their civil rights, but their human rights. Someone who is unafraid and actively involved in pulling those who are in the deepest muck and mire of society. Someone who presents himself as living by a strict moral and ethical code and doesn’t turn out to be a fraud a few months later. A man that is not ashamed to admit that he pulled himself up from the bottom. A lucid and introspective person that can identify the issues at home and talk about their relationship to the global community.
Here are a series of excerpts from The Autobiography where Malcolm X gives some particularly poignant observations about some peculiar Americanisms, whether they are taken in the context of the times or related to today’s world:
“[U]ntil just lately, among the few educated Negroes scarcely any applied their education, as I am forced to say the white man does – in searching and creative thinking, to further themselves and their own kind in this competitive, materialistic, dog-eat-dog white man’s world. For generations, the so-called “educated” Negroes have “led” their black brothers by echoing the white man’s thinking – which naturally has been to the exploitive white man’s advantage.
The white man – give him his due – has an extraordinary intelligence, and extraordinary cleverness. His world is full of proof of it. You can’t name a thing the white man can’t make. You can hardly name a scientific problem he can’t solve. Here he is now solving the problems of sending men exploring into outer space – and returning them safely to earth.
But in the arena of dealing with human beings, the white man’s working intelligence is hobbled. His intelligence will fail him altogether if the humans happen to be non-white. The white man’s emotions superseded his intelligence. He will commit against non-whites the most incredible spontaneous emotional acts, so psyche-deep is his “white superiority” complex.
Where was the A-bomb dropped…”to save American lives”? Can the white man be so naïve as to think the clear import of this ever will be lost upon the non-white two-thirds of the earth’s population?”
Damn, Malcolm. Tell ‘em…
“I would hate to be general of an army as badly informed as the American white man has been about the Negro in this country.
This is the situation which permitted Negro combustion to slowly build up to the revolution-point, without the white man realizing it. All over America, the local Negro “leader,” in order to survive as a “leader,” kept reassuring the local white man, in effect, “Everything’s all right, everything’s right in hand, boss!” When the “leader” wanted a little something for his people: “Er, boss, some of the people talking about we sure need a better school, boss.” And if the local Negroes hadn’t been causing any “trouble,” the “benevolent” white man might nod and give them a school, or some jobs.
The white men belonging to the power structures in thousands of communities across America know that I’m right! They know that I am describing what has been the true patter of “communications” between the “local whites of good-will” and the local Negroes. It has been a pattern created by domineering, ego-ridden whites. Its characteristic design permitted the white man to feel “noble” about throwing crumbs to the black man, instead of feeling guilty about the local community’s system of cruelly exploiting Negroes.
But I want to tell you something. This pattern, this “system” that the white man created, of teaching Negroes to hide the truth from him behind a façade of grinning, “yessir-bossing,: foot-shuffling and head-scratching – that system has done the American white man more harm than an invading army would do to him.
Why do I say this? Because all this has steadily helped this American white man to build up, deep in his psyche, absolute conviction that he is “superior.” In how many, many communities have, thus, white men who didn’t finish high school regarded condescendingly university-educated local Negro “leaders,” principals of schools, teachers, doctors, other professionals?
The white man’s system has been imposed upon non-white peoples all over the world. This is exactly the reason why wherever people who are anything but white live in this world today, the white man’s governments are finding themselves in deeper and deeper trouble and peril.
Let’s just face truth. Facts! Whether or not the white man of the world is able to face truth, and facts, about the true reasons for his troubles – that’s what essentially will determine whether or not he will now survive.
Today we are seeing this revolution of the non-white peoples, who just a few years ago would have frozen in horror if the mighty white nations so much as lifted an eyebrow. What it is, simply, is that black and brown and red and yellow peoples have, after hundred of years of exploitation and imposed “inferiority” and general misuse, become, finally, do-or-die sick and tired of the white man’s heel on their necks.
How can the white American government figure on selling “democracy” and “brotherhood” to non-white peoples – if they read and hear every day what’s going on right here in America, and see the better-than-a-thousand-words photographs of the American white man denying “democracy” and “brotherhood” even to America’s native-born non-whites? The world’s non-whites know how this Negro here has loved the American white man, and slaved for him, tended to him, nursed him. This Negro has jumped into uniform and gone off and died when this American was attacked by enemies both white and non-white. Such a faithful, loyal non-white as this – and still America bombs him, and sets dogs on him, and turns fire hoses on him, and jails him by the thousands, and beats him bloody, and inflicts upon him all manner of other crimes.
Of course these things, known and refreshed every day for the rest of the world’s non-whites, are a vital factor in these burnings of ambassadors’ limousines, these stonings, defilings, and wreckings of embassies and legations, these shouts of “White man, go home!” these attacks on white Christian missionaries, and these bombing and tearing down of flags.
Is it clear why I have said that the American white man’s malignant superiority complex has done him more harm than an invading army?”
Yes, Brother Malcolm. I think it is clear. I’m sorry, did you have something else to say?
“Time and time again, the black, the brown, the red, and the yellow races have witnessed and suffered the white man’s small ability to understand the simple notes of the spirit. The white man seems tone deaf to the total orchestration of humanity. Every day, his newspapers’ front pages show us the world that he has created.”
To me, these words do not sound like some vicious and unfounded attack on white people as some may interpret them. Instead, at their core, they sound like some incredible and insightful thoughts about America’s superiority complex and its wayward foreign policies. Seriously, read it again. Tell me that President Bush shouldn’t have read these passages before he ever stepped into office. Would today’s leaders even consider a concept as inclusive as the “total orchestration of humanity”? Probably not. Even if they did, it would likely just be a front. Ameri-centrism has swept across this country in broad strokes, effectively blinding most citizens to the fact that our nation is but one puzzle piece in the vast global landscape.
