Happy BLOG'iversary: Hot 100!

Hey, what’s good! Come on in…

Take off ya shoes…

Oh, you can put your gifts on the table next to the bar.

Huh?

Whatchu mean you didn’t bring no gifts??

::chuckling, looking past you out the door cuz I just KNOW you’re joking and there’s actually a cute little box with a tidy ribbon sitting outside::

Wow. Today’s my blog b-day AND my 100th post AND I redecorated and yall muhfcukas…who might I add, been coming thru unannounced, and at all hours of the day and night for an entire YEAR, offering [un]solicited advice and comments and shit…and you don’t think to bring a sista something just to say, ‘Wise, thanks for the nonsense.’ I expected more from you, blog ‘fam’.

But I could have never expected what this past year in blogland would mean to me.

I remember quite vividly how miserable my holidays were a year ago, for so many reasons. I remember seeing these blog urls in folks’ email taglines.

I remember visiting one. And then another. Following links and comments like a bird does crumbs. I was fascinated by the reach…you could literally go from one part of the world to another by living vicariously thru these scribes.

I found it oddly self-centered and sadistic. And I had the first few blog entries pre-written in my head long before I ever touched my fingers to the keyboard and registered with blog.ger.

Y’all are so damn hilarious and tragic and courageous and pathetic and boring and exhilarating and encouraging and dishonest and slutty and brilliant and challenging and eloquent and cliquish and real and fake and fun and bold and liberal and conservative and heathenish and pious and self-righteous and self-deprecating and proud and drunk and redundant and sentimental and sensitive and sensual and creative and thought-provoking and mindless. Beautifully diverse.

And I love that about you.

And I love that we been thru so much. Promotions and demotions and heartbreak and fantastic fcuks and questionable coitus and musical interludes and international travel and cocktails and poetry and commitment phobia and lost swagger and long distance relationships and office politics and puppy love and religious edicts and politics and plogging and slashing and arrests and afros and happy hours and unplanned pregnancies and deaths (and resurrections) and stalkers and shopping and graduations and embarrassments and triumphs.

I celebrate our journey with this the Official So…Wise Anniversary Yearender:

Inspiration for This Blog: Convos with younger guy friends who were absolutely perplexed about women. Then as I was first introduced to the blog world I noticed a few male bloggers writing about the same exact issues. And I thought, I have an answer for you AND it might be wrong.

Why the Name So…Wise…Sista: First and foremost I wanted a name that signified that I was a black chick bec I never planned to post a pic of myself. And since I was inspired by the idea of presenting (common sense) advice, it just sorta fit. Plus I figured that since the name sounds so disjointed and ridiculous that people would get that my tongue was planted firmly in cheek with that moniker.

My Fav Blog Entry: Anything about white girls, the gays, inebriation and cunnilingus…and not necessarily in that order either.

Fav Concept: The Crush concept was so much fun. And I truly did not use a site meter to try to find y’all out either. I’m not that damn corny. But you guys put me on to so many new blogs with that one…I believe that’s when I started following RD, Aquababie and Miss Ahmad and Amadeo among others. And there the term “blog-bi” was coined, and it seems many a blogger, present company included, have been diagnosed.

PS…My Neil, I will be in your crook of the world in 2007. You already know the deal if you were fcuking Wise.;)

Defining Moment: Clearly it was the How Wise is Wise, 5-parter. It took so much out of me, yet it flowed so easily. Plus there is something really fun about being vulnerable in public…to a bunch of people who don’t know me. One of my fav bloggers is Blah. No explanation necessary. She asked me why I’m so “mysterious”…never met up with any bloggers, etc. Truthfully, I don’t think up to that point that any bloggers had ever asked me out! I joked about being on the run…and in some ways I really am. Hence the pseudonym and restrictive one-eye Willy pic (or the lips). Yet I try to balance out the anonymity by being real…for better and worse. And coincidentally a bunch of people emailed me after that one just showing love.

Most Popular: A couple...

Loc'd Down...where we talked about cutting hair for a job...at a black company.

The time I got my sunshine waxed.

And the age old Thugs or Nerds debate.

Entry I Wish I Never Published: The one about that su!cidal wide-out.

Why I Blog: Because I’m just arrogant enough to believe that people will actually give a eff about what I have to say.

Because writing is the gift that I insist on neglecting.

Because in real life one preconceived notion or another might preclude me from ever knowing you all, and vice versa.

Because in real life I would never call y’all as often as I manage to visit your blogs. Ask my real friends.

Because the shit is comedy.

Sophomore Resolutions: Start a spin off collabo about turning 30. I see you Chanel!

Traveling is my biggest real-life goal for '07, and I’d love to holler at some bloggers when I hit the road. And I am beginning to see that the B-More bloggers be doing it big too and I feel left out. :)

My fav blogs: Scan the comment section of any given So…Wise entry, and there you will you find the answer.

PS…Anon Detroit…you were one of the very first people to leave me a comment. I have a feeling you got a blog, but wanna remain in the cut, but you need to holler at me.

The State of Blogging: [You know how anytime an ole school rapper is intvw’d they always ask about the state of hip-hop today.] Well, for me blogging is simply not as fun as it used to be. As with everything, newjacks who don’t respect the game came in and ruined it for me. Corporate greed (shameless pandering for comments) is wack. Outward proclamations of site meter analysis has caused me to stop effing with some. But my favs never seem to disappoint me. Always entertaining and provocative.

Most Personal Entry: Tough call, but by far any mention of my Dad is always pretty raw. Hey look, my homegirl recently sent me this other shot of me getting the tat...

Funniest Entry: I still laugh my azz off when I think about the little mixed girl who jetted out the aisle down at the Wa!mart when I asked if she needed help with her naps.

Bitch Dudes also make me giggle.

As does the Vegas series. (PS…My crew is doing LV again this year for the 30th bday Mar 22-26 and you’re all invited! No for real.)

My Blog Style: Equal parts sarcastic, LONG-winded, real and acerbic. I think I am just finding my niche with the more narrative entries, particularly the personal relationship ones.

The Entry People Still Emailing Me About: Fellatio Fallout…it’s also a personal fav of mine. :)

The one where I showed my legs.

The one where I blast hood au+hors. Had one particular author heated bout that one.

Most Bizarre Encounter Set Off by the Blog: I got an email from a kid who was one of my best friends in grade school. How did he find me? He googled himself, and found a link to a comment I made on another of my fav blogs in which I mentioned him by first and last name. He then went to my blog, saw I was a black girl and basically figured I was one of 3 sistas he was cool with back in the day. Turns out he lives in Germany now and is extra beautiful! Moral of the story: g00gle is the muhfcukin anti-Chr!st.

Biggest Disappointment: There have been a few. But I’d have to say learning that not all bloggers are effective (let alone active) communicators. [honorable mention goes to the day I sat in my car in the M*T bank parking lot listening to Y’landa Adams, boohoo crying after reading tributes about someone who “succumbed” to what actually killed my dad, and being touched by how often and boldly that person publicly praise the Lord. My Non-Denom!national azz almost caught the damn Holy Gh0st offa that shit. But the 2o/2o investigation that ensued all but made up for it. Shouts to the lead investigator on that one. You know we love you, girl!]

Greatest Blog Triumph: Being shouted out by bloggers I love reading.

The formation of the BlaqueScribbies.

Place I Most Wanna Visit Thanks to Bloggers: Vancouver, Brazil, U.K.

Place I Least Wanna Visit Thanks to Bloggers: ATL, Satan’s Anus

What I Think Other Bloggers Think of Me: Hell if I know.

What I Hope Other Bloggers Think of Me: That they should invite me to their [open bar] gatherings.

That I have impeccable grammar and syntax.

That I don’t take myself very seriously.

