How Wise is "So...Wise"? 4

Part I
Part II
Part III



Part IV: "Wise Matters"

So he’s gone back to Detroit, and what follows is an intense barrage of constant phone calling, text msgs and emails, now even more sprawling and revealing. Daily. We leave no stone unturned in our communication. We discuss our connection, our fears, our fate, our daily stresses and successes, our fav sexual positions. I imagine him in all of them, not just for the sport and pleasure of his maintenance, but because I’m falling for him and know that doing him will be much more than a conquest to discuss later.

But alas, we’re both attached. He confides in detail now that his relationship has always been faulty. They became exclusive just before he was shipped back to Detroit by his job. I’ll never forget him saying it wasn’t “serious.”

I call him on it.

“How the hell is an exclusive relationship not serious?”

He explains in this actual email [note from Wise: I'm really not as psycho as this may appear. AOL auto saves all incoming and outgoing emails. No, for real...I'm serious. And don't act like you don't have a special saved folder from your special someone, dammit!] :

"Wise,

My life was normal before last Friday [ed.'s note: 4th of July weekend] now it's filled with drama :) lol I'm just kidding, some drama is worth having. I think I've had the best time I've had in a while with someone and I thank you for that sweetie. I meant it when I said I could of stayed at your place all weekend and just talked to you and would of been content. You are so amazing to me. You have everything I look for in a woman and I feel so at home with you, when I'm around you or talk to you. I hate to think like this but I really do feel to some extent that I'm out of my league when it comes to you, I'm still shocked that you are actually feeling me like that...wait, what am I talking about, I know I'm a pimp, shoot :) J/K [NOTE FROM WISE: HELLLLO! Can you understand why he's perfect for me? SO damn corny and adorable!!] for real though your level of intelligence, your beauty, your sexiness(you are sexy as hell I hope you know), your sweetness, kindness, caring, etc, etc, etc it's been a while since I've felt like this and it feels good.

So many questions and uncertainty are still out there though. Every day that passes by the more and more the realization of how difficult this is (will be) sets in. I know there many things that need to resolved. From there what's next. Something that makes me cringe is that when you look at the facts things don't really look too good for me (if I were in your shoes looking at me). Commitment/relationship issues, long distance issues, open communication issues(which I haven't had with you).Whichever path we take I don't want it to be filled with drama. I'm not one to look for it but it seems to follow me a bit :)

You're totally right about the 'casual' thing. I wouldn't want to do that. I care for(wow) and respect you waaaaay to much for you to just mess around with you. If we have something together I know it would be something special, something serious. But I do know I wouldn't be ready to rush things initially..I would want to take them slow and let things run their course. I've been burned by getting into situations like that without really understanding the whats/whys/hows of my wants and what I could provide to the relationship. Going into them blindly. Just like you said that you've had a tumultuous year on the relationship tip I have had one too(that's somewhat what we got into last night).

When I broke up from my relationship about a year ago...The girl in Chicago was around as a friend who was very interested. It could of been a rebound thing and even though we said we were still just friends we didn't act like it by the amount of time we spent together and our actions. Before you knew it I was in a situation that I didn't know how I got in but I was comfortable in because of the type of person she was. But I didn't feel like this was it, this was my ultimate connection/love of my life. I was content and happy that's probably why I thought it was ok to enter the relationship.

Maybe I spoiled everything because I wasn't ready to enter that relationship to begin with and I never allowed myself to have those stronger feelings for her, which she has for me. And it was too late to gain them by the way it started, dating other people because we weren’t exclusive, then deciding to be together but having to deal with the long distance even though a strong foundation wasn't there. Thinking that I need to move on but having an uncertainty of what will happen once that is done or (is it the right move?) Like you said last night it's not fair to be with someone b/c they're so into you when you might not have the same exact feelings. When I say I feel like such a bad person sometimes that's a perfect example of why. I don't want to put you (or myself) through anything like this so we'd have to take our time and figure out what's really best for us or how it could be done. Is this the right time? I guess there never is a right time you just have to go with your heart.

With all that said how do you really feel about this weekend and her coming?..answer only if you want to or feel comfortable. As far as your situation I feel like the less I know the better...I feel I don't want to pry (or know really) b/c I trust what you're feelings are for me and that's all that matter to me. Anything else will be resolved when we know where we're at with each other.

Well that felt better getting a lot of that out. Another long ass email that's all over the place, you know how I do ma ;) I'm hoping this doesn't confuse you more or scare you a bit. I just want to be open and honest with you hon. I don't want to sugar-coat anything because you deserve to know it all. Well I need to go...Write back when you can...I'll be looking forward to it :) Have a great day Ms. Sista.
~Ford

Well damn. Who wouldn't be gassed?

One of the things I love about him is that he’s not a player, not out trying to run game (and thank God, cuz as you can see, shorty has NONE). And he's keeping it real, which is a requirement when dealing with me. He acknowledges the difficulties and isn't trying to hide details to use as refuge later on. So I trust him. I trust that despite the challenges, despite the relationships we're both in, and despite the distance, we BOTH want to try... so it's now safe to let my guard down (something I RARELY do). It's real, it's intense and it's worth pursuing. Because I believe that he’s honest, and definitely because he’s saying what I want to hear. And dammit, because this feeling he's awakened in me just feels so GOOD.

Now me, I’m in a “relationship” that was faulty at best. It’s one of those things that had gone on too long, and for that reason is difficult to let go. But there’s no love, it’s very complicated and becoming mostly a struggle. So Ford is not only my dream guy, but he also becomes my savior. Right on time. He would come and rescue me from another pointless relationship. Resurrect me.
So for several months our communication grows stronger, and we get closer. We coordinate our schedules and travel home at the same time in order to see each other. He’s relentless in expressing his feelings for me. In touting me as the woman of his dreams. Of acknowledging that he loves all of the things about me that I love about myself.

Thank you notes and thinking of you cards sent in the mail.

Really sweet morning text messages in French (thank God for translation websites!)

Hours of pillow talk.

And it’s sincere. It’s pure and fun. It’s on a whole 'nother level from what I’ve become accustom to in dating. He’s living proof that there are good guys out there. He’s attractive, intelligent, cultured, well-traveled, grounded, funny, outgoing, ambitious, can appreciate women without being doggish, and most of all is emotionally available, which is HIGH on my must-have list.

He’s not ‘center of attention guy’, which is usually what I attract, because of my own personality. But I’m really loving the fact that he’s low-key – almost shy even, yet really outgoing. And I’m REALLY loving the attention, the affection and the genuine lust he has for me.

Needless to say, I fall in love with dude. I never utter it to anyone but myself...but convey it in the type of attention, support and affection I send back his way.

And soon I'm taken aback when he informs me that he is breaking it off with Chicago chick.

...keep scrolling down...it gets "better"...PART V: THE FINALE

How Wise is "So...Wise?" I'll Tell You...She's An Idiot!

This program is already in progress...

PART I
PART II
PART III
PART IV (...breaking it off with Chicago Chick)

I’m genuinely shocked and elated.