The American people wonder why the whole world seems like they are upset at our country. We cannot understand what would motivate them to lash out violently against us. Beyond that, anyone who is against us is a terrorist. Forget the fact that our country is the largest arms producer in the globe…by far. We also don’t seem to realize that we are not seen as a country of individual citizens with varying social and political beliefs by the rest of the globe. We are seen as a brash and insolent collective of warmongers. The notion of America is the notion of ignorance and oppression.
Go ahead, Malcolm. Please, try to tell ‘em:
“Listen! The white man’s racism toward the black man here in America is what has got him in such trouble all over this world, with other non-white peoples. The white man can’t separate himself from the stigma that he automatically feels about anyone, no matter who, who is not his color. And the non-white peoples of the world as sick of the condescending white man! That’s why you’ve got all of this trouble in places like Vietnam.”
We sit around wondering why all these “Afghans” and “Iraqis” and “Arabs” are out to get us. We wonder why in the world these people are willing to sacrifice their lives to have at least some semblance of sticking it to big bad America. Innocent America? Why us? Why would a group of people go to such lengths as to hijack a series of commercial airlines and fly them into the sides of prominent American buildings? Why? Because we are the Sonny Liston of the global community. The big, bumbling behemoth that forcefully intimidates foes with raw power and mercilessness.
Malcolm X was there when Cassius Clay, later known as Muhammad Ali, defeated the big bad wolf called Sonny Liston. Malcolm X also knew, well before the fight actually took place that Sonny Liston was going to lose. In fact, Malcolm stated that Sonny Liston was about to face “one of the most awesome frights that ever can confront any person – one who worships Allah, and who is completely without fear.” It sounds like the man knows what he’s talking about. A man knows his own people. I remember a lot of negative hype being made about Barack Obama’s “Islamic roots.” Apparently, no one would want a Muslim as president of these United States. Forget that. I would love to see a Muslim as President. Think about it. Who are we having all these “problems” with these days? You know who…those “rascally insurgents,” those “religious fanatics,” those “Moo-slims.” In fact, it’s funny that some of complain or don’t understand why some foreigners view us Americans as a homogenous mass when there are a whole lot of people in this country who think that each and every follower of Islam is some sort of trouble or threat to the establishment. How cute.
But maybe a Muslim president would have enough sense to know how to deal with other Muslims in a reasonable and amiable manner. Maybe if Malcolm X were President, he would have made sure that big bad America pulled its troops of out the Middle East long ago, way before the Sept 11th attacks happened. Maybe if Malcolm X were President, we wouldn’t be finding ourselves in the fix that we’re in right now. Maybe if Malcolm X were President, we wouldn’t have been over there in the first place.
So, sure, Barack Obama is cool, and I support the brother 100%, but I would rather put an X next to another man’s name, El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz.
>CW<
Friday, June 06, 2008
Monday, May 19, 2008
Love In This Club
So, your boy Usher (or Ur-shur for those who choose to pronounce it that way) is making yet another comeback from a 4 year hiatus since he released his last studio album, Confessions. I can’t even fake, I rocked with the Confessions album EXTRA hard. Even the biggest Usher hater has to admit that the album, especially the Special Edition had about 12-14 tracks on it that were Dylan certified ‘hot fire.’
But aside from all of Usher’s recent antics and his decision to marry Chili’s cracked out auntie, his latest single “Love In This Club” got me thinking about a few things that I wanted to share with folks.
Question #1: Is there really any “Love in This Club?”
Hell no. Hell to the fuck naw. Not even close. Most people are probably aware that the typical club atmosphere brings out some of the most basic primordial instincts from the masses, and it doesn’t matter if the patrons are black, white, yellow, or brown. Instinct is instinct, and nowhere is that fact more sadly depicted than in the club on a Saturday night. (Thursday and Friday nights too, and sometimes on a Sunday, but only when we know that we can get away with struggling through a half a day of work on Monday with a hangover). Happy Hour gets a free pass since our primary goal during that social occasion is to melt our liver, not a potential mate’s heart.
That’s not to say that some perfectly happy couples have not met during All-Star Weekend at Club Visionz. That’s right, you spell that last S in Visions with a Z instead…for the flava. Shit, you never know. I might meet my future wife at the club. And in all probability she would likely be my first ex-wife as well…and that’s best case scenario. Worst case scenario, she’ll be my first Keke Wyatt, Remy Ma, or even worse, a Lorena Bobbit…yikes!!! Now, I’m not singling out the women, they just happen to be the candidates that I would take notice of first. Don’t worry ladies, just ask your friends. I’m sure you can get your pick of carnivorous playboys, fake thugs, and borderline alcoholics.
After all, no matter your race, religion, creed, sexual preference, or social dysfunction, there’s love in this club for everyone.
Speaking of throwback (no pun intended) R&B artists, I came across a phrase from an old Ginuwine song that made me rethink this whole “Love In This Club” approach.
Question #2: Is a brotha’s main goal in hitting the club to get “In Those Jeans?”
I would ask Ginuwine to answer this question, but I don’t think that most of us have seen hide nor hair of this kid ever since he had about 8 kids with Sole and Timberland decided to leave him for…Justin Timberlake…lol. I’m sure Ginuwine was probably as hurt any black woman would be if their successful spouse left them for a white girl…cause the situations are almost exactly the same...