What Readers Can Expect in 2007: Less than 100...But more fiyah!

Thanks for the ride!

~Management:)

"Do You Know A Carlos?"

>>OK here goes PART II...

But first read Part I...

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 2006...11:51PM

“I remember those days when Hell was my home…”
That’s my 'not sure who this is' ring tone…

“Hello, this is Wise.”
That’s me answering the number that I don’t recognize.

“Hi, do you know a Carlos?”

Awww Lawd. Every woman, at some point in her life will get this phone call. If she’s lucky, she either won’t know dude, or will be long over his azz.

I was prepared for this…or so I thought…

“I’m sorry, who am I speaking to?”

“This is Carlos’ daughter’s mother. I have his phone and I got your number from a text you sent him.”

“Really. I don’t know any Carlos.” [I really don’t. And dudes, trust, if I had known him his biz woulda been out on the corner of Front Street.] “Where is he from?”

“The Bronx. He’s Dominican. They call him Nino?” She was asking, not telling, holding her breath for my answer.

“Naw Mami. I really don’t. And believe me, if I did I would tell you.”

“I’m sorry to be calling you,” she said…sounding like she was slowly coming undone, “but I took his phone, and I saw the text and I just pressed talk.”

“What did the text say?” I ask…still silently scanning my memory to figure out who the hell this might be.

“I don’t even know. Like I said, I just pressed talk. I never EVER called another woman before, but I just been going through it with this man.”

Like I said…up until this point, I could have dictated the convo verbatim. But I could have never scripted what followed. Except maybe the tears that came quickly.

“What did he do?” I ask. Shit, YOU called ME…so the least you can do is entertain me, cuz aint shit on TV. [editor’s note: for real, for real…are TV programmers on permanent hiatus or something?!] damn…digress…

“What did he do?” I ask…sincerely.

“He told me to quit my job to stay home with our daughter, who is 2, and THE DAY I quit he tells me that when he went back to Dominican Republic this summer, he got this chick pregnant.”

“Damn.” I probably only said this in my head, or if I said it out loud she probably didn’t hear me, bec by now she was a sniffling, hiccupping mess.

“I told him I couldn’t stay here with him in the same bed and I left and came back every day to see my kids, and I just got tired of doing that so I told him he had to leave. I put him out. I flipped the fcuk out because he was telling me that he told her it was over, and I didn’t believe him. I pushed him out of the apartment and we were fighting and he beat the shit out of me. I blacked out and woke up spitting up blood. So now I have an order of protection against him, but I don’t have anyone to watch my daughter during the day. She is 2 years old and is autistic and she has special teachers that come to the house, and someone has to be here with her. So I just sit at home all day and go crazy trying to figure out what the hell to do.”

“Whoa.” I’m sitting down now. Listening intently, as if this was one of my home girls. “So why do you have his phone?”

“I took it because I needed to see if he had called the girl. But of course by the time I got it all his calls were cleared out. All except the text messages. That’s how I got your number.”

“I really don’t know any Carlos from the Bronx.” [editor’s note: No offense to any Boogie Downers (dammit Slishy just hear me out)…but I don’t do the Bronx. Literally in my 7 years living in the City I been to the Bronx MAYBE 7 times. And 2 of those times including last month, were at Hostos College, so I don’t think they count.]

“He’s 39 and he owns a bodega?” Again asking…hoping to jog my memory. And I’m really thinking hard now, like, maybe did somebody give me a fake name?

“Naw, I couldn’t tell you the last Puerto-, I mean, Dominican dude I met. Much less from the Bronx.”

“I’m so sorry. I NEVER called a woman’s number before.”

“It’s ok, I know how it is,” I say. “So, why did he tell you to quit your job?”

“I swear to God, he was telling me to quit for a long time and I kept telling him no. But then he said he didn’t trust the babysitter and you know you can’t tell a mother no shit like that. So I quit because my daughter is autistic and now I’m stuck. My job was begging me to come back, offering me better hours, more money and I was like naw I gotta quit, cuz someone needs to be here while the teachers are here with her, and because of the order of protection I cant have him here with her. He can’t come within [however many] yards of me or the kids.”

She continues…”See he went to DR in August and I was pregnant with our second baby.” [chick speaks in Rosie Perez warp speed so I’m trying to keep up] “While he was gone I lost the baby and I was so upset that he wasn’t here, then come to find out he was down there with this young bitch.”

“How young?”

“17. And gets this bitch pregnant. Then he comes home and I find out he’s calling her and shit and yet he’s telling me that he told her it’s over. But one day he comes home after work and where I live there’s not a lot of space to park so when he comes home I leave for work and he parks in my spot. So I come home and we’re moving the cars and I take his phone to check my voice mail because I lost mine. This muthafcukah don’t know how to set up his voice mail so I thought I was calling mine but it went to his. So I set up the password and heard the message from her. So I flipped on him and that’s when he beat the shit out of me. So when he was locked up I called the girl to find out. But I don’t speak Spanish…I’m Puerto Rican…but I don’t speak Spanish so I had my mother talk to her in Spanish and ask her when they met and what was going on. She said they met in August, slept together in August and then she got pregnant.”

“How you know she’s really 17? How you know he aint lying about that too?” I ask.

“Because he showed me her fcuking picture. She looks 14! And I swear to God I don’t know why he showed me that picture because now I have that visual stuck in my head of like, her azz on his balls. Oh my gosh! Plus you can tell the chick is young because she don’t even know her own cycle. Any woman knows you don’t have sex like 2 weeks after your period! Plus she said she was pregnant all quick. I wrote down the calendar of when she said they were together. There’s no way that could even be his baby. She’s just young and dumb.”

“So did she say they were together?”

“No she told my mother that she didn’t really talk to him that much. So I been online trying to look up his phone bill to find out if he was calling her too or if she was the one doing the calling, like he told me. But Spr!nt wouldn’t let me open up the bills because I don’t have Adobe.”

“Oh girl, you can download Ad.obe for free from their website.”

“Oh for real? Cuz I got dial up so you know that shit is gonna take all day. I’m gonna have to go to the library tomorrow. I swear to God I’m so sorry for calling you. It’s so late, too. I am just out of my mind trying to figure out if I did the right thing by kicking him out. Because I am almost all the way through my savings by being out of work, and I don’t know what I’m going to do. A lot of parents with Autistic kids apply for disability but when I tried before they said I made too much money. Now I just applied again and do you know those muthafcukahs said I cant get it because I have life insurance! God forbid something should happen to me I need that insurance. Now they got me over here contemplating getting rid of it! I tried to get an evening job from 5-12, but I also have a 12 year old, but there’s no way I’m gonna leave her in charge of the baby. Especially not at night. I swear I wish my daughter was regular.”

“No Mami. Your daughter is a blessing just the way she is. I’m sure she is a beautiful blessing and you need to just gather strength from that blessing.”

“I know she is,” and she is weeping now, and says, “but she just gets so frustrated because she can’t talk and we cant understand her sometimes. So she gets so upset when she can’t communicate with us. I’m just saying if she wasn’t autistic I could at least leave her at daycare and get back to work.”

“So where is your mom?” I ask. “She can’t watch the baby?”

“My mother has a bad arm and she cant keep her. And I have a sister who don’t work, she don’t do shit but she refuses to help me out. And the thing is I always do everything for everybody else, but nobody wants to help me when I need it. Im SO sorry for calling you!”

“Listen, it’s ok. I understand. Let’s just figure out what you can do to get back to work. I mean, there has to be some kind of special daycare for your daughter. There has to be SOMETHING.”