I was always careful not to ever really comment on his “situation.” All along I tell him I don’t want any part of it. I’m just not THAT girl…the one who plays games and pressures a guy into being with me. THAT girl winds up being Chicago Chick…fighting for a relationship with a guy who felt pressured into being with you in the first place. I’m not big into the chase or the hunt, I’m too impatient for that. If I’m gonna fuck a guy, I fuck him. No peek-a-boo games with the draws. Just come get ‘em, dammit. If I wanna be with him I let it be known.

I follow a man’s lead. That way I’m able to make the decision based on his intentions.

Common sense, right?

I thought so too.

He assures me that his problems were there long before me, so of course I trust him, and I’m admittedly relieved and happy to hear the announcement. I’m even more encouraged that he comes to this decision without me prodding. Shows his intentions.

We agree early on that our connection was way beyond physical…that we live too far away to just wanna hit the skins and scram. But we also acknowledge that we both have long distance issues. We both stayed in bad ones because of the comfort of not being alone but the distance to not be smothered and pressured into anything too serious.

We agree that this between us is much, much different. Strong. Amazing. Worth working at.

Wow, more shit I want to hear. Yessss!

So she is scheduled to come to Detroit for a Queen Latifah concert in a few days, and that’s when he plans to send her packing. The day that she is to leave I’m on pins and needles, waiting for him to call me and tell me he wants us to go steady. Looking back on it now, it probably wasn’t “so…wise” to bank on a guy who was dumping someone to get to me. How you get ‘em is how you keep ‘em, is what they say.

But this is true love. I’m convinced. The kind I had dreamed of. No joke. I had actually experienced a moment a few months into this affair, a singular moment in time when it occurred to me that THIS IS IT. This is the beginning of the rest of my young life. With this man.

Deep.

At about noon that day I get a text from his number. It reads: “Hi Wise. This is Chicago. You and Ford have fun! :) “

Damn. He said they were cool like that but I didn’t expect her to take it so well. Wow, she’s really mature, and …

Hold up…he let her send me a text? Were they like, sitting on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, saying their last goodbyes, typing and laughing and shit?

“Hi Wise. This is Chicago. You and Ford have fun! :) “

I didnt even know her name before now. Never asked. And here she has my damn personal cell phone number. And she really outdid herself with a sarcastic azz smiley face.

Wai'mit (wait.a.minute.)... Is this bitch playing on my phone?

I panic and call in for backup. My girl Mack isn’t sure either. The first thing she says is, “You better than me, cuz I woulda called back immediately and asked questions later!” I’m mature she assures me.

I don’t call. I wait.

And wait.

He finally calls me at like 4 and sounds like shit. I wait for the explanation that doesn’t come.

He says they had it out. She was really upset. So hurt. He feels like shit.

She asks him point blank if there is something going on with him and Wise...the girl posing all cozy with her man in that one reunion photo...the girl her man stayed with 4th of July weekend in NYC.

He says he told her everything.

Everything?

I’m pissed. If there were problems in the relationship long before me, if I had nothing to do with said problems, then why does she need details about me?? But he’s that kind of dude.

“I couldn’t lie to her,” he says. She had seen the pics from the reunion, and she saw my name in his phone [read: she was scrolling thru your shit pahtnah, and your dumb azz didn’t even think to be more cautious. I wonder if she speaks French.]

Oh yeah. The phone.

“So… ‘the fuck were you when she sent me that text from your phone?”

“What?” He is stuttering and confused. I tell him to look in his outbox and call me back. He’s baffled. Can’t “believe she would do something like that.” Etc. etc. (PS - He was in the shower)

He’s confused and spent. And needs time to think.

Just as I knew before I even saw him at the reunion that I would like him…I knew – without having the luxury of looking into his eyes this time – that there was much more to this story that I would never know.

He informs me that she requests his presence in Chicago that weekend to talk. He owes it to her, he says. But he will only drive down Saturday and not stay overnight. Again, I can see that this script will be edited several times before it’s all said and done.

We don’t speak for a week. When we do, he tells me he did stay overnight in Chicago and “a lot was said.” He tells me he needs time to figure shit out. That he hates leaving me in the dark and wants to talk to me about it so badly but doesn’t know what to say. He says he will call.

He does call, a week and some change later. I didn’t interrupt his time out not once, save for a “be safe” text on a day I know he is traveling for work.

When he does call he tells me that he made a mistake.

He hurt her so badly and he feels awful for it.

That they’ve been through a lot.

That his spending time getting to know me was what was keeping him from bonding with her.

That he really didn’t TRY with her.

He tells me that he needs to stay with her.

That he wants us to remain good friends.

Are you fcuking kidding me? You are fcuking kidding me, right? Ashton muhfuckin Kutcher is bout to jump out of my fcuking oven as soon as I start cussing, I know it!

After some choice words of discontent and accusations of acute bitchism, I politely decline his offer for friendship and don’t speak to him again for over 6 months.

I spend that time trying to pretend it never happened. I had so much going on at the time, thank God, that I just got busy at staying busy. That last convo was so disturbing and fake that it completely changed my perspective of him.

I was in love with a Bitch Dude. An indecisive Fuck Boy. He was so obsessed with being seen as a nice guy that he twisted his arguments accordingly to cover his azz, to discredit my very common sense allegations of a fucking flip flop.

“You said yourself that there was a chance I’d stay with her.”

That’s cuz I’m a realist. And because you NEVER gave me any indication that you were even considering staying with her. In fact, you flat out told me you planned to dump her somewhere between “U-N-I-T-Y” and “Latifah’s Had It Up To Here”!

In the aftermath I had to live with that rejection, wondering how he could walk away from the connection that had him so hype for months that he told anyone who would listen...(including his mama, who LOVES me). I had to wonder if he ever really even had those feelings that he professed.

And of course I had to relinquish the dream. A dream that does not come along often for this sista. It’s hard to find the right combination of ambition and brains, humor and sarcasm, culture and class, versatility and depth, pride and pipe, to match my own diverse quirks (and intense sex drive). I don’t meet that guy often, so it’s no wonder I let down my guard when I found this one. And the one time I do….THIS. Of course.
=================

Months passed of not hearing from him, thinking about him, wondering is he misses me. Wondering if he thinks he made a mistake. Wondering if there’s still a chance somewhere down the line. Be clear, I’m no Wait Around Chick…which is why I told him to fuck off when he wanted to stay in touch.

But when you get a glimpse of a great thing… a thing that even in it’s complications… feels so good and looks so bright….it’s hard not to want shit back.

It’s hard to walk away from the IDEA of Ford, who I now commonly refer to as the Ex-Con (no, brother never did any hard time). The life I was anticipating with him was beautiful. And I mourn for it in some ways.

But I can still have it. I realize that now. And it doesn’t have to be with him. I saw him a few weeks ago. I hang out with one of his friends, and one day Ford gets on a plane from Detroit and shows up. I had no idea that was coming. But it was just another in a short string of recent ambushes. I hear he'll be in town next weekend. He IM'd me last night and wants to meet and talk.