At any rate, now that I’m actually OVER the quarter century mark (a fact that is mildly depressing in itself) I feel like the whole trying to get “in those jeans” method is a pretty tired approach. I think that there may be a tactic that is more useful in 2008. Instead of trying to get “In Those Jeans,” what good with trying to get “In Those GENES?” That’s the true grown and sexy approach. The older we get, and the more seriously we start think about why we are courting potential mates in the first place, this concept should be a no-brainer. Intelligence, career aspirations, a close knit family, common sense, honesty, a nice smile, and a kind heart are what’s poppin’ in the new year. If you don’t believe me, peep this conversation that I heard in the club just this weekend. I was going to post this on Overheard in New York (aka Over Fabricated in New York), but I didn’t think it was fictional enough to work:
“What’s good, girl? How you doin’?”
“I’m aight.”
“Girl, I saw you from across the room and I was just wondering what you got on the SAT babygirl.”
“Excuse me.”
“I just gotta know if you were in the National Honors Society, girl. Dean’s list and shit. Did you take the ACT instead? Matter of fact, what’s your credit score? Are you financially responsible? Cause I don’t play around with that shit.”
“Yeah boy, but are you even in a position to be asking me all this? I mean, if you are gonna be asking me all this, you should at least have some experience defending a thesis in a PhD program. Are your forensics skills even on point?”
“Yeah, babygirl. You know it. And on top of all that, I don’t even have any predispositions for high blood pressure or heart disease in my family. So that’s a bonus. Ballin’!!!”
“Oh shit, girl. I got me a baller! Let’s get a bottle of pinor noir instead of that Moet tonight. You know red wine be having them antioxidants and shit. Yeah, girl.”
Now that’s game, right?
>CW<
But aside from all of Usher’s recent antics and his decision to marry Chili’s cracked out auntie, his latest single “Love In This Club” got me thinking about a few things that I wanted to share with folks.
Question #1: Is there really any “Love in This Club?”
Hell no. Hell to the fuck naw. Not even close. Most people are probably aware that the typical club atmosphere brings out some of the most basic primordial instincts from the masses, and it doesn’t matter if the patrons are black, white, yellow, or brown. Instinct is instinct, and nowhere is that fact more sadly depicted than in the club on a Saturday night. (Thursday and Friday nights too, and sometimes on a Sunday, but only when we know that we can get away with struggling through a half a day of work on Monday with a hangover). Happy Hour gets a free pass since our primary goal during that social occasion is to melt our liver, not a potential mate’s heart.
That’s not to say that some perfectly happy couples have not met during All-Star Weekend at Club Visionz. That’s right, you spell that last S in Visions with a Z instead…for the flava. Shit, you never know. I might meet my future wife at the club. And in all probability she would likely be my first ex-wife as well…and that’s best case scenario. Worst case scenario, she’ll be my first Keke Wyatt, Remy Ma, or even worse, a Lorena Bobbit…yikes!!! Now, I’m not singling out the women, they just happen to be the candidates that I would take notice of first. Don’t worry ladies, just ask your friends. I’m sure you can get your pick of carnivorous playboys, fake thugs, and borderline alcoholics.
After all, no matter your race, religion, creed, sexual preference, or social dysfunction, there’s love in this club for everyone.
Speaking of throwback (no pun intended) R&B artists, I came across a phrase from an old Ginuwine song that made me rethink this whole “Love In This Club” approach.
Question #2: Is a brotha’s main goal in hitting the club to get “In Those Jeans?”
I would ask Ginuwine to answer this question, but I don’t think that most of us have seen hide nor hair of this kid ever since he had about 8 kids with Sole and Timberland decided to leave him for…Justin Timberlake…lol. I’m sure Ginuwine was probably as hurt any black woman would be if their successful spouse left them for a white girl…cause the situations are almost exactly the same...
At any rate, now that I’m actually OVER the quarter century mark (a fact that is mildly depressing in itself) I feel like the whole trying to get “in those jeans” method is a pretty tired approach. I think that there may be a tactic that is more useful in 2008. Instead of trying to get “In Those Jeans,” what good with trying to get “In Those GENES?” That’s the true grown and sexy approach. The older we get, and the more seriously we start think about why we are courting potential mates in the first place, this concept should be a no-brainer. Intelligence, career aspirations, a close knit family, common sense, honesty, a nice smile, and a kind heart are what’s poppin’ in the new year. If you don’t believe me, peep this conversation that I heard in the club just this weekend. I was going to post this on Overheard in New York (aka Over Fabricated in New York), but I didn’t think it was fictional enough to work:
“What’s good, girl? How you doin’?”
“I’m aight.”
“Girl, I saw you from across the room and I was just wondering what you got on the SAT babygirl.”
“Excuse me.”
“I just gotta know if you were in the National Honors Society, girl. Dean’s list and shit. Did you take the ACT instead? Matter of fact, what’s your credit score? Are you financially responsible? Cause I don’t play around with that shit.”
“Yeah boy, but are you even in a position to be asking me all this? I mean, if you are gonna be asking me all this, you should at least have some experience defending a thesis in a PhD program. Are your forensics skills even on point?”
“Yeah, babygirl. You know it. And on top of all that, I don’t even have any predispositions for high blood pressure or heart disease in my family. So that’s a bonus. Ballin’!!!”
“Oh shit, girl. I got me a baller! Let’s get a bottle of pinor noir instead of that Moet tonight. You know red wine be having them antioxidants and shit. Yeah, girl.”
Now that’s game, right?
>CW<
What More Can I Say?
After a long hiatus, I'm back for more. Haven't stopped writing y'all, just spend more time working on screenplays than blog posts these days. At any rate, here's a fun introduction back into the game. In the theme of art inspiring art, I had a little fun with one of my favorite Jay-Z verses of all time. This will the first of many posts to come over the next few weeks. Let's see how many posts go up before people start reading again...