“I’ve tried and there isn’t. I’ve asked her teachers and all they say is that if she goes to the school there has to be someone here at 3:00 to get her off the bus, and if I work I wouldn’t be here. But if I work evenings I don’t have anyone to watch them. He used to be here but now that I put him out I’m stuck. I gotta go back to work."

"Does he help you out at all?"

"He gives me $400 every week, but I got rent, a cell phone, car insurance. And I'm almost out of my savings."

"Girl, you are better off than most. I know girls in your situation right now who don't have a dime to their name and a man with even less. At least you got your stash," I offer. She's obviously not a slug chick. She just got a snake dude.

I just need to see the phone bills so that I at least know if I did the right thing.”

“You want me to look it up?” I say, already at my computer typing in the website. [I got Spr!nt, too]

“Would you mind?”

“What’s the number?”

[OK this is hella long. This is a good stopping point…and when you come back for the dramatic conclusion, just click the link for Part II at the beginning of the story. But for those with nothing better to do…here goes…]

I look up the bill and sure enough there are a bunch of calls to DR.
NO calls from there.

“Ok, so what you gonna do if he did call her?” I ask…stalling.

“Do you feel safe around him?” still stalling…

“I know your feelings are running amok, but what will happen to you emotionally if you let him come back just to watch your daughter?” still…

“And you don’t got no brothers to whup his azz or nothin’?” still…

“Are you afraid to tell me what’s on the bill?” she says, in an eerily calm voice.

Deep breath. “Ok what you wanna know?”

“Did he call her on Sept 12, the day he got out of jail? 809 area code.”

“He called her at 3:32 pm, and then again at 3:42.”

“I knew it.”

I’m looking thru the phone bill, blogger fam, and dude was quite liberal with the chit chat.

“Most of the calls are at midnight or around then. And they’re also for only like 5, 9 minutes. The longest call is only like 15 minutes. And it wasn’t on no, “Call me right back” either, bec there are no incoming calls afterwards.”

“Any 800 numbers?” she asks.

“Oh calling cards. Nope.” [I later found 2 quick ones]

“I fcuking knew it. This whole time he was telling me that she was the one calling him. What the fcuk is he even doing with a 17 year old? What the hell do they have to talk about?”

“And you know what, he didn’t call at all the entire month of November.” I announce.

“Fa real?” A glimmer of hope. I could hear it. But she kept it real. “Whatever. At least now I know. I asked him what she had that I don’t and he said that honestly it was a bullshit little relationship, just him calling and saying ‘hi, how’s the weather’ cuz he would never leave his child out there like that. But still, he threw away our family for a little girl. Bought her a damn cell phone so he could call her. He is 39, and he said, ‘she’s young, she’s not gonna like me for long. I’m getting older, looking older. She don’t want me.’”

“How old are you?” I ask.

“29.”

“Awww. Me too.”

“Wow. I swear I cant believe I’m talking to a complete stranger. Im so sorry.”

“Mami. You’re good.”

We sat on the phone for 2 and a half hours. Two women bound by an errant text msg. I had her read me the text I sent and turns out I thought I was texting a friend in Philly as I was driving thru.

I was struck by how different our lives were…yet how easily that could have been my life, my man’s phone, my dilemma, my burden. I thought about a very good friend of mine, whose story is not far from this one.

“Well you have my number now. Don’t be afraid to use it again,” I say and mean it.

“Thank you so much. I really appreciate you looking up his bill for me. I’m gonna download A.dobe tomorrow so I can see it for myself. But thank you.”

“Good luck, girl. I know you will make a way to get back to work and take care of your baby.”

“Thank you so much. I can’t believe you actually talked to me for this long. Thank you.”


You know the part on the Brady Bunch after the last commercial, but right before the end credits…that last 30 second punchline? ...Well, this is it…


The next day I went online and looked up Autism day care facilities in Brooklyn. I found a site, emailed the director and the next morning got a response.

I called Mami to give her the info.

As the phone was ringing I realized I was calling HIS phone. I didn’t have her number.

She answered. Surprised to hear from me. Grateful for the info. Turns out she did some more digging and found a spot around her way that might take her daughter.

She’s a lot more stable, now that she knows the deal. She confronted Carlos with a copy of his phone bills. He did the typical Trife Negro move and tried to turn it around on her…accusing her of invading his privacy, threatening to tell the cops that she stole his phone.

Son, how did you get the copies…did you violate the order of protection?

That shut him up.

Obviously she’s heartbroken. But she’s prepared to move on.

But there’s a little piece of me that hopes she’ll call me again and tell me that she’s back to work and back to life.

Do You Know A Carlos? PT II

>>PART I

>>Now for PART II...

I look up the bill and sure enough there are a bunch of calls to DR.
NO calls from there.

“Ok, so what you gonna do if he did call her?” I ask…stalling.

“Do you feel safe around him?” still stalling…

“I know your feelings are running amok, but what will happen to you emotionally if you let him come back just to watch your daughter?” still…

“And you don’t got no brothers to whup his azz or nothin’?” still…

“Are you afraid to tell me what’s on the bill?” she says, in an eerily calm voice.

Deep breath. “Ok what you wanna know?”

“Did he call her on Sept 12, the day he got out of jail? 809 area code.”

“He called her at 3:32 pm, and then again at 3:42.”

“I knew it.”

I’m looking thru the phone bill, blogger fam, and dude was quite liberal with the chit chat.

“Most of the calls are at midnight or around then. And they’re also for only like 5, 9 minutes. The longest call is only like 15 minutes. And it wasn’t on no, “Call me right back” either, bec there are no incoming calls afterwards.”

“Any 800 numbers?” she asks.

“Oh calling cards. Nope.” [I later found 2 quick ones]

“I fcuking knew it. This whole time he was telling me that she was the one calling him. What the fcuk is he even doing with a 17 year old? What the hell do they have to talk about?”

“And you know what, he didn’t call at all the entire month of November.” I announce.

“Fa real?” A glimmer of hope. I could hear it. But she kept it real. “Whatever. At least now I know. I asked him what she had that I don’t and he said that honestly it was a bullshit little relationship, just him calling and saying ‘hi, how’s the weather’ cuz he would never leave his child out there like that. But still, he threw away our family for a little girl. Bought her a damn cell phone so he could call her. He is 39, and he said, ‘she’s young, she’s not gonna like me for long. I’m getting older, looking older. She don’t want me.’”

“How old are you?” I ask.

“29.”

“Awww. Me too.”

“Wow. I swear I cant believe I’m talking to a complete stranger. Im so sorry.”

“Mami. You’re good.”

We sat on the phone for 2 and a half hours. Two women bound by an errant text msg. I had her read me the text I sent and turns out I thought I was texting a friend in Philly as I was driving thru.

I was struck by how different our lives were…yet how easily that could have been my life, my man’s phone, my dilemma, my burden. I thought about a very good friend of mine, whose story is not far from this one.

“Well you have my number now. Don’t be afraid to use it again,” I say and mean it.

“Thank you so much. I really appreciate you looking up his bill for me. I’m gonna download A.dobe tomorrow so I can see it for myself. But thank you.”

“Good luck, girl. I know you will make a way to get back to work and take care of your baby.”

“Thank you so much. I can’t believe you actually talked to me for this long. Thank you.”


You know the part on the Brady Bunch after the last commercial, but right before the end credits...that one last 30 second punchline?…well, this is it…


The next day I went online and looked up Autism day care facilities in Brooklyn. I found a site, emailed the director and the next morning got a response.

I called Mami to give her the info.

As the phone was ringing I realized I was calling HIS phone. I didn’t have her number.

She answered. Surprised to hear from me. Grateful for the info. Turns out she did some more digging and found a spot around her way that might take her daughter.

She’s a lot more stable, now that she knows the deal. She confronted Carlos with a copy of his phone bills. He did the typical Trife Negro move and tried to turn it around on her…accusing her of invading his privacy, threatening to tell the cops that she stole his phone.