I won't front, whole thing’s a struggle…but I continue to keep it movin. Sure to make a MUCH WISER set of decisions, next time. Cuz there's always a next time.

THE END...AINT NO MORE COMING.AND I'M EXHAUSTED.

How Wise is "So...Wise"? 3

I know I have a habit of leaving things hanging, and that's wrong...but understand, shit is still sensitive (and long)…

Recap:
Part I
Part II
Part III: "GET LOW, WISE..."

Ok, truth? I hear him come in that morning. He stumbles back to my crib, so drunk, and sticks his head into my room and whispers to see if I’m up…meanwhile I’m play sleeping, splayed on the bed in a prefabricated pose: you know, all sedated and sexy, laying on my stomach, my hair is a heap of fresh curls cascading my face, my tank top tight around my middle, and my CK boxers riding a tiny bit up on the curve of my modest azz. Tryin to be cute.

I listen as he fumbles and then settles onto the couch, before I tip toe to the bathroom to pee (and lightly brush my teeth). He looks so ridiculous, all big and scrunched up on my couch, and I nudge him to open the couch to a bed for him. He’s groggy but smiling. (He is ALWAYS smiling! Always.) He tells me he was so drunk that he walked right past my building when his boys dropped him off that morning.

I tell him he can come to bed if he prefers. He follows, walking a straight line.

We lay in my bed, giggling, as the new Sunday morning sun soaks through my windows. Early morning cartoons offer a fitting soundtrack. Hours later, yawning and not at all tired, I roll over, away from him, and he follows me. Who doesn’t love a good spoon? And a NEW spoon at that? Shit.

But Mama has a tendency to be fast, and I may or may not have then tickled his fingertips, guiding them to outline the eager nipple poking through my wife beater.

Needless to say, it’s on…

Pump ya breaks. We didn’t fully make out until that night, after a BBQ my friends stage for me after I realize I have to entertain him for another full day.

He leaves NYC the next day with a long face. I’m left standing at the curb, watching the yellow SUV cab whisk him away…and mope back to the crib…and lay in bed, remembering the space he occupied so comfortably….the space where I laid on his chest the night before, with a silly grin I couldn’t shake…

::flashback, keep up...::

“I got my tattoo the morning of high school graduation. My brother took me, and I got to the ceremony mad late, almost missed the processional…but you ain’t know me back then,” I tease.

“I remember you doing the butterfly on stage when you got your diploma,” he admits.

“And the Roger Rabbit, and the Peppaseed, and the Wop. Choreographed to perfection,” I brag. He replies with a kiss to my nose.

“You have a cute tattoo, Wise. I’m probably gonna go ahead and get that ‘Thug Life’ across my chest when I get back to Detroit,” he jokes.

“Ahh baby, right above your bullet wound? So sexy!” I laugh. He busts out laughing and tickles my side, where he’s now holding me.

“What’s your next tat gonna be?” he asks.

I trace the numbers 9/3/04 with my fingertips on his chest. His compassionate eyes ask for clarification.

“The day my dad died,” I whisper.

He holds me so tight the tears retreat from the wells of my eyes.

We kiss again. This time with insistence, a primal urgency that makes it juicy and wet. He’s got that 5 o’clock shadow that I love, and it’s rough on my cheeks, my chin, my neck, my collarbone. Soothes my bare chest, as he slips off my tank top with tender authority.

My nipples respect him.

He’s heavy on top of me and I love it. He’s a man, and a big one at that. I grab his azz to let him know I approve and he leans and kisses my pelvis in return. Now I’m the one ripping off his shirt, with an ungraceful yank. To my surprise he’s the hairiest muhfucka I’ve ever seen and touched in my life, and I swirl my fingers around in that nigga’s nest like it’s my own new growth.

He likes that.

I’m very in touch with my dude side, and I show it when I raise up and flip him onto his back. Can’t help it. I’m no control freak but I can’t be tied down for too long. I need to roam free. And roam I do, like a Sprint phone on the subway.

My lips make express stops like the A train, from his bald head to his ear lobes to his round shoulders, to his love handles, to the muscles along his thick thighs. I’m so lost in this man, in what I’m feeing at the moment, the convergence of lust AND liking, that I’m on a mission...

Next stop downtown Brooklyn.

I’m just fcuking with y’all. I ain’t go there. But I wanted to...and I could hear him wondering if I might.

Hoping.

Instead I bury my face in this shorts and tongue kiss the inside of his thigh.

Something to work toward, nigga. Play ya cards right.

We slow down like responsible, sexually frustrated adults, and spend the rest of the night
cuddling and kissing.

Oh, NOW it's on.

How Wise is "So...Wise"? 2

In case you somehow missed Part I…


...So that email sparks a torrid romance. I always say how unique and telling written communication can be. I don’t know ‘bout you, but there’s just something about a guy who can conjugate his damn verbs AND spell check, that makes Mama tingle.

I digress…

So every day is a new set of emails…to the point where I find myself obsessed with receiving a response. All I feel at this point is that he’s really interesting, has funny things to say, and that there is an unpredictable depth to our conversations. Careers, family, friendships, the quarter-life crisis, travel, sports, music and relationships. Mostly music and relationships.

He balances the Dave Matthews Band with The Roots in his rotation (just like me)…and he is the first brotha I know who admits to enjoying James “NOT JT from Kool & the Gang, the White one that was married to Carly Simon, yeah THAT one” Taylor. And he does this with a straight face. I’m enchanted.

He’s in a long distance relationship that is not working. Just like me.

The emails continue, and the text messages begin. They are random and cute, and confuse me.

“Hey Wise…I’m at the Palace watching the Pistons play San Antonio [NBA finals game] on big screens. It’s so crazy here.”

“Hey Wise…I’m at this club and it’s soooo ghetto. Gotta get outta Dodge soon.”

I acknowledge at this point, that I have a crush on Ford, but I’m not putting forth that kind of vibe. I’m not flirting or even being suggestive. And neither is he, right? He’s a nice guy. This is what nice guys do…right?? They keep in touch…

Coincidentally, as Ford had mentioned to me at the picnic, he has a friend who is celebrating his bachelor party during 4th of July weekend in NYC…and of course he’s trying to find a place to stay…and of course, I invite him to crash at the crib.

Lemme say honestly, that at the time I’m mad nervous about him being in my personal space, but I sincerely have no intentions of making moves on dude. My “guy” [oh, before you say I’m wrong, I’ll get into my situation in a sec] would be out of town that weekend, so I see no harm…

I’m thinking Ford will spend most of the weekend with his boys, and that at most I’ll have to entertain him maybe on Sunday after his friend’s festivities are over.

Turns out, his boy only has plans for Saturday night, which leaves Ford and I together for most of Friday night, Saturday afternoon, all of Sunday, and Monday morning.

When he arrives I’m in the shower…but I have cold Coronas awaiting him, and hot pizza on the way. We spend that night talking, drinking and commenting on TV. Mostly talking. We finally fall asleep around 5 or 6. Get up a few hours later and tour the city for a while.

Walking off breakfast (which I pay for without compromise), he buys us fresh mango on 125th Street, across the street from The Apollo.