Excerpt from: What More Can I Say? (The Black Album)
Jigga Man
It’s never been a nigga this good for this long
This hood, or this pop, this hot, or this strong
With so many different flows
This one’s for this song
The next one I’ll switch up
This one will get bit up
These fucks, too lazy to make up shyt
They crazy, they don’t…paint pictures
They just, trace me
You know what? Soon they forget
Where they plucked, their whole style from
And they try to reverse the outcome
I’m like, thuhuh
I’m not a biter I’m a writer
For myself and others
I say a B.I.G. verse I'm only biggin up my brother
Biggin up my borough
I'm big enough to do it
I'm that thorough
Plus I know my own flow is foolish
So the rings and things you sing about
Bring em out
It's hard to yell when the bar-rel's in your mouth
I'm in...New sneakers
Deuce seaters
A few Diva's
I'm that thorough
Plus I know my own flow is foolish
So the rings and things you sing about
Bring em out
It's hard to yell when the bar-rel's in your mouth
I'm in...New sneakers
Deuce seaters
A few Diva's
What more can I tell you
Let me spell it for you
Let me spell it for you
W-I-Double L-I-E
Nobody truer than H-O-V
And I'm back for more
New York’s ambassador
Prime Minister back to finish my business up
Mr. Wiley's version
It’s never been a writer this good at this age
This hood, or this hot, on this block, or this sage
With so many different flows
This one’s for this blog
The next one I’ll switch up
This one will get lit up
These fucks, too lazy to grind
They crazy, they don’t…free they minds
They just, trace me
You know what? Soon they forget
That they plucked, their whole style from
Others, helluva outcome
I’m like, yup
I’m not a biter, I’m a writer
For myself, fuck others
I quote R-Dub, I’m only biggin up my brother
Better yet my father
I’m ill enough to do it
Like sick ganja
Plus I know my own shyt is foolish
So the little shits you sing about
Don’t ever doubt
You better yell, we bring fire thru the house
I’m in…new sneakers
Truth speakin’
No preachin’
What more can I tell you
Let me spell it for you
W-I-L-E-Y’s he
So incredulous, Young Wiley
And I’m back for more
This game’s ambassador
Brother Minister back to finish my business up
>CW<
Thursday, March 01, 2007
A Wiley on ESPN.com
For the first time in a long time, there is a Wiley on ESPN.com...
Here is the link to the main Black History Month page at ESPN.com. My piece is currently the "headliner," but that will likely change soon.
http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/blackhistory2007/index?lpos=spotlight&lid=tab5pos1
This is the link that will work in the long term:
http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/blackhistory2007/columns/story?id=2782051
It feels almost surreal to be up on there. I wonder what my father would have to say about it.
>CW<
Here is the link to the main Black History Month page at ESPN.com. My piece is currently the "headliner," but that will likely change soon.
http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/blackhistory2007/index?lpos=spotlight&lid=tab5pos1
This is the link that will work in the long term:
http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/blackhistory2007/columns/story?id=2782051
It feels almost surreal to be up on there. I wonder what my father would have to say about it.
>CW<
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
HOFMag.com - "Show Me What You Got," Shawn Carter
What's goin on family?
In celebration of MLK Day, I decided to write a new piece about Jay-Z and his striking similarities to Michael Jordan. Well, not really... I actually wrote the article a few months ago, but some "administrative delays" have held this one up. Nevertheless, they decided to post this column as a "featured article," or "headliner," or whatever you want to call it. In other words, ya boy has the #1 article on the site.
Check it out folks, I appreciate the support: www.hofmag.com
Happy MLK Day,
>CW<Who Loves Law Review?
Written on 3/7/2006
Real talk…is it even possible? Sure, people fake it. They do it quite well. They’ve got to bring new blood into the organization. Then again, that is going to happen anyway, there is no need to shuffle and smile.
Why slave away in the library or the law review boot camp quarters, with a stack of books in front of you, subciting til’ early in the a.m.? Why cross-check citations or tediously scrutinize boring ass articles when you could be sitting around talking about the many meanings of “hooking up?”
Speaking of which, what does it mean when someone says that they “hooked up”? Am I the only person out here who thinks that the term is way too broad and way too confusing? Maybe it’s because I went to an HBCU and we never really used the term. I knew they used the term on MTV and stuff, but its pervasive use still puzzles me.
Back to the subject at hand…
I know that I would never want to commit myself to law review, even if I had the qualifications to be offered a slot. For the record, I didn’t even apply. What is all the work worth? A little bit of prestige? Another notch en route to the pretentious people Hall of Fame? Great, good for you…
Maybe I’m just jealous. Perhaps I am just a hater. Maybe HLS needs another way for certain students to prove that they are “better” than their peers. The HLS culture can try as it may to sell the stratification, but I’m not buying it. I really wish I had the motivation to show and prove in the practice, but I have already decided to gracefully bow out. It’s a shame, I was really ready to show what a non-law review, non-legal aid, non-journal editor, non-research assistant can do…haha.
I guess it all comes down to some larger questions: Why do people actively seek out and endure things that they obviously do not enjoy for the sake of prestige? Is it a need to certify one’s own self-worth? Is it chalked up as a small sacrifice for vague future benefits?
I don’t have the answers, I can assure you of that. But, I am sitting here blogging, and not checking citations. I’m also quite happy to be doing so, and something has to be said for that.
>CW<
Real talk…is it even possible? Sure, people fake it. They do it quite well. They’ve got to bring new blood into the organization. Then again, that is going to happen anyway, there is no need to shuffle and smile.
Why slave away in the library or the law review boot camp quarters, with a stack of books in front of you, subciting til’ early in the a.m.? Why cross-check citations or tediously scrutinize boring ass articles when you could be sitting around talking about the many meanings of “hooking up?”