Son, how did you get the copies…did you violate the order of protection?

That shut him up.

Obviously she’s heartbroken. But she’s prepared to move on.

But there’s a little piece of me that hopes she’ll call me again and tell me that she’s back to work and back to life.

Bawtuhmore's Finest

Shout out to CNelly, and Eps who were excellent dinner dates last night.
The future aint all that bleak with these gentlemen representing the post-1980s set. :)

Ohmigosh, they are SO Bawtuhmore...they got the accent and urr'thing!
Tell ya muvas I said Murry CMas. :)

..damn, 3 blog entires in one day. Must be bored. :)

A Gift from the SoWise Family To You and Yours

The greatest gift of all is the gift of YouTube.

No wait...

The greatest gift of all is the gift of gold teef, a speech impediment and soap and water.

Dammit, no, no. Hold on...

The greatest gift of all is the gift of laughter.

Happy Holidays!

~Management

I'm Bringin' Cracker Back

My classmate “Bend it Like Beck.ham”: “I feel like I’m back in traffic right now.”

Wise: “I feel like I’m back in Reconstruction…like, before emancipation fully kicked in.”

We were talking about how boring class was, but actually now that I think about it, this is exactly how I been feeling the past few days. My pop culture fanaticism is well documented, but thanks to the ubiquitous media, it kinda sucks to be black right now.

Never mind that one of TV’s greatest idiots actually has the nation confused about whether or not repeatedly calling black men ‘Nig’ is racist…because frankly I’m even more disturbed by the crackers laughing in the audience at the time…and then again when he mumbled on Lett.ermen. (PS...sales for the 7th season of S'feld are up 75% from last year's sales for season 6)

But this whole John Rid.ley Esq article* feels so, so… antebellum. Coincidentally, if you do a search on this blog you will find that I’ve been quite liberal with the word nig, ngga, whatev. It’s comedic brilliance. Words have a certain cadence, and that particular word just rolls of the tongue/pen with a certain vulgar eloquence. But I also use it with the assumption that my audience is wise enough to be in on the joke.

It’s irresponsible, it’s demeaning, it’s a hard habit to break, and frankly not all that funny. But seeing the word plastered all willy nilly all up and thru the mass media is just effing creepy. Separate and unequal. And now it's publicly open for unsolicited discussions with uninformed crackers...and for that matter, nigs.

Funny thing, I just finished a research paper about blackface minstrel shows. And sorry to tell you neo-nggas that white folks been callin us nigga with an 'A' too...not just nig.ger with an 'ER.' Harvard Library Special Collections has crates full of authentic minstrel sheet music to prove it. Who made up that bullshit explanation anyway, some ole nonsensical, non-spellin ngga?

So I’m bringing ‘Cracker’ back.

I know, I know… it’s not nearly as explosive, funny, or demeaning. But I say we Booker T. it…work with it, and just bootstrap it until we rise to find a new, more equally damning term. And when Mr. Charlie catches on and starts calling himself Cracka, we’ll reconvene.

*If you havent heard about or read this article, you should. He's basically making the infamous Chris Rock Black folks vs. Nggers distinction...but not only is it highly offensive and elitist/classist, it's also really shortsighted and shitty-written. Ironically ESQ apparently also released a Gen.ius List that included no black geniuses. Their readership is almost all white male. Always consider the audience when analyzing the content. You have white boys by the ear and THIS is what you have to say? NEGROES!

"She" Is Not Me

She made this bed.

And as I watched her lie writhing in it, restless, cold, stiff…my initial amusement later turned to sympathy.

I have a relentless habit of putting my feet in other folks’ shoes.

So when I saw her on Black Friday I wondered not if, but how much she regretted making the trip.

They walk into an upscale nightclub at the tail end of a private birthday party, just before the DJ would take over. Turns out the person throwing the party was his old football buddy. He walks into a sea of familiar faces, all foreign to her.

All except one.

She walks behind him, her steps subtly strained and reluctant. He is in his element, home, among friends, good people from his past. He’s greeted with genuine welcomes, daps, hugs and cheek kisses, and she watches from a step behind.

And as she rounds the bar, following him to a spot she hopes is beyond the crowd, she sees a face that is all too familiar. The face that haunts her memories of betrayal. The poster child of her insecurity and distrust of so-called plutonic friends.

It was her. The chick who had tried to take her place.

I saw her give the home wrecker the ice grill, a venomous mix of ‘I can’t believe this bitch is here,’ ‘did he know she was gonna be here,’ and ‘I wanna go the hell home.’ I saw her whip out her cellie and compose a flurry of furious text messages.

But she was stuck. Out of town, out of her element, out of place. I watched it all go down. The way the home wrecker used good discretion in turning her back when they entered, then reluctantly greeted him when he awkwardly approached. She sincerely explained that she was there for the private party of the football buddy, who ironically had been her Junior prom date. He settled in at the bar just past her. Just past her, but not far enough for the two women to avoid a direct line of vision.

Home wrecker played it as cool as she could. Downing Moet and ducking in the arms of her plutonic male friends, trying to persuade them it was time to go. But she was in no way being discreet. She was a bit extra flirty, her laugh a bit extra loud…just, extra! And she would not stop smoothing down her hair and checking her makeup. And none of it went unnoticed. Not by her or him.

Backstory:

She loved him. They’d been through a lot, a move among it all. He left her behind for work, and she remained by his side as best she could. It came easily, not because of her devotion but because they had been friends first. Little did she know, he had slowly come to see her as little more than such.

He was a good man, a great boyfriend, never a wanderer… so it came as a crushing blow when she felt his attention slipping away, focused elsewhere, she realized. The confrontation was severe, as was the blow induced by his honesty. Yes, he had been serious all those months that he had been expressing his uncertainty about their future. Yes, there was someone new…the Homewrecker.

She managed to convince him to give it another try. Despite her insecurities, despite the distance, despite their never ending battle about his bubbling social life, and abundance of plutonic female friends. Down South, where she was from, it wasn’t like that. Guys get phone calls and emails and text messages from girls who are giving it up. Plain and simple. She couldn’t get that out of her head…especially not after his one indiscretion.

She knew that there was a reason why he had drifted. They were of different breeds. He, a music-obsessed social butterfly…she, a more subdued homebody. Basically it was their past, a history of having the other’s back, that bonded them for another full unproductive year.

They ended it a while ago. Stopped speaking at her behest. But there were Thanksgiving plans, he reminded her, in an effort to get her to end the silent treatment. She finally spoke up two days before the holiday, and asked if she could still come to his hometown for the weekend as planned. She needed closure. In layman’s terms…another try. He said he’d think about it.

He called in reinforcements, but the decision was ultimately his. He says he feels like he owes her at least that after everything they've been through. Agrees when she says it shouldnt linger any longer. Would prefer to end it on a positive note rather than with the mess the last time they spoke, when SHE finally stuck a fork in it. They drove home on Wednesday after work.

And her plan might have worked had it not been for them pesky plutonic friends and that bitch. All night, he was mobbed by acquaintances, a good number of them women. Dancing and hugging and chatting them up. Sure, he and her were not together, but no doubt the point of this trip was to try to salvage what she could of this relationship. But this was overload. It was Thanksgiving dinner all over again… a constant barrage of overindulgence, and the subsequent nausea that followed. She was overwhelmed by it all and had nowhere to run. If he was still her man, she could demand they leave. Or at least if she was home she could drive herself or get a homegirl to come scoop her.

Instead she had insisted on taking this ill-fated trip, a last ditch effort to hold a man who was too polite, too indecisive, too sympathetic, too guilty, too scared to firmly end it. She exploited his wish-washy nature, and got trapped between the mistress and a hard place.