Come back to the crib, regroup, then head down to the Village for some sight seeing, and cocktails.

Grey Goose and cran…goes great with good convos…

Our honest and open discussions are like familiar melodies. We don’t have all the same perspectives or experiences, but there’s a peculiar harmony, a ying and yang about our ideas. I’m feeling it. And I’m not an idiot... he’s feeling something too.

So Ford goes out with his peoples that night…and is sending me little text msgs from the club. I end up falling asleep and not going out as my cousin and I had planned…and every time my ‘Nolia Clap’ ring tone goes off, and it’s him, I smile.

It’s becoming impossible to deny that there’s a connection…and when he gets in that morning, all drunk and adorable, we connect the dots…

PART 3

How Wise…Is “So...Wise”?

I think yesterday's CRUSH post is my all time fav. Stop frontin...who's your blog crush?

I've been alluding for weeks now to a real life crush, and recent events have finally prepared me to stop keeping it anonymous...



(it's ridiculous)...It's been months And for some reason I just...
(can't get over us)...And I'm stronger than this... (ENOUGH IS ENOUGH)

Confession: I’m nursing a broken heart.

By now you’ve peeped the hilarious irony of me calling myself Wise…since 100% of my "insight" is pure common sense disguised as groundbreaking commentary. Purposely. I’m no fraud as long as my shit is basically legible, logical and ‘larious. [it’s just comedy folks…] Philosophy the shit ain't...it's throw-away chuckles at best.

But in real life it’s not easy letting go….and THAT doesn’t feel SO WISE at all.

Maybe he just wasn’t feeling ME. You be the judge…

Sooooooooooooooo, there’s this guy…we went to high school together…had friends in common, but he was on the other side of the school and we didn’t really know each other well.

We meet up last spring at our high school reunion. He’s cute. Really damn cute. And smart. Dammit, really smart. And cool.

Funny thing…long before I see him, I joke with my girl Curly that he better not show up looking good! She tells me he’s a big city engineer. He’s also one of the few guys we graduated with whose sordid affairs I’m not privy to. And he just seems like my “type.”

And it appears at the time that he is. It’s reunion weekend, and he and I chat briefly Friday night at a little class social happy hour. It’s surprisingly easy…but then what’s not easy when the booze is flowing…

Later when we all move on to a club, he’s never far from my radar. When he corners me with a two-step, I’m pleasantly surprised that he’s not the shy wallflower dude I suspected.

See, in high school he was very low profile. He played football, and was in all the pre-engineer organizations, but was mad quiet. He might be considered a nerd, but in my school, to some degree everyone was. A school full of overachieving, socially well-adjusted nerds. And I’m a sucker for a well-adjusted, well-rounded, well-read, well-(pop) cultured, well-hung nerd.

So anywho…hot party…and afterwards he and I gravitate toward one another outside the club, standing side by side, saying nothing at all. The shy finally comes out…not just in him either. Finally, cloaked in silence, he’s recognizable. But still intriguing…

Next night at the main reunion party, we’re flirty and taking pics…and gettin sauced. He asks to pay up on the dance he owes me from the night before, and wouldn’t you know it, we get out on the dance floor and it’s the last song of the night…Azz shake interrupted.

By now, everybody’s talking about us…guess it’s obvious to everyone except him and me. We’re the odds on favorites to end up in the sack before reunion weekend is over. (Sorry I let y’all nggas down.) lol

So we move on to a reunion after party at a classmate’s house…crib was laid out. Crazy! I digress…

Oh by the way, Dude – let’s call him Ford – lives in Detroit. I live in NYC…and at the after party our respective cities play subject to our extensive chit chat in a quiet little enclave (aka the living room couch) for a long while. It’s just he and I in the room, and it really does seem like we’re in a world of our own…kind of. Our classmates are obnoxious, horny and got money riding on us, so they’re constantly in and out of the room. Nosy. Honestly, it’s great getting to know him, but it’s really not that deep of a connection…yet.

During the convo he does make a point of mentioning that he is “seeing someone” in Chicago, which is where he used to live before his job moved him back to Motown. I casually mention that I am also involved in NY. Cool.

My crew ditches me, trying to be funny. [note: I’m in the market for some new friends]. So Ford and his best friend end up driving me home early that morning. Convo is easy, no tentative start-stops. Nothing small, forced or corny. Nice.

The next day (Sunday) at the goodbye picnic, he and I hug goodbye like 6 times.

He lives in Detroit.

I’m in NYC.

…Fast fwd to the end of that week, and Ford sends me a very nice email.

So begins the flame…

PS...this is a bit long, but I promise not to keep you hanging like the Vegas saga. :) This will be updated every evening til it's done, gone, outta my system. Carry on.

PART 2

Crush!

The hell if I haven’t developed a blog crush!

I have a feeling I’m not the only one. It’s so easy to follow someone’s flow, their style, the shit they get into, the decisions they make, their senses of humor…and God forbid they post a photo.


I’m SURE I’m not alone. So let’s let the dawgs out…spill the beans…don’t hold water:

Who’s your blog crush??

Be sure to tell it anonymously…but share the object of your cyber affection’s blog url... so we can fall in love, too!

Hollerrrrrrr!

"THE DRAMATIC FINALE"...What Happened in Vegas: PT V

Last time on “WHAT HAPPENED IN VEGAS…” (Part IV) ...I almost had to choke a B
PT III ... I almost signed with Death Row
PT II ...all dressed up and nowhere to go
PT I ...just happy to be there

And now, the Dramatic Conclusion…thank GOD. How long were you there anyway?!

I’m not even gonna front…and I was quite vocal about this to my crew…when we left the club I wanted to hurl. I could feel the night’s liquid indiscretions settling into my stomach and I wanted no parts of it.

But I was a soldier, standing in the loooong azz line outside of Caesars while my crew tried pathetically to hustle their way to the front of the line. The Boss of Me was starving, and when he’s hungry he gets festive. He dances.

So we head to the Pink Pony, our fav late night diner, and wait on some food. Again, I’m sitting there knowing that I should empty my stomach before I eat, but I don’t. Too exhausted and weak to go to the bathroom and back.

Finally sitting still I notice my quadriceps are on fire. Too much gettin’ low. It’s at this point that I recall a guy on the dance floor wearing this girl out. He was literally ON THE FLOOR, yet still on his feet, and the girl was doing her best to keep up. She was no match.

I realize that guy was Anger Management.

I’m telling Mommy.

So we’re waiting on our food, recalling the events of the night…but the crew is sans Entourage (with the white girl who dodged a bullet), and Bourgie…who knows where his pretty azz is. [editor's note: all this time I thought he just wasn't ready to leave... but he calls me today and informs that we left him at the club. No one bothered to look for him, so he walked back to the telly alone.]

We’re all pretty tore down, but none more than "London Bridge". There is a reason he is so named. All weekend LB has been mistaken for Charles Barkley. It all started Friday when he was wearing the Sixers throwback jersey. White women were begging for his autograph, posing for pics. He’s getting a kick out of it. He’s yella, yeah, and he’s built like a mack truck, sure (6’8, bout over 200 under 300). He’s in MUCH better shape than Sir Charles, but he’s a big, bald, black guy nonetheless.