Speaking of which, what does it mean when someone says that they “hooked up”? Am I the only person out here who thinks that the term is way too broad and way too confusing? Maybe it’s because I went to an HBCU and we never really used the term. I knew they used the term on MTV and stuff, but its pervasive use still puzzles me.
Back to the subject at hand…
I know that I would never want to commit myself to law review, even if I had the qualifications to be offered a slot. For the record, I didn’t even apply. What is all the work worth? A little bit of prestige? Another notch en route to the pretentious people Hall of Fame? Great, good for you…
Maybe I’m just jealous. Perhaps I am just a hater. Maybe HLS needs another way for certain students to prove that they are “better” than their peers. The HLS culture can try as it may to sell the stratification, but I’m not buying it. I really wish I had the motivation to show and prove in the practice, but I have already decided to gracefully bow out. It’s a shame, I was really ready to show what a non-law review, non-legal aid, non-journal editor, non-research assistant can do…haha.
I guess it all comes down to some larger questions: Why do people actively seek out and endure things that they obviously do not enjoy for the sake of prestige? Is it a need to certify one’s own self-worth? Is it chalked up as a small sacrifice for vague future benefits?
I don’t have the answers, I can assure you of that. But, I am sitting here blogging, and not checking citations. I’m also quite happy to be doing so, and something has to be said for that.
>CW<
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Rib of the Buffoon
Everyone likes a good joke. Even more people like a funny joke.
From your standard knock-knock jokes, dirty jokes, blonde girl jokes, etc., has developed a phenomenon known as ribbing, clowning, bombing, joaning, going on em’, or whatever regional/cultural term that you want to use to describe the use of derogatory remarks to simultaneously put down another person and elicit laughter. There is no way for me to know when “bombing” first started to take place, but I’m sure it has been around for a long time. Usually done amongst friends, or at least common associates, ribbing someone is an easy way to get a belly laugh at another’s expense.
Let’s be honest. On a very basic level, if you do something dumb, you deserve to be ridiculed. People have been doing dumb @#$% for centuries. If we can’t laugh at their idiocy, how else could we possibly tolerate it? That type of ribbing is the source of sarcasm and satire…my two loves in life. But, beyond the context of people saying or doing dumb @#$%, there are more objectionable aspects of poking fun at another that really encapsulate the modern notion of “bombing.” First, there is the realm of “fantasy bombing” where the joker creates something totally fictitious for a laugh. A prime example of “fantasy bombing” is a “Yo Momma” joke. As kids, it starts with stuff like “Yo Momma is so fat that she jumped up in the air and got stuck.” As you get older, the general equation is “Yo Momma + Sexual Innuendo = Joke.” Fantasy bombing can get much more explicit, and can cover a variety of topics, but it can easily be brushed off because there is no truth behind the joke. On the other end of the spectrum is “harsh reality bombing.” This is where folks start to catch feelings. If you have a big head, someone points out the fact that you have a big head, with emphasis. If you have a pot belly, someone reminds you of the fact that you have a huge gut, with emphasis. I am quite sure that this type of bombing crosses many cultural and generational lines, but of course, I am particularly interested in a certain demographic…
Black folks LOVE to crack jokes…that isn’t anything new. There is a certain sense of humor amongst our people, and after all that we have been through, we better learn how to have a good laugh. Nevertheless, I have one going concern with the “harsh reality bombing” that our people continue to wield so viciously. In true School Daze fashion, many of these not-so-harmless jokes seem to shed light on a systemic issue within the black community. It starts with highlighting traits that are “definitively black” in a negative way. A certain nose, certain lips, certain hair, certain complexion, and various combinations thereof. All these are often harped upon and ridiculed as being ugly or undesirable. For hundreds of years, black people have been told that their “identifiable traits” are unattractive. Now we all know there is no basis to that, especially when one considers the influx of Botox, collagen injections, obsessive tanning, and overall bootilciousness that is so pervasive in today's society, but we still continue to go to our coveted “harsh reality bombing.” At this point, I really can’t see more in it than subconscious self-hate. More support for the point comes from a similar time honored tradition of knocking traits that are “commonly Anglo-Saxon.” A light complexion is probably the most common of these characteristics. Not so say that black people idolize a light complexion, but many black folks are not as light as others, so it’s easy to ridicule those lighter folks as “like white.” More than anything, it’s about ridiculing them for not looking like us, and looking too much like them. The idea being to boost one’s self-perception by knocking those that look or act slightly different than yourself. Even the more innocuous jokes about “race-neurtral” traits bother me. Why? Mainly because black folks clown so MUCH; almost as if we don’t have anything else to do.
What does it really mean when we use “ribbing” as an attention-getter? When we ridicule each other as hard as possible for the approval of the audience?
I am not attempting to suggest that I am excluding myself from this not so savory trend. In fact, it was a recent bout of “internet bombing” that prompted me to write all this. After a pretty standard set of “you are this, you look like that” cracks, I started thinking about how generally conceived notions of blackness have shaped our interactions with each other...how they have influenced our propensity to “clown.” I wondered when we became so obsessed with bringing each other down. So, being the guy that I am, and having the sick mind that I have, I decided to do a little experiment…
In the context of this “internet bombing” session, I wanted to venture to the land of absolute buffoonery. I posted a couple pictures on Facebook, purporting to be physical embodiments of a couple of my homies. They are posted below:
So what do you think now? Is that considered to be over the top? OF COURSE IT IS. But strangely enough, it probably, and in some ways tangibly, elicited more laughter than any other, decidedly more tame comments that were previously made. In fact, there was only ONE person that looked at the pictures with an objectionable eye. Well, there was only one person that had the gall to tell me that they looked at the pictures with an objectionable eye. That’s pretty sad when one considers that I called two folks sambos in a semi-public forum…two college graduates at that.