But it was the exact blunt trauma she needed to move the hell on.

Glad she aint me. I woulda never took that trip.

Me, He, and DC

Gilbert Arenas scores 45 points and I stroll into the arena with 5:43 left in the game, just as he’s taking his final bow. Lebron is already on the bench. Defeated.

Just my luck. A hunnid bucks on tickets squandered like I got it like that. I’m so sure it’s a sign of the night ahead. DC however, had other plans for me.

I’m thinking for sure I’d get back to the whip, parked on a side street just off Union Station, and the tires would be slashed or better yet my Club would be bent in half and left on the street in lieu of the truck.

Not tonight, the car’s all in one piece, unscathed and waiting for me and my boy Cartr. We hop in, thinking for sure there’s a liq store still open in the hood. What kind of town is ghetto azz DC if there’s no after hours liqa sto?? Ok cool, well at least this feels familiar…disappointment, that is. Cuz see that’s the type of luck I’m accustomed to. Much like the left side of my hair, which refuses to play nice like the pretty right side. *sigh*

We drive on in search of a club I had no intentions of ever revisiting.

Back story: Me and my boy drive to DC for the game, and plan to hook up with another *friend* who is in town for a bday party. I dressed for a classy lounge. At the bday boy's behest, I end up at Love.

“I can’t believe I’m waiting in line for a club that will charge me $15 to get in…all for a boy.”

That’s the text I send my girl Curly while waiting outside the spot, with the sound of drunk metrosex white boys humming in my ears. Nothing against Dream/Love/whatever name you know it by. It’s a beautiful club. But I’m not the mega-club every weekend chick. Nothing against those who are. I’m not a nightlife snob by any means…unless there are durags involved, and in that case I’m stayin in and watching somebody’s marathon on MTV2.

Get inside after waiting too long (NYers SWEAR they never wait online at home so they’ll be DAMNED if they do it out of town. I am of that belief.) ...and I am pleasantly surprised to find there’s no cover.

I don’t even head straight to the bar. Cuz I’m anticipating this to be a complete waste of an evening, longing for the reliable comfort of the remote.

But soon my anxiety subsides, as one after another attractive man in v-neck and tie, pin stripes and cuff links, neat tapered edge ups, in fly square-toes parades by. It feels like forever since I’ve been in the company of so many dudes who could get it.

First floor playlist: Beyonce, Jay, Sean Paul.

Me and Cartr make our way up a flight. Settle at the bar. More boys. More booze. More boom.

Beyonce, Jay, Sean Paul.

Third floor. Puerto Rican* night? I had no idea. Cute.

Daddy Yankee and them. And that one reggaeton beat.

“You in?” I text.

“Yeah, 4th floor.”

Bypassing the pointless velvet rope, we climb yet another flight. Smoky. White people. More Puerto Ricans. An (East) Indian contingency.

Beyonce, Jay, Sean Paul.

The bar. The usual. Sipping. I’m feeling content now. The club doesn’t suck. The crowd is cool. The three song rotation is aight.

I lose Cartr momentary.

I take a sip of the Goose.

And something happens.

They play a new song. Dare I recall it as Ole Skool.

I sip again. And this time it’s Timber.lake. I’m sexy.
Ok, this is cool.

I sip some more, and the whole scene changes, and I’m feeling the club and the DC boys and even the girls in their summer ensembles and enviable curls cascading onto smooth shoulders. Even the whites have rhythm here.

I sip some more and I’m actually enjoying myself, glad I came. Not so pissed that we missed free t-shirt night at the Verizon Center.

I sip again, and I see him. In his black button down and tight jeans. Cuban tight, not rock star tight. Shorty has thighs, you see. I make out his bald head dipping in and out of my view. He’s feeling the ole skool, too.

And he’s dancing with some girls, and I’m watching and smiling and taking notes. And he’s consorting with his rainbow coalition of boys, and enjoying himself, and thank God I am too or else this would not have worked.

I politely wait until he wears out some chick and moves on to a group dance. I sidle up beside him, behind him actually, and do that ‘back to back, guess who’s dancing behind you’ thing. And he feels me without looking and we immediately step into a familiar dance that we have yet to rehearse.

He turns to me, and does the ‘hit it from the back’ dance, and I oblige. He twirls me to him for a hug.

“So good to see you, Wise.”
“I’ve missed you.”

I meet his boys. Take the birthday boy by the hand and head to the bar for shots of Patron. Really cool guy I learn, and we exchange biz cards. He’s in Law School at American, and says, we shouldn’t be strangers.

“Where’d u go?” he texts me as I return to him, reading it in front of him.

“There you are,” he says.

“We’re finally dancing,” he says, smiling, shouting in my ear.

“We danced at my crib that time.”

“Oh yeah,” he says. Pulling me in, knowing I’m being bashful.

“Your hair is so long.” I respond by tickling his baldy, the way he always likes. He plays in mine, the way I hate, today. My hair's already a mess.

You ever see the girl in the club who is dancing with some guy, her arms wrapped tight around his neck, like a Christmas bow, her eyes closed, and she’s just swaying to the music? She looks like she’s either tossed, a hopeful ho, or at a 60s sock hop with her steady.

Well, maybe, just maybe she’s just enjoying the moment. Maybe, just maybe, his hands around her waist feel like rest... and maybe, just maybe, I was exhausted, and his shoulder felt like a down pillow and I didn’t care that there were 10,000 other people watching me daydream.

Maybe, just maybe, I had a great time. Dancing. From one floor to the next, laughing and sweating and gyrating, and not caring, and kissing, and singing along, and getting low to songs I normally hate, and smiling. For hours without interruption.

Every time he leaned in, it was like fitting in the last piece of a jigsaw. Our pecks are puzzlingly perfect. Despite a background that is less so.

“When you coming home for Thanksgiving?”
“I get in Thursday night,” I respond.
“Cant wait to see you again Thursday. That is if you can pencil me in.”

Ever the azzhole, I open my cellie, open the calendar and show him that I’m booked. He laughs and pulls me in closer. Kisses my forehead and calls me cute.

And as the Sean Paul morphs into Cham morphs into Elephant Man morphs into Marley...he looks me in the eyes and sings the words to me. So I do the same.

"I don't wanna wait in vain for your love."

If only he knew that that very song is his designated ring tone in my cellie.

Gilbert Arenas scored 45 last night, and so did I. It was an MVP night, on a day I thought couldn’t be salvaged.

Cuz I don’t have good luck. I just have nights like these, followed by early morning text messages, then calls from the airport just before departure.

I have lulls in the reality of a long distance fantasy world, in which I can enjoy the here and now.

Then why am I preoccupied with the ‘there and then’?

Why cant I just enjoy the moments?

Why I always gotta take the L?

Cuz I feel like I'm outta luck.

*In Upstate NY where I’m from all Latinos are Puerto Rican. I never met a Mexican or Dominican until college. So references to them as such are more regional than it is politically incorrect and short sighted, ok? Cool.

Fantasy Blogging: IF I WAS FCUKING WISE

*Click here for NEW UPDATES!!*


==============

You want to fcuk me.

I get it.

I’m passionate.

Generous.

And well, I can fcuk.

Really well.

Lemme digress for a moment while you gather your bearings…

Wow, I’ve been wanting to say that for a while. Damn, due to my lil hiatus I feel so out of the loop. I missed the whole Truth or Dare phenom…there’s like, these new IT bloggers out of nowhere…and it may appear that I’m at a loss for words.

On the contrary. I have more to say than ever, just haven’t figured out how to manage the time.

Well, this post is inspired by my cyber desires for a certain trans-Atlantic scholar. He finds sport in emailing me when he’s bored (and that only slightly offends me)... and on one such occasion he asked, “Wise, what do you think about two people getting intimate too early on?”