So he’s basically asleep at the table, waiting for the food. He and Boss of Me are each others’ fav whipping boy. So of course he’s fcuking with him. Taking pics of him asleep, shaking him awake, etc.

All of a sudden London Bridge, without warning…falls down. Clear out of his chair.

You know how you’re nodding off and you wake yourself up when your head jerks? Well you’d think that the weight of his own azz swaying would have jolted him, but it didn’t. He fell to the side, and hit the floor with a thud. THAT’S when he woke up.

We’re crying laughing. He doesn’t even jump up, embarrassed. My man sat there for a good minute, got his bearings, then returned to his chair like it never happened.

I’m guessing this is not the first time this happened.

This white guy at a booth behind ours is in stitches.

“Dude, that was soooo classic!”

The diner manager is also nearby…he lifts himself up and looks at the heap on the floor. Shakes his head laughing.

The next morning when he's awake and able to defend himself, I help him out and insist that he only fell after Boss pushed him.

It’s a lazy day, spent walking off the knots in my stomach through downtown LV.

That night, our last we decide on Light, a club at the Bellagio.

Long story short…celebs out the azz.

The champ is here.

Anger Management is impressed.

Floyd is standing a good 10 feet away and my cousin tells AM to take a pic with him, but my brother says, “Naw, I don’t want dudes thinking I’m dick riding.”

Within seconds Floyd is standing next to him, and says, “Naw, we all fam, yo. It ain’t nothing. I ain’t even like that. Let’s go.” [taken with his camera phone]

AM is startled but appreciative. They take some pics, part ways…and AM now has all the courage he needs to holler at Serena Williams. She wasn’t having it…something about their lame reality show. She was nice at least. Had a huge bottle at her table. Looking way out of tennis shape.

When Keepin It Real Goes Wrong...

At some point in the night, AM and Bourgie are talking and AM says, “Mayweather is like, my height (not even 6’) and he still the toughest cat in here.”

But one of Floyd’s handlers mistakes the comment as something about “I can whup that nigga’s azz. He ain’t bigger than me.”

They kind of shake it off, but not before my brother says, “I can whup YOUR azz.” His anger management has been under control all weekend…until now. Oh shit. On the real, my brother is INSANE. I’m worried.

So fast fwd to after the club…we’re at Fat Burger. A luxury sedan pulls up. It pulls in reverse. According to my overdramatic brother, the driver isn’t even paying attention to the parking spot. He’s got his eyes locked directly on him. It’s Floyd Mayweather. Coming to look for AM.

My brother is no punk, but he’s whimpering now. “Don’t let him hit me! I'm not ready!”

We bounce out of there real fast. Thank God we’re on our way out of Dodge.

But before we leave there is an informal investigation that must take place.

Pour Out a Little Liquor...

"Excuse me, Mr. Cab Driver? Oh, uh, lo siento. Donde did Tupac get shot?"

We had already scoured the lobbies of the MGM Grand where Pac had his last scrap. You remember, the one where they stomped the living shit out of this guy. We question dozens of sources, none of which were working there at the time of the fight, few of which speak English.


We pretty much decide on our own where it all went down...did the obligatory reenactment (London Bridge aka Charles Barley playing the role of Suge, as we rewind to the shot of he and I in my digital camera...I will NEVER live that down), then bounce.


The cab driver explains the legend of Tupac's downfall...yet it's suspiciously unlike anything I've found on the internet since. Whatever. We decide to erect a memorial for Pac in front of our hotel before we leave. Not really. But we want to. For now we just leave it on wax.

*

The taxi ride back through the city to McCarran airport is a somber one. All the lights are to our backs now. The adventures are no longer before us in real time. They are implanted in our minds…if we can recall them.

I start writing this immediately for all our friends, including you reading this now…who couldn’t make it out to Vegas with us. I am the crew’s scribe.

The slot machines in the airport are still a shocker, even though I am anticipating them now. I didn’t expect to see him again, for like the 5th time.

“Hey Mr. Smith,” I say, flirting one last time.
“What’s up, lady?” he says from his seat at a quarter machine near my gate.
“Did you enjoy the fight?” I ask.
“I did,” he responds, shifting his body slightly toward me, like we’re about to tango.
But I keep it moving…a flask of booze in my hand…headed back to life in the real world.

"How The White Chick Almost Got Me Jumped": WHAT HAPPENED IN VEGAS... PT IV

Ok, play catch up...

Episode I
Episode II
Episode III
Special Report

Now for Episode IV: So after the fight we decide to walk toward the club until we can grab a couple of cabs on the street. Walking through the streets, we can see our destination in clear view, and it doesn’t seem like a daunting undertaking in the mild night air.

Problem is, none of the passing cabs are empty. So we approach this small apartment complex. In my mind this is the west coast version of the projects, or the hood at best…those cramped quarters that resemble just about every building I’ve ever seen in Boyz in the Hood, Menace, Baby Boy, Training Day, etc.

The silent old Latino man laying on a cot out on the front lawn should have been immortalized in my camera…but wasn’t. I was too preoccupied by the eerie silence of our surroundings.

At the end of the complex is an alley. No more like a crossing. Ok, what it really looked like was the setting for this line from Boyz in the Hood: "Y’all wanna see a dead body?”

Yeah, on the train tracks. These grown azz men in hard bottom shoes and slacks got me hiking in my skirt and heels on a damn John Singleton set, looking like a black extra from the director’s cut of Stand By Me. [In their defense, it would have been pointless to double back past old man in cot and down another street. We were anxious to party and already almost there.]

Finally, we cross the hill, literally jumping a fence… and approach the Hard Rock hotel. We consider the club there, “Body English,” a spot that my boy“Entourage” is very familiar with. But the line is already really long…and really white. We decide not to stay.

So we step. My other brother “The Boss of Me,” has just arrived in town from his biz conference, and we have his cab come scoop us up. Destination, back to OPM to redeem ourselves.

And we do.

Well for the most part…

Only two more of us can legally fit into “Boss of Me’s” cab. So of course I jump in, and Bourgie is right behind me. That nucca has such entitlement issues, it’s ridiculous. Had I been a bit more sober, I would have screamed on him realizing that he was allowing the female half of the “Codependent Couple” to continue to troop in her killer heels.

We arrive back at the club and the crowd makes the one last night look like a modest neighborhood double dutch line. It’s crazy in there! But Wise was ready. Earlier that day I call the promoter and reserve a table for the crew. So we front him the $200 for the line, and then are escorted up to VIP. We decide on Henney and Stoli for our bottles, and start taking pictures…until burly bouncer who is stationed by our table, informs us that picture taking is not allowed…becase they got a photographer in there selling photos (which my cousin “Oh Canada” can’t resist).

So we’re already partying when the rest of the crew arrives. They place a call, we tell them who to talk to at the door, and after an extended pause I realize something’s probably wrong. Next thing I know, Anger Management and London Bridge run up on us.