The obvious response is that it’s all in fun, all in jest. As much as I would like to, I’m just not so sure I can buy that. It’s not like we preface all this bombing with the disclaimer, “Hey! I’m just being a satirist!”
But maybe that doesn’t need to be said. Maybe the bonds of friendship nullify all that I have alluded to.
Well, whatever the case may be, at least a good dose of ribbing gives you thicker skin. We all need that because the world can be a cruel place…wonk wonk wonk.
I guess I’ll top it off by repeating something that my father once told me. He said, “the degree of hilarity of a particular joke is directly proportional to the amount of truth it relays.” So I ask anybody who takes the time to read this, are we funny, or are we lost? Are we bamboozled, or are we coping through satire? What truth are we really relaying with our ribs, cracks, jokes, and clowns?
To rib or not to rib…that is what your Momma asked me right before she put down 4 racks of baby back swine at Chili’s last night…
HA (pause) HA
>CW<
From your standard knock-knock jokes, dirty jokes, blonde girl jokes, etc., has developed a phenomenon known as ribbing, clowning, bombing, joaning, going on em’, or whatever regional/cultural term that you want to use to describe the use of derogatory remarks to simultaneously put down another person and elicit laughter. There is no way for me to know when “bombing” first started to take place, but I’m sure it has been around for a long time. Usually done amongst friends, or at least common associates, ribbing someone is an easy way to get a belly laugh at another’s expense.
Let’s be honest. On a very basic level, if you do something dumb, you deserve to be ridiculed. People have been doing dumb @#$% for centuries. If we can’t laugh at their idiocy, how else could we possibly tolerate it? That type of ribbing is the source of sarcasm and satire…my two loves in life. But, beyond the context of people saying or doing dumb @#$%, there are more objectionable aspects of poking fun at another that really encapsulate the modern notion of “bombing.” First, there is the realm of “fantasy bombing” where the joker creates something totally fictitious for a laugh. A prime example of “fantasy bombing” is a “Yo Momma” joke. As kids, it starts with stuff like “Yo Momma is so fat that she jumped up in the air and got stuck.” As you get older, the general equation is “Yo Momma + Sexual Innuendo = Joke.” Fantasy bombing can get much more explicit, and can cover a variety of topics, but it can easily be brushed off because there is no truth behind the joke. On the other end of the spectrum is “harsh reality bombing.” This is where folks start to catch feelings. If you have a big head, someone points out the fact that you have a big head, with emphasis. If you have a pot belly, someone reminds you of the fact that you have a huge gut, with emphasis. I am quite sure that this type of bombing crosses many cultural and generational lines, but of course, I am particularly interested in a certain demographic…
Black folks LOVE to crack jokes…that isn’t anything new. There is a certain sense of humor amongst our people, and after all that we have been through, we better learn how to have a good laugh. Nevertheless, I have one going concern with the “harsh reality bombing” that our people continue to wield so viciously. In true School Daze fashion, many of these not-so-harmless jokes seem to shed light on a systemic issue within the black community. It starts with highlighting traits that are “definitively black” in a negative way. A certain nose, certain lips, certain hair, certain complexion, and various combinations thereof. All these are often harped upon and ridiculed as being ugly or undesirable. For hundreds of years, black people have been told that their “identifiable traits” are unattractive. Now we all know there is no basis to that, especially when one considers the influx of Botox, collagen injections, obsessive tanning, and overall bootilciousness that is so pervasive in today's society, but we still continue to go to our coveted “harsh reality bombing.” At this point, I really can’t see more in it than subconscious self-hate. More support for the point comes from a similar time honored tradition of knocking traits that are “commonly Anglo-Saxon.” A light complexion is probably the most common of these characteristics. Not so say that black people idolize a light complexion, but many black folks are not as light as others, so it’s easy to ridicule those lighter folks as “like white.” More than anything, it’s about ridiculing them for not looking like us, and looking too much like them. The idea being to boost one’s self-perception by knocking those that look or act slightly different than yourself. Even the more innocuous jokes about “race-neurtral” traits bother me. Why? Mainly because black folks clown so MUCH; almost as if we don’t have anything else to do.
What does it really mean when we use “ribbing” as an attention-getter? When we ridicule each other as hard as possible for the approval of the audience?
I am not attempting to suggest that I am excluding myself from this not so savory trend. In fact, it was a recent bout of “internet bombing” that prompted me to write all this. After a pretty standard set of “you are this, you look like that” cracks, I started thinking about how generally conceived notions of blackness have shaped our interactions with each other...how they have influenced our propensity to “clown.” I wondered when we became so obsessed with bringing each other down. So, being the guy that I am, and having the sick mind that I have, I decided to do a little experiment…
In the context of this “internet bombing” session, I wanted to venture to the land of absolute buffoonery. I posted a couple pictures on Facebook, purporting to be physical embodiments of a couple of my homies. They are posted below:
So what do you think now? Is that considered to be over the top? OF COURSE IT IS. But strangely enough, it probably, and in some ways tangibly, elicited more laughter than any other, decidedly more tame comments that were previously made. In fact, there was only ONE person that looked at the pictures with an objectionable eye. Well, there was only one person that had the gall to tell me that they looked at the pictures with an objectionable eye. That’s pretty sad when one considers that I called two folks sambos in a semi-public forum…two college graduates at that.
The obvious response is that it’s all in fun, all in jest. As much as I would like to, I’m just not so sure I can buy that. It’s not like we preface all this bombing with the disclaimer, “Hey! I’m just being a satirist!”