I refrained from explaining that it’s never too early (or late) for him and I to blast a home run, but instead I told him to stay tuned…

If Trans-Atlantic were fcuking Wise, perhaps it would go a lil something like a situation that really happened to me not long ago. Check it…

So there’s this guy who we’ll call Lui.gi. I met him at a party, and gave him my card because he’s also Jamaic.an and he promised to put me on to some reggae spots down here. There was no, ‘I’m feeling you, call me.’ Nothing except a pleasant convo and a few inside jokes in patois.

Fast fwd a few weeks. We’ve spoken on the phone, and it’s…fine. I begin to wonder if he’s just not feeling me…but wait a minute, I’m not on the menu. This is not a ‘feeling you’ situation.

But dammit, I’m WAY hotter than him, and he truly oughta be feeling me. But he speaks to me more like he’s either nervous, socially awkward, or bored. He’s real regular, no outward pretenses about him. An Ivy Leaguer sans the Harvard ego-swag. A nerd sans the idiocy. He’s basically Rog.

So I’m confused, but not pressed. I just want reggae.

Fast fwd again and I meet up with Lui.gi at a show. He lives about 30 minutes outside of Bawtuhmore, so after the show we go to my house to drink and hang out.

We’re sitting on my couch, and he says, “Damn, your legs are the same length as mine.” Looking back, this was the corniest shit I have ever encountered, but at the time, as silly as it seemed, he was right. Dude is like 6’1”…I’m 5’8”… and when we both stood up to measure, sure enough our hips line up.

Wow, our hips line up… I’m standing in front of dude and for the first time I size him up…LIKE THAT. I had already accepted that he’s not particularly attractive. But he’s mature, very nice, and of sound intellect.

And by the looks of things, shorty is packin. I’m sayin. I’m standing hip to hip with him and I see this bulge emerge from his jeans. And all of a sudden, I’m on fire.

The next thing I know, dude and I are rolling around on my couch, skin to skin, like rabbits.

Weird thing is, I’m not even really dick obsessed like that. As magnificent a sight to behold… ya seen one big one, ya seen ‘em all, really (you don’t count Trans-Atl). But there was just something about the presentation of this particular pipe that…shall we say, caught my eye.

Nevertheless, who was to know that subtly unattractive Lui.gi had the body of a god. I played all up and through the curvature of his muscles like opening day at Fenway. I marveled at the reckless hair that lined his pecs, his thighs, his groin. And let’s face it, I’m a girl…I like positive feedback. Brownie points if it’s directed to my body. Shit, I got caught up…but not caught out.

“I’m not going to fcuk you, Luig'.”
“Okay,” he said, a bit defeated. With that bit of business out of the way I went about the task of being thoroughly satisfied…sixth grade style (I let Big Papi hit a triple with a few runs batted in, if you feel me).

I have since gotten together with Luig’ on several occasions, and I always preface the frolic by letting him know that there will be no rounding of my bases. I’m grateful that he’s cool with basically not talking to me on the phone ever, and then paying me courtesy visits and bringing the hot massage oil and a good strong pair of hands.

Thing of it is…I like the guy. He’s decent. He’s even starting to look attractive to me. We have a lot in common, like the same kind of hanging out, similar music, and he’s rather intelligent, which I love. Problem is he’s nothing but a big dick on a sculpted frame with a funny 80s sitcom likeness (he really looks NOTHING like Rog, but for some reason I just find the analogy hilarious)…who happens to be a very cool guy. In a perfect world, it would be the other way around…he’d be a great guy who happens to have a dope body.

But because of an imperfect sequential arrangement, he doesn’t stand a chance. Not because he’s ugly… (truthfully it’s more so because I literally had to teach the muhfucka how to kiss me…to the point where I was literally just pushing his head down to point his lips at my nibbles)…but because I began at the conclusion. Had I taken the time to get to know this guy before I got to know his bare azz, perhaps I’d have a bit more patience, and enough respect not to immortalize him via blogger.

Why read the book when you already know how the hell it ends?

He went out of town last week, and upon his return he sent me a text…”I’m back. Call me if you want some.”

If he was fcuking Wise, he’d not need to text me a cock coupon. He would have been summoned to come over straight from the airport.

Particularly if he was flying in from Heathrow.

*double sigh*

You see where this is going...

You want to fcuk me.

And I don’t blame you.

I’m logical.

I keep it "real".

I have all the (sometimes incorrect) answers.

So I invite you,my psecial reader firends to present me with your drama, your issues, your situations…and I’ll give you one possible outcome from the IF YOU WERE FCUKING WISE perspective (feel my double entendre). You may even do so anonymously if you prefer.

Ladies, I know I don’t have a penis…but I do have balls enough to try to mount you, too. So don’t feel left out. I can go both ways.

Ok, I really didn’t mean it THAT way...whatev.

I’m all ears.

IF I WAS FCUKING WISE: The Results Show

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

A Very Special So...Wise...Sista Moment

Shout out to the blaquescribes...
DP's forever my muse.:)


I wasn’t by any means an abused child, but in my case, being the
youngest was a constant ass kicking.

My older brothers and I can look back on it all now and laugh, and we
do quite frequently. But somehow the echoes of amusement fade late at
night, when I'm balled up in bed, spooned by only the darkness. It
feels like I'm 5 again. Unable to sleep, listening for signs of
insomnia from elsewhere in the house. It always seemed like I was the
only one awake, the only one not settled. The only one without a tag
team partner. Mommy had Daddy, and Rick had Andrew. Twins. Dumb luck.
Then there was me: the wrong age and the wrong gender. I didn’t fit in
well at all. I needed help tying my shoes and pouring my own cereal.
Eric was always so PISSED to have to do the most minute tasks to help
me, so early on I learned to do shit for myself. Taught myself to read,
swim, think logically, play basketball, hide secrets, tell lies, avoid
ass whuppins. Not as a means of independence, but to just not get in
the way. Not be a nuisance, but to garner some positive attention and
respect. I suppose that's why as an adult, the things I need most are
the exact things I hate to ask for.

My brothers and I laugh about it a lot, and I admit it's funny how they
would torture me for snitching, or leave me home alone knowing I was
terrified. We laugh about how to this day I won't open the door after
sundown, and how I made up a black pretend friend named Libby who was
with me when the real (white) Libby, whose grandparents lived on my
block, would move away at the end of the summer.

But my brothers are rarely made privy to the legacy that that childhood
isolation still bestows on me 25 years later. Despite having a gang of
neighborhood friends and being likeable and popular in school, I grew
up a lonely kid, ignored by big brothers, unattended by loving yet hard
working parents. So as an adult, rolling dolo is second nature to me.
Writers, after all, work alone. But it also makes me appreciate it when
people do show up. I'm used to doing things for myself, living with the
consequences of making bad decisions without any consultation, and most
of all I'm quite used to being disappointed when I do accept help that
never arrives. HAVING someone who is not there when you need them is
worse than having no one at all. But that's the beauty of me...I'm
always there for me.

So while I find comfort and normalcy in being alone, there are still
days when I sit back helplessly and watch the cycle of my issues scroll
over and over again. I could recite the outcomes verbatim. When shit
goes down and I need help, I roll up in bed and turn within. And I beg
time to pause for my issues to pass, like a family of ducks across a
street. Instead of asking for help I figure, if there is indeed
strength in numbers, I need to start counting. And I do. And in those
times I realize I'm not alone. I have my brothers (we laugh about it, but
they would literally kill a ngga over their little sister), my mom, my friends.
I have God. I have me.

So, I woke up early this morning, after little sleep, because I
realized life was happening without me.