“Yo, they said y’all told them there was only 2 others coming. Stay Hype, The Codependent Couple and Pac aint get in.”

True. We tried to save them an extra $200…cuz they told us at the door that if there were more than 2 others they’d have to pay out the azz for another table. So the couple was obviously connected at the hip…I mean, the wife literally slept in the guys’ room every night, even showered down there instead of in the girls’ room. Anywhere the husband goes/or doesn’t go she goes/or doesn’t, and vice versa. Hence the name. They had each other so I wasn’t trippin off them not getting in. But Stay Hype was so named for a very good reason. We’ve been tight since 7th grade and he’s the life of the party…and this is the second party he’s missed. He wasn’t willing to pay $90 to party and I can’t say I blame him.

Not that the party wasn’t well worth it…

Ya know, it’s not a good idea to allow drunk people pour their own drinks. There is a reason why open bars are regulated...as in, there's a bartender. But at a VIP table, with a bucket of ice, two bottles, and nonstop chasers, what makes you think I’m NOT going to wild out?

Well I was doing really well. Btwn the dance floor and the table, I had it under control for the most part. Kid Capri was murdering the crowd with hit after hit after hit [that's Capri via my photo vision by the end of the night]. Even the west coast shit was hot. So I’m walking from the bathroom and I run into Entourage who is in his full element. So I walk behind him back to the dance floor when we run into this tall white girl who is not faring so well. Apparently these two South Side Chicago-type hardcore chicks stepped on her foot and she reached out as a reflex to try to regain her balance. But the girls thought she was swinging at them.

So Entourage, ever the hero to a damsel in distress, steps in and stands between the burgeoning melee. The black girls of course are bout it, and the white girl is of course cowering, and I’m slightly amused. I really just wanted them to move so I could get back to the Kevin Garnet look alike I left on the floor.

So I lean over to one of the sistas, smirk and say, “Don’t even waste your drink on her.”
But home girl took it as me taking the other side.

“What??!” And before I know it the attention is averted from the real offender and now on me. So I step a step closer and look her in the eye to let her know I’m not playing either and repeat myself.
“I SAID…don’t waste your drink on that girl!” And then I punctuate it with a slight head lean and a raised eyebrow. The Rock style.

They smell what Wise is cooking, back off and disperse…and I exhale dramatically. I ain’t no punk chick…I’ve been known to get it poppin for less than this. And a chance to show off in front of Boss of Me, who thinks he’s my dad and would be so proud of me if I beat some bitch’s azz? What?

But really, I just didn’t have the wind to be throwing bows. I swallowed most of my energy three Stolis ago. I had just enough for the upcoming reggae mix, and MAYBE another two “get lows.” [this of course after a brief, but mandatory (and involuntary) pass-out on the couch]

And I didn’t want to spill my damn drink.

I find out the next morning that Entourage went home with the white girl…only because he forgot to get the room key from Pac and Stay Hype. He slept on her couch in the basement of some house in the burbs.

He always tells me when he smashes. And this time, for whatever reason, he didn’t.
I however, did briefly entertain the thought of smashing the KG lookalike. I gave him my card and he was blowing up my biz phone all night. Mighta been a decent look…had the Boss of Me not escorted me safely back to the telly.

Caution!

Next up…the dramatic conclusion of WHAT HAPPENED IN VEGAS…a sista is gettin tired!

THIS JUST IN..."Why I Allegedly Have Suge's Sweat on My Shoulder"

See the sweat beads drowning Mr. Suge's forehead? [this guy was in line for a pic right before me...so in essence, yes, I had time to deduct that I was waiting in line for a gangster] ...perhaps the sweat was caused by this...



From AllHipHop.com:
Rap-A-Lot CEO James Prince Subpoened In Suge Knight Case
By Nolan Strong
Date: 4/17/2006 6:40 pm

Prince and Marion "Suge" Knight. Prince, owner of Rap-A-Lot and Prince Boxing, was served with the subpoena while sitting ringside at the IBF Welterweight Championship bout between "Pretty Boy" Floyd Mayweather and Zab "Super" Judah on Saturday, April 8.

Harris' lawyer Steve Goldberg will question Prince on Thursday, April 20 in Houston, seeking knowledge about the relationship between Prince and Knight.

"They have a relationship, they were sitting side by side at the [Floyd] Mayweather fight and we are seeking to determine the depth of their business relationship," Goldberg told AllHipHop.com. "We believe that Mr. Prince may owe Mr. Harris a substantial amount of money."

Goldberg said he believes Knight and Prince have several unnamed joint ventures together. "I look forward to getting into the nitty-gritty of the financial dealings between Mr. Prince and Mr. Knight," Goldberg told AllHipHop.com.

"I plan to leave no stone unturned."

Knight filed for bankruptcy earlier this month, claiming debts of more than $100 million. Knight said he filed for bankruptcy in an attempt to avoid paying Harris' estranged wife Lydia a $107 million default judgement against Knight and Death Row Records.

Harris, who is serving a 28-year sentence for attempted-murder and drug dealing in San Quentin, claims he invested $1.5 million to help start Death Row Records in 1991 with Knight's attorney, David Kenner.

The label released platinum records by Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, Tha Dogg Pound, Tupac Shakur and others. The Harris' won a default judgement, after Knight missed several hearings seeking to determine his assets. While Knight and Prince have never formally announced a business venture, rumors have persisted for years that Prince and Knight were planning a record distribution company.

Now back to our regularly scheduled program, which is already in progress...

"The Fight": WHAT HAPPENED IN VEGAS…PT III

Last time on “WHAT HAPPENED IN VEGAS…” (PT II)

...The time before the last time on “WHAT HAPPENED IN VEGAS…” (PT I)

And now, today’s feature: “The Fight”

[Saturday morning at brunch]

“Where we going tonight, bitches?!”

The Fight.

“Bourgie” finagles us into another limo to the Floyd Mayweather/Zab Judah fight. I’m not sure of what to expect, but I’m certain that at least 2 of my 3 requirements for success will be in abundance. And were they ever…

We roll up to the Thomas & Mack Center (where UNLV plays), and saunter past a sea of Boys and get in line for some Booze.

I actually manage to smuggle a flask of Grey Goose and cran past security and I’m sipping and sinking into the scene.

It was like a rap concert. That’s the only thing I can compare it to. Not everyone is there to see the fight…they’re there to be seen. And this is where I finally get a good dose of hoochies.

My boys are so ridiculous about it, flat out pointing from point blank range at women’s azzes. Making comments. Actually SAYING shit to them. They're behaving like the losers I blog about. I have to sober up a second and ask them sincerely if what I’m seeing isn’t make believe.

“Did you actually just point your camera phone at that woman’s behind?”
“Yeah, but the one with the big titties got in the way.”
Just checking.

“Well DAAAAAYUMMMM! Look at the sack on THAT cat!” I say. “I KNOW I’m not the only one who sees that dude’s azz!”
“Shut the hell up, Wise. Go take a picture of that stallion chick in the white cat suit for me.”
Point well taken.