But maybe that doesn’t need to be said. Maybe the bonds of friendship nullify all that I have alluded to.
Well, whatever the case may be, at least a good dose of ribbing gives you thicker skin. We all need that because the world can be a cruel place…wonk wonk wonk.
I guess I’ll top it off by repeating something that my father once told me. He said, “the degree of hilarity of a particular joke is directly proportional to the amount of truth it relays.” So I ask anybody who takes the time to read this, are we funny, or are we lost? Are we bamboozled, or are we coping through satire? What truth are we really relaying with our ribs, cracks, jokes, and clowns?
To rib or not to rib…that is what your Momma asked me right before she put down 4 racks of baby back swine at Chili’s last night…
HA (pause) HA
>CW<
Monday, September 11, 2006
HOFMag.com - Spike Lee's Bold Bid for Greatness
Sorry for the long absence everyone. Been grinding and grinding, while the blog posts are slacking and slacking. Although I will continue to post here, I also have a paid alter ego, a.k.a. Cole Wiley, who is getting paid to work as a columnist for HOFMag.com. Anytime, that I post an entry with HOFMag in the title, please check out the website for the new piece.
http://www.hofmag.com
You will have to register at the website with a username/password, but its FREE. So, please help a brotha out and peep his latest. That's about it. Will be back in the game here soon.
>CW<
http://www.hofmag.com
You will have to register at the website with a username/password, but its FREE. So, please help a brotha out and peep his latest. That's about it. Will be back in the game here soon.
>CW<
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Schmoozing for Scallops
Dinner tonight at Rialto…
For those that don’t know, Rialto is a specific establishment, but it is embodied by any other swanky, overpriced, and bourgeois luxury hotel restaurant that you may be familiar with. Not a place where you will find people like myself too often, especially if I’m paying for it. Not that I couldn’t afford it from time to time; not that I wouldn’t fit in. The spot is just not my style for a number of unidentifiable reasons. Don’t get it twisted, if I throw on a pair of slacks, a nice shirt, a pair of Bally’s, and a little Kush (or Burberry cologne for those not so inclined), I can do a little damage in these types of eateries. But, the whole point is that on this night, at this hour, my behind would not be having dinner at Rialto without it being on someone else’s tab. I can cook some solid marinara from scratch. What do I need Rialto for?
Tonight is a night for recruiting. Summer associate positions have already been offered to a select group of 2nd year law students. An even smaller number of students within this group will accept. Who will survive? Dum-dum-dum…the dramatic sound effects ensue. In actuality, the pressure is not on us…it’s on the attorneys trying to woo us. Even though we still have the job offers in our pockets, we still feel the need to show and prove. Virtually every student in the place has other job offers, but a decision still has to be made. At the bare minimum, an invitation for free food and drinks is hard to turn down, especially when you are living off loans. Free meals are a dime a dozen in law school, but those meals usually don’t include crab cakes, tiger prawns, or the roast duck with the mango salsa…
Mundane conversation is abound. The type of unentertaining banter that would make an average man want to gouge his eye out (sorry, I just got a flashback of Red Dragon). Law students are conditioned to put up with boring conversation. It is their livelihood. Anyone with a minimal amount of common sense knows that lawyers like to hear themselves talk: “My wife and I have an incredibly boring life…” “I am so proud of my children because they have decided to pursue a career that actually has the potential to be even more boring than mine…” “I don’t know how to talk about much that isn’t related to my job…” Wonk, wonk, wonk…
We all suffer through it, or at least I do. Maybe everyone else enjoys this. Maybe I am the only student that finds all of these people to be terribly boring. Do you even understand what “terribly boring” means? I don’t use the phrase often. As a matter of fact, I don’t think that I have ever used it before. It means that it is really hard to even look interested. It’s doubtful that these attorneys even find themselves to be worthy of interest. One wonders: Did they always have dull personalities, or were their individual personality traits wiped away with their suits and six-figure salaries? Maybe there is a disconnect simply because most of them are significantly older than I am. Naw…I’ll be damned if I am going to be this dry when I am 40 or even 60 years old.
Thank God. The waitress is taking orders now. I’ll have the scallops sautéed in white wine and butter sauce, served over a bed of linguine. Another 15 minutes and I’m golden. Hot, buttery scallops for my mouthpiece.
Whew! This is going to be tough. I don’t know if I can make it that long. Let’s see how far I can zone out until my plate of lovely goodness from the sea arrives…
Booooop boooooop…that’s the sound of the police…boooooop boooooop…that’s the sound of the beat. Are there any “you are way too frickin’ boring” police? If not, there should be.
Zo-zo-zo, zone out…zo-zo-zo zone out…
I like cold beverages…red wine, warms my tummy…white wine, makes me feel funny.
I eat so many shrimps, I got iodine poisoning…
I eat so many scallops, uh….hmmmmm
I eat so many scallops, I can’t get up in the morning…
E=MC2
Extreme Boredom = Dinner + Lawyer2
What would Dickens write if he were here?
Her aged, wry hand moves across the table for a piece of bread that is as lifeless as her spirit. Her sorrow and despair are visible in her reach. There is a sullen veil to her eyes and an emptiness to her voice. The frail figure of her overworked body sways from exhaustion. She is a lawyer, at a recruiting dinner…and it SUCKS!
That was a disgrace. Dickens wouldn’t write that in a note to his 6 year old daughter. Ah whatever…
The food has arrived...at last. Snap out of it. You don’t need to daydream anymore. Compose yourself. Don’t lose your job offer by demolishing this plate quicker than Jeff Gordon gets his tires changed at Talladega. Act like you really don’t even want the food. Act like you didn’t even come here for that, even though you know that you did. Let’s be real though. You know that you would eat anything that is deep fried or sautéed right now. Wait, hold on. The scallops are gone already. Dang! There goes the pasta too. That creamy, buttery bliss is now a vague memory.