~Wise...not getting soft. Promise. In fact, the next episode of "She's Just Not Feeling You" is entitled...IF WISE WAS FCUKING ME.

Stay tuned for your local news. ;)
PS...Not too late for fantasy hoops. My brother's taught me to play. :) Holler at me if you wanna be down.

Harlem Blogtrotters

My girl Nikki has football on lock...and frankly, I wouldnt be able to keep up with that kind of roster. But fantasy hoops is my shit. Call me Tim Duncan cuz I bust my brothers' azzes 2 out of the last 3 seasons.

Anyone else care to challenge me?

It's easy to play. You choose a roster, and you get points congruent to your players' performances. And it's kind of like the stock market, because your players also earn you money and you can buy and sell them.

But if you wanna be down you gotta pick your team by the season opener, which is 10/31.

Hollerrrrr!



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The Honeymoon

This my new boo...





Been kickin it about a week now, so we're still in that silly-grinnin honeymoon phase, where we know we're feeling eachother, and it feels really good to be together, but we're trying to play it cool. Learn how the other likes to do things, sync our routines, habits and preferences.

Even though I know I'm in love already...I mean, who wouldnt be head over heels for that smooth complexion, and sleek physique? But I can't front, I'd gotten really used to my ex, and truth be told, there's some shit I'm not feeling about the new jack. Some shit that I been tiptoeing around, for the sake of keeping peace, I guess. Maybe not trying to come off as picky or overbearing or nagging so soon. I just want us to take it slow and have a good time and then get to a point where we're comfortable discussing the shit that's not all sweet.

Wasting eachother's time, basically.

While I may be waxing poetic (and perhaps pathetic) about my computer, some a y'all were really feeling me, cuz that's how you are when YOU meet someone special.

Actin all fake, trying to make wine outta water.

Why we love wasting time?

Cuz everyone deserves a honeymoon.

Love,

~Wise

PS...Why did I think I would have missed the whole blog thing a lot more than I did?

Injured Reserve

Sidelined indefinitely til I replace my …



With a new one a'these…

~Management

Televised Demise

This whole Ter.rell Ow.ens thing struck a major nerve this morning.

So you know how he broke his finger in a game, had surgery like, the next day, and then was taking some pain meds for it. Last week Coach Parcels said he was having a bad reaction to them.

So apparently his publicist was with him last night and he took the whole bottle of pills, and she tried to pry the last two pills from his hands.

The publicist tried to spin the story initially. (PS...I'm a publicist. It's her job to lie.)

As I'm typing, the Dallas Pol.ice Dept is holding their press conference (which is terribly uninformative, by the way).

Imagine being this low (IF TRUE), and then having it broadcast worldwide.

*

Three summers ago I got a call from a kid who grew up across the street from me.

"Wise, um, The One's dead."
"Why?"

They found his body in the river in Alb.any. Ever the journalist, the first thing I did was call the AB.C News affiliate there to confirm the info. Suicides are not usually reported, but they were able to tell me that none of the three floaters that turned up in the last few days had been identified as black males.

Three days later I was back on the block where we all grew up... where I fell in love with The One at the tender age of 6...the corner where I'd go out and meet him at his bus stop before school at age 12... where I'd sit on his lap as puberty raged...where the processional led his closed casket to his final resting place.

I hadnt spoken to him in a while, yet I still loved him with the affection of a preteen. I had had a dream about him literally 2 weeks prior, and then emailed him and his brother to say what's up. Was terribly disappointed when the email came back to me undeliverable.

I guess he had already begun to withdraw from the world by then, and now he's gone, of his own volition.

*

A guy who was in my 9th grade Spanish class didn't show up for school one day, and by the end of that week we were all lined up at his wake. He chose a rope.

*

This woman stopped my boy Flavius in the grocery store one day a few year back. She recognized him as one of her son's old classmates. She said he had been gone for a few years now. He chose a gun.

*

In college one of my closest friends at a different school told me about the day he slept for 27 straight hours. The pills didn't take.

(IF TRUE), the shit hits close to home...on a level beyond a police report or breaking news flash. On a level that makes me know that all of Ow.ens' antics were indeed for attention. But I wish for once he could live outside of the news. I don't wanna hear about it, cuz it's none of my business. But if I watch tv or go online, I'll be force-fed all the spin and speculation.

But imagine what it must be like for him to recover from his own demise on TV.

Relax Ya'self

Saw Tribe Cal.led Quest back in action last nite...

Soul satisfied and panties wet until further notice.
~Management

Thu.gs and The Women Who Invite Them

This...I imagine, is how muhfuckas get slashed up in their own home...

Jeffery has a unique perspective of the world. At 6'7", he encounters few people who can look beyond him, and his demure charisma captures what little attention his daunting physical stature doesn't.

His easy smile is misleading. He's neither happy nor lucky. By 8 years old he had a nicotine addiction. By 16 it was weed...that was around the time Jeffery Sr, his pops, passed away. A graphic headstone inscribed with "RIP" adorns the inside of his forearm.

His easy smile is distracting. The Black btwn those Africanesque lips hangs at an impossible angle, and unfortunately hides a smile worthy of private-practice pride.

Those lips kiss his girl every morning when he arrives at their job. They pucker again when he leaves for his GED courses. A few weeks shy of 23 years old, he is just now accomplishing the task of a young man five years his junior. But that paper will validate a life of education that has stretched well beyond any school yard.

At 18 he was with a woman with 5 kids...because he loved her, and them.

He was a decent defensive end on the high school football team. Had a bitter out of school rivalry with Carmelo Anthony back in those days.

While Melo shot 3s, Jeffery was shooting .38s.

He doesn't throw the word 'thug' around loosely. He will, however, flash a few Blood signs.

Today smoking is his last hurdle to climb. He allows himself maybe 4 Newports a day, or a Black, like today. No weed. No liquor. He understands the power and lure of addiction.

"I've done every drug known to man."

Weed. Coke. Her'oin. PCP. Acid. Got caught up with the shit he was dealing. Got caught up in the pain of losing his father. Of the gutter he called home in West Baltimore ("Bawduh'more").

Went on his last drug binge when he was eluding the jakes. Cuz his girl was so shook that he would get 20 years that she aborted their unborn child.

Fcuked him up.

Got caught. Locked up. Got put in a halfway house. Has to be home by 9. Curfew. That was only a year ago.

Went to a job interview today. More dough. More in line with the law enforcement career he seeks. It went well, except he only managed to type exactly half the required wpm. He did 20. Never took a typing course.

But he'll be out of the halfway house on Oct 3, after 6 months there. That day he goes back to court, hopefully for the last time. Coincidentally, it's also the day he was born. He's looking fwd to going back to his family, to spending more time with his girl. To starting over.

He's a contemplative thug. A polite, smiley gentleman. A giant who swears by telling a woman's age by examining the depth of lines in her palm. A man with the curiosity of a child sneaking a Newport at 8, and the insight of a war-torn veteran. Honest to a fault. Introspective, determined, and confident.

Jeffery is my neighbor. We met a few weeks ago as I was on my way to my whip, and then again the next morning as he was on his way to work. That was when he showed me the gang signs...and the smile.

I saw him again today for the first time in a while. He was smoking and drinking water out on his stoop. We chatted for a while, him asking how my day at school was, me asking him the same. He told me most of his personal details sitting on a crate in my kitchen (I aint got no chairs yet).

Um, Wise...that IS your name right? You appear to be of at least average, um...wise-dumb...so I it is with all due respect that I ask... WHAT IN THE HELL WAS A REFORMED GANGBANGING, SLANGER DOING INSIDE YOUR CRIB!?

Well.....[back outside on the stoop, as my legs were growing weary from standing]

"You good with a screwdriver, Jeffery?"