Well a scene is not a scene unless there are some famous folk. And there are plenty. (NBA) Steve “Tricky” Smith. Fellow fighter Antonio Tarver. Patriots' Willie McGinest (pictured here). The Maloof Brothers (who own the Sacramento Kings and the Palms hotel/casino). Beyonce. Christina Aguillera. Luda.

I live in NYC, and don’t usually get antsy when I see money walking toward me…but I go absolutely 106 & Park when they show Usher, Magic, and Hov on the jumbotron before the main event. Yeah, this is my first fight.

So if you’ve seen the highlights (or by now the actual fight in its entirety) you know them boys put on quite a show. Despite the odds (I’m in Vegas so I know all about the “odds” and shit like that), Zab was actually bringing it in the early rounds. And the crowd was loving him. Many more random “Judah! Judah!” outbursts than “Floyd! Floyd!”

Then the brawl.

Then the decision.

Then the after party...

My boy Bourgie isn’t so successful this time with the limo…twice in one night would be asking a lot…so we troop through the parking lot past an insane line for taxis.

You can probably sense a pattern here, and I swear I’m no alcoholic…but I AM tossed. We pass Tarver and Steve Smith again (who I later think is stalking me…stay tuned)…and just kind of mingle with the crowd.

It’s a nice night… I have my legs out… dudes are showing off, and my boys (my big bro Anger Management in particular) are not happy about it. But I lay it on thick, and pose for dudes who are pointing their camera phones at his sister, Wise. Touche.

I even go so far as to grab up a piece of yellow police tape from the ground, let it hang from the back pocket of my skirt and prance.

“You got something on your skirt, boo.” That’s what the boys say.
“Uh huh. CAUTION, baby.” That’s what I reply.

My brother is livid and walks way ahead. [and refuses to honor request and take a pic of my backside]

As I haggle behind, I’m aware enough to notice an out of place Maybach. I survey the scene and identify some young scrub dudes gathering.

Oh shit! Shut up!! Who he bout to get killed tonight??

I get my prance on right toward him, letting the night breeze caress my bare thighs.

Since my crew is yards ahead of me, I turn to one of the scrub hangers on and say, “Please don’t run off with my camera…but can you take this flick?” Scrub dude agrees. Looks too high to run anyway. [note: I don’t smoke]

Then I turn to HIM.

“Mr. Suge, will you pose with me?”
“Of course, honey.”

This large arm around my shoulder feels a lil less sexy than the night before.

Suge Knight has years of blood on his hands and now they are hooked around my back. I’m daydreaming about a lifeless Tupac, and a dangling Vanilla Ice, and yet I’m carefree…but only because there are no Bloods or Crips visible in the vicinity. I am, however, slightly concerned about the buckets of sweat dripping from this negro’s forehead…like he just violated parole or something. Oh.

I catch up to my crew at this cute little liquor store at the end of the parking lot and show them the pics on my digi. They can’t believe my balls. Balls? It’s Vegas. It’s rubbing off on me.

“Anger Management, Suge could have snapped my fcuking neck, and you were nowhere to be found.”
“Wise, he could have snapped your neck if I was carrying you on my back.” True...

Anger Management walks off to find a bottle opener…meanwhile, there is a sudden swarm of young sexies around me. I keep it movin, and prance to checkout, where the rest of my crew is gathered.

“I’m telling Mommy you had your legs out,” says my play brother “London Bridge.”
“Here, take a picture and email it to her,” I say.
“Ok Wise, this whole “Caution” thing is a bit much for me,” chimes in Anger Management.

I pull the caution tape out of my pocket, toss it in the trash, buy a 6 pack of Coronas for me and my big bro, and we’re on our way to Hard Rock Cafe.

Next up…“How The White Chick Almost Got Me Jumped”: PT IV

BUFFETS, BOOZE & BOYS: “WHAT HAPPENED IN VEGAS" PT II

Last time on WHAT HAPPENED IN VEGAS...

Today's episode...BUFFETS, BOOZE & BOYS:

I love to eat, get drunk and flirt, and not always necessarily in that order…These are my main objectives for the trip.

Every casino has some sort of theme or m.o. that range from cheesy to high roller. You’ve seen them on TV and in movies. (I couldn’t help but daydream about George Clooney in Ocean’s 11 as I scoped out the beautiful Bellagio).

There are at least 2 common themes among all the spots: Buffets and Booze.

The first day I wander into the exit door of a hotel buffet (sorry, I don’t remember what I had been drinking)…and enjoy all the mashed potatoes, turkey, salad, cookies, Diet Pepsi, etc. I can eat.

And it’s on the house…and the house has no idea I was ever there…several times. Free food is second only to free hooch…

So the other thing about these casino/hotels is that basically if you’re spending money, whether on slots or at tables, the ambitious barmaids will come around and take your (complimentary) drink orders. Not any bullshit happy hour rail rinks either. Oh no. I’m talking bout OD’ing on Absolut at little low class spots like the one across from the Venetian.

And it’s at this same spot that I borrow my cousin’s dollar card and win $77 on a penny slot machine.

“(Free) round on Wise! Vegas, bitches!”

Barmaid loves us!

I don’t know why I severely underestimated Caesar’s Palace, but it was amazing! Spent lots of time there with our friends “ATL” and “TX,” who were guests there. The architecture on that place is unbelievable, and it’s huge enough to house several nightclubs, bars, obviously a theater (they’re already promoting an upcoming Seinfeld performance scheduled for August), and a mall. High end. Fendi. La Perla. Jimmy Choo. Boss. [funny thing, I was just watching a rerun of my guilty pleasure, Super Sweet 16 on MTV...and the girl who jumped into her daddy's private jet to go to Vegas to find a dress was shopping at The Shops at Caesars.]

Friday night, get dolled up and head back to Caesar’s to party. Ahhhh, the Boys…

We get VIP tickets to this spot in Caesars called OPM (“opium”), and arrive promptly (read: late) at close to 11:30. As we make our way past another jam packed party at a club called Pure, I turn the corner with my crew and my knees almost buckle. The Boy of all Boys is headed toward me. No one’s blurred vision is sharper than mine at this point, and I double back and approach him.

“Laveranues.”
“Yes?”
“I think you are so beautiful. You’re an amazing athlete, but after seeing you on Oprah I think you’re an amazing man.”
“Thank you so much.” He is absolutely flushed, almost timid, and/or drunk/high. He’s alone, and looks lost. His voice is like a shy child’s.
“I want to give you a hug,” I say.
“Come here.” His strong football boy arms wrap around my waist and back, shooting fire to all points south. There go my damn knees again. I wink. He smiles. I’m wet the rest of the damn night.

Truth be told, I was so hot and horny at that point, any sexy beast would have sufficed. By no means am I a NY Jets fan, but I really was so smitten with him after reading his courageous Sunday NY Times admissions, and of course the Oprah appearance, that I was ablaze. My crew can’t believe my balls. Balls? It’s Vegas. It’s rubbing off on me.

“Why you didn’t let me take a pic of you and him, Wise?” asks “Stay Hype.”
“It’s not about the pic. It’s about our connection. He’s amazing,” I answer, laughing sarcastically, but only 1% kidding.
“I can’t believe you run into this nigga and you pull the Oprah card!” says “Entourage.”

Hater!

We finally approach OPM and the line snakes out into the mall like a mob of kids awaiting their turn on Santa’s lap.

This is apparently my boy “Bourgie’s” element. He is the baller of our crew (and a very pretty muhfucka), and his swagger is on full display from the time earlier in the evening that he politics with the doorman of our telly to get us a limo. All without dropping the Cohiba from his lips.

So Bourgie is front and center at the door of the club, and maneuvers us into the bouncers’ radar. Good boy. Now, “Entourage” is also on call here. He’s my best friend from college, whose claim to fame is that he hangs tight with a lot of the athletes we went to school with. In fact, this is his third time in Vegas. The first two times were on an NFL pro bowler’s dime.

Coincidentally, quite a few of our fellow alum are in the house, and Entourage could have easily slipped in with them, because he’s broad like a linebacker, and fine too. But instead, he’s loyal to our crew and he sticks around as the second string, in case Bourgie can’t handle the task.

They operate and work us a deal to bypass the line: $200 to bypass the line, then $20 for ladies, $30 for guys, and a couple of bottles.

We’re down.

I count up the posse…where the hell are “ATL” and “TX”? They’re staying in Caesars, so they’re on their way down from their room. 10 minutes later and Bourgie’s panties are in a frenzy, he’s worried all his hard work with the bouncer is about to go up in flames. They finally arrive. The crew is anxious now, ready to get in there and put the “sin” in Sin City.

Final head count. Hold up…one, two, three….. nine... Where in the hell is “MIA”?

She’s…MIA, of course. Hmm. “She said she was going to find an ATM…but that was like 10 minutes ago,” my cousin “Oh Canada” informs us.

Ok, cool. Let’s wait. We’re cool.

Not Bourgie. He is beet red by now. And without his cigar he’s on edge.

“Old boy is gonna forget the deal he just quoted me. Let me go talk to him.” Ok good. Keep poor Bourgie occupied.

10 minutes later he’s back with great news. Not only did he just save a bundle on his car insurance, but he also gets another bouncer to cut the damage in half. Only $100. Oh shit, we’re absolutely beside ourselves now.

And the DJ is playing “The Benjamins”.

Aight, let’s make moves like Debbie Allen. Head count…nine…where the fcuk is MIA? Still MIA??

20 minutes later. Finally I go walking back through the mall and see no trace of her. I go back to the crew who is now all slump-shouldered and dejected. And divided and indecisive. Bourgie is beside himself.

“Let’s go, y’all,” I say. “I don’t see her. Let’s just go in and party. She must know how to get back to the telly if she’s breaking out and not telling anyone.”

But sadly, ‘Let’s Make a Deal’ bouncer has been replaced by ‘Get Money’ bouncer, who has now doubled the price of admission. $300. Ladies $40. Dudes $60.

“I feel so played. I worked harder than I did all week at my baller job and now we fcuked it all up!” Bourgie wants to be recognized for his efforts…and rightfully so. But now’s not the time, bitch.

There’s a flurry of vitriolic sentiments flying and I can’t believe what I’m hearing. The entire time no one can make a damn decision. We’re all, “Whatever,” and “Don’t matter to me.” So I flip the hell out… a bit of a repeat performance from the airport a day earlier… and I start cussing everyone out.

Then shortly afterward, we walk back out of the mall…and end up salty, drinking at some consolation spot called Shadow. They didn't play "The Benjies." :(

We get back to our room early that morning, and MIA is there, fast asleep. The next morning I have no intentions on even mentioning the night before. “Oh Canada” is on a passive-aggressive silent retreat. She gets up early, jumps in the shower, grabs the room key and bounces.

“How was the club, Wise?” MIA asks when she wakes up.
“We didn’t go in because we were waiting for you to get back from the ATM.”
“But I called “Oh Canada’ to tell her I was going back to the hotel.”
“And she called you several times and got no answer.”

MIA gets herself washed up without another word from me…and is MIA again. I still don’t know where she was all day.

I brush it off. The night before I decide I’m not gonna have a repeat performance, just not feeling going out at all. Not pissed, just not feeling the whole scene.

By lunchtime at the hotel buffet, I get my second wind.

“Where we going tonight, bitches?!”

Part III..."Fight Night"

What Happened in Vegas...PT I

Reporting live from Atlanta’s Hartsfield Airport on a 4 hour layover (during morning rush hour mind you, or I woulda been out of this shit hole and in Bankhead looking for TI the King of the Souf) [photos to come]

In summary…VEGAS IS THE SHIT!

Thursday…The Journey:

We miss our flight.

Fcuking around leaving late, making stops on the way to the airport (ok, guilty… I had to make a trip deposit at the bank). We all accept the blame…but I had to be an azz and ask my brother who was driving, if he had a clean license…because I simply couldn’t condone him driving a mere 70 mph as we face the possibility of missing a night on the left coast.

But alas, we get there 11 minutes after baggage check closes for the flight. But luckily we manage to get a later flight to ATL, which gets us on the same connecting flight we’re scheduled on originally. And for once, my brother, who we’ll call “Anger Management,” doesn’t blow a fuse, and instead succeeds in hustling us out of the extra 25 buck fee for changing flights.

I had neither the patience nor the sobriety. Didn’t take long for me to start cussing out the Delta Airlines representative. I digress….

So I’m traveling with:

“Anger Management (AM),” my older brother

“London Bridge (LB),” my brothers’ best friend, who I also consider a big brother

And the “Codependent Couple” (CC), a friend we grew up with and his baby moms, who we’ve also known forever.

So as we’re polying to get rebooked and checked in, I’m furiously texting my other brother, who we’ll call “The Boss of Me.” He’s out of town on biz, and is meeting us in Vegas on Saturday. He foregoes texting me back and instead calls me laughing and asking all the right questions ("How drunk are you bastards?"). As I’m struggling to recall what we’ve all consumed, I look up and AM is posing for pictures with Buffalo Bills Hall of Fame QB Jim Kelly. (PS - not sure about the time stamp on that photo, but it was taken 4/6/06. That's my brother "Anger Management," blurred out)

My brother is a lifelong Cowboys fan, so it’s all the more of an azzhole statement when he looks Jim in the eye and says, “Thanks for all the great years, Jim.” I’m crying laughing now, and "The Boss of Me" is howling in my ear.

Later AM tells me he also told Jim, “I’m really sorry to hear about Hunter. He was a brave young man.” He's an azzhole for sure, but AM is also a dad, so I know that at least that sentiment was sincere.

So we pass the time at a pizza/bar, of course. Since about noon I’ve been nursing a Sprite bottle, my makeshift flask, filled with Malibu rum on the rocks.

Not my usual fare, but it’s light and smooth…and there was a bottle of it at my house leftover from my birthday dinner.

By the time we get to ATL for our connecting flight, I’m pleasantly tossed. My brother “London Bridge” (more on the name later) is a smoker, so after checking the boarding time at our gate, and