OMG…Are these people still talking? How can you get out of this ASAP? Birthday party? No, too trivial. Group meeting? They won’t buy that, it’s 9:30 at night. Ahhhh…tell them that you have an 8 a.m. class that you have to read for. Perfect. An excuse with just enough importance, yet it’s totally reasonable. Say goodbye. Smile. Shake. Shake. Smile. You lie and say that you look forward to seeing everyone again, even though you can’t remember anyone’s name.
Coat on, outro.
Awww, @#$%! I forgot dessert…
>CW<
For those that don’t know, Rialto is a specific establishment, but it is embodied by any other swanky, overpriced, and bourgeois luxury hotel restaurant that you may be familiar with. Not a place where you will find people like myself too often, especially if I’m paying for it. Not that I couldn’t afford it from time to time; not that I wouldn’t fit in. The spot is just not my style for a number of unidentifiable reasons. Don’t get it twisted, if I throw on a pair of slacks, a nice shirt, a pair of Bally’s, and a little Kush (or Burberry cologne for those not so inclined), I can do a little damage in these types of eateries. But, the whole point is that on this night, at this hour, my behind would not be having dinner at Rialto without it being on someone else’s tab. I can cook some solid marinara from scratch. What do I need Rialto for?
Tonight is a night for recruiting. Summer associate positions have already been offered to a select group of 2nd year law students. An even smaller number of students within this group will accept. Who will survive? Dum-dum-dum…the dramatic sound effects ensue. In actuality, the pressure is not on us…it’s on the attorneys trying to woo us. Even though we still have the job offers in our pockets, we still feel the need to show and prove. Virtually every student in the place has other job offers, but a decision still has to be made. At the bare minimum, an invitation for free food and drinks is hard to turn down, especially when you are living off loans. Free meals are a dime a dozen in law school, but those meals usually don’t include crab cakes, tiger prawns, or the roast duck with the mango salsa…
Mundane conversation is abound. The type of unentertaining banter that would make an average man want to gouge his eye out (sorry, I just got a flashback of Red Dragon). Law students are conditioned to put up with boring conversation. It is their livelihood. Anyone with a minimal amount of common sense knows that lawyers like to hear themselves talk: “My wife and I have an incredibly boring life…” “I am so proud of my children because they have decided to pursue a career that actually has the potential to be even more boring than mine…” “I don’t know how to talk about much that isn’t related to my job…” Wonk, wonk, wonk…
We all suffer through it, or at least I do. Maybe everyone else enjoys this. Maybe I am the only student that finds all of these people to be terribly boring. Do you even understand what “terribly boring” means? I don’t use the phrase often. As a matter of fact, I don’t think that I have ever used it before. It means that it is really hard to even look interested. It’s doubtful that these attorneys even find themselves to be worthy of interest. One wonders: Did they always have dull personalities, or were their individual personality traits wiped away with their suits and six-figure salaries? Maybe there is a disconnect simply because most of them are significantly older than I am. Naw…I’ll be damned if I am going to be this dry when I am 40 or even 60 years old.
Thank God. The waitress is taking orders now. I’ll have the scallops sautéed in white wine and butter sauce, served over a bed of linguine. Another 15 minutes and I’m golden. Hot, buttery scallops for my mouthpiece.
Whew! This is going to be tough. I don’t know if I can make it that long. Let’s see how far I can zone out until my plate of lovely goodness from the sea arrives…
Booooop boooooop…that’s the sound of the police…boooooop boooooop…that’s the sound of the beat. Are there any “you are way too frickin’ boring” police? If not, there should be.
Zo-zo-zo, zone out…zo-zo-zo zone out…
I like cold beverages…red wine, warms my tummy…white wine, makes me feel funny.
I eat so many shrimps, I got iodine poisoning…
I eat so many scallops, uh….hmmmmm
I eat so many scallops, I can’t get up in the morning…
E=MC2
Extreme Boredom = Dinner + Lawyer2
What would Dickens write if he were here?
Her aged, wry hand moves across the table for a piece of bread that is as lifeless as her spirit. Her sorrow and despair are visible in her reach. There is a sullen veil to her eyes and an emptiness to her voice. The frail figure of her overworked body sways from exhaustion. She is a lawyer, at a recruiting dinner…and it SUCKS!
That was a disgrace. Dickens wouldn’t write that in a note to his 6 year old daughter. Ah whatever…
The food has arrived...at last. Snap out of it. You don’t need to daydream anymore. Compose yourself. Don’t lose your job offer by demolishing this plate quicker than Jeff Gordon gets his tires changed at Talladega. Act like you really don’t even want the food. Act like you didn’t even come here for that, even though you know that you did. Let’s be real though. You know that you would eat anything that is deep fried or sautéed right now. Wait, hold on. The scallops are gone already. Dang! There goes the pasta too. That creamy, buttery bliss is now a vague memory.
OMG…Are these people still talking? How can you get out of this ASAP? Birthday party? No, too trivial. Group meeting? They won’t buy that, it’s 9:30 at night. Ahhhh…tell them that you have an 8 a.m. class that you have to read for. Perfect. An excuse with just enough importance, yet it’s totally reasonable. Say goodbye. Smile. Shake. Shake. Smile. You lie and say that you look forward to seeing everyone again, even though you can’t remember anyone’s name.
Coat on, outro.
Awww, @#$%! I forgot dessert…
>CW<
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