"Yes, I'm pretty good, why?"

"Cuz I went to I.kea on Saturday and got this big dresser, and to hell if I can't put that shit together by myself.""You wanna take care of it right now?"

The answer... I need someplace to put my shit. Tired of living out of suitcases! [back story...I just relocated to Bawduh'more to pursue my Masters. For those concerned readers, I do not live near The Wire nor The Corner. I live on a quiet block a few blocks from JHU, ie - amongst white folk...and apparently, a halfway house.]

So Jeffery came over right quick, about an hour before curfew, and put my shit together. I have friends I could have asked, but I'm the 'I can do it myself' type who knows even your best friends dont really wanna do the shit you dont even wanna do for yourself.

He was on his best behavior...tho an Amber alert did flash thru my mind when he asked if I knew Prince and 'Preme...some ole drug nggas from NY. I let him taste this Rachel Ray shit I made last night...chicken breast and pesto and green beans (Jameil, you gotta try it!). He politely finished it and said it tasted "different." So I made him some turkey cheeseburgers (sans the bread...I'm low-carb, yo).

And I gave him my copies of B-More Careful, and The AutoBio of Malcolm X. Turns out he's Muslim. He's partial to books about war and ancient leaders like Hannibal.

Who do I think I am, a fake azz social worker??

Naw, just an independent girl and marginal carpenter. A girl who wants a place for her panties.

A girl, who could have very easily ended up cut in half.

Idiot.

Sept. 3 Ink

Hey I forgot to show y'all something...

Remember the dramatic 5-parter, where I made an emotional reference to a wayward would-be "The One" negro about a tattoo I was planning to get?

Here it go... Got it on 9~3~06. It's on my shoulder blade, on my back. Visible only in tank top weather. Or winter hoochie mode. Or waist-up frolic.

Got it in the Village from some tattoo A-rabs. Was I nervous that he might accidentally write 9~1.1~01? Sure. But it all worked out in the end. Took 15 minutes. Shed some tears. Then went out with Gay Bartender (who helped pick out the font), her girl (who has a sick tat along her shoulder), and Curly (who held my hand the entire time) and got hammered.

Per usual, my siblings are hating. Mom loves it. Dad does too. :)

Yo Homo

So I'm at this CBC party in DC the other night. I make it there at the tailend of the open bar ("Excuse me, sweetie, can you order me a vodka/cran while you're up there, pls. Thanks!"). PERFECT, cuz they played me at the door, pretending that the email invite made any mention of the fact that the party was $10 without the printout. Nice hustle.

So they owed me the drink anyway, and they gave me a decent gratuity in the form of dope music. I'm impressed. I've not been out in DC much, so I wasn't sure if I should expect Chuck Brown to appear from behind the DJ booth...if you'd need to remove your shoes, relinquish any liquid and gel from your purse, and walk thru security...or if it would appear as if I was at an E Lynn Harris book release party.

If anything, it was more like the latter.

I wish I had brought my boy Flavius...one of my oldest friends, who also happens to live right outside DC. Oh and he's gay...but not like Marce.llus from Big Brother Allstars gay...more like, Grant H!ll gay.

So I was feeling the crowd...it's been a while since I've been to a good buppie set. I'm just now growing out of my 'I-prefer-dudes-in-suits-' phase, but I still get all tingly when surrounded by Brooks Brothers brothas. Nice looking guys with nicely tapered goatees and edge ups. Shiny azz shoes. And the women were not to be outdone in their impossible heels, fly azz wraps and twists and locs, and well-moisturized knees.

Present company included.

So I'm standing surveying the crowd, which at this point is mostly congregated along the walls, at the bar and along the couches on the fringes (chicks always have a monopoly on those seats for some reason). That's when I notice the generous gay/straight ratio. Obviously the rainbow numbers are particularly high in DC and in GayTL, so it makes sense that there can't POSSIBLY be enough exclusively gay spots in all of DC to accommodate all the gays. This overlap makes sense. But I'll tell you what doesnt...

[Hold up...quick digression...as I'm noticing the gays, these two guys walk up near me both double-fisting Coronas. Apparently they each bought one for the other without knowing that the other had bought one for the other. Get it? I should mention these men appear straight. So I say to the one closest to me... "I'll take that off your hands," and he hands it to me. I laugh and decline. He insists. I decline. He turns back to his boy, who is eying me, then turns back to me maybe 5 minutes later to chat. I say, 'Were you really going to give me that?' He says, yes. I say, 'Well, what's your name? I couldn't possibly take a drink from a guy without first being properly introduced.' His generosity completes my self-imposed 2-drink maximum.]

OK...so what doesn't make sense about integrated social gatherings is the well-dressed man who steps to me later that evening.

"I was on my way out but had to come and talk to you. I don't want to be presumptuous, tho."

Wise... "How could saying hello be presumptuous?"

Suit... "That's not the presumptuous part. I wanted to ask you how you manage to look so damn fine tonight?"

Now y'all...I'm a girl, so even if it was corny, I was still flattered. I indulge him, despite wanting to immediately refer him to my boy Flavius.

Wise... "I would love to tell you that I worked hard at it, but I didn't."

He laughs. Thing of it is...I look aight, but I ain't in full head-turning mode in the LEAST. Ok, yeah, my plaid capris are adorable, my heels make my legs look really long, and if I had any cleveland it would be on full display in my collarless button down with the low, open neck. But my hair is all pulled back, I'm wearing glasses, and I'm carrying a small computer bag (sans the laptop, but I am coming straight from a biz meeting). OK, it's fly and leather and Kenny Cole, but the point is, there are plenty of women here who actually do look like Miss Negro Universe.

Suit... "I been noticing you all night and I am LOVING your style..."

Wise: "Is that a Congressional pin?" ...trying change the subject, and giving him a subtle hint that I'm not comfortable/impressed/in the mood for his attempt at hollering.

Suit... "Does it matter? Or is it what I'm about that's not on my lapel that matters?"

Wise..."To be completely honest and frank, I could care less, except that my attention is currently occupied by my vague curiosity. It's dark in here, but I think it's cute."

Suit laughs..."See I could tell by your style that you were down to earth like that. I would love to get to know more."

Wise: "Do you happen to have a biz card?" ...I was hoping to avoid giving him one of my last cards.

Suit..."You know, due to the nature of my biz I don't usually give out my card, but I can give you my number. Here, give me your phone."

Shit! I was trying to get better at this. As you all know, it's well-documented that I'm a chronic drunk dialer. But since I'm nowhere near sloshed, I put in his number but never press TALK. But he's a spry lil son of a bitch, and he quickly reaches over and puts his thumb on the button, then holds my hand on the phone to allow it to ring a few times. Shit.

This would have been fine, not a problem had I just been holding my biz phone and not the personal Bat Phone. I always let that shit go to voice. And even then it may have been cool to keep in touch if for no other reason than to be put on to other free booze opportunities. [I know they be gettin getttin fcuked up on The Hil!]

But this dude was so blatantly gay... but like, not Brian Mc.Knight of Hill Har.per gay...more like, Little Rich.ard gay. Complete with the lisp!

What in the hell? Is this the gay man's rugby... to try to pull unsuspecting straight women in integrated social situations? Will he go back to the down low den and put another notch in the playbook? [And how did he even make it into the sect? I thought you had to look straight to be considered DL] Or did he detect a dick-sucking gleam in my eye?

Whatever the case, I'm not unsuspecting. And I don't find Little Rich.ard attractive...nor particularly entertaining [only when it's the real LR and he's on tv and making no intelligible sense].

That's the last time I go out in DC without gay backup. Cuz I'm a confirmed chick magnet.

* [ps..is anyone else obsessed with the show Celeb Duets ??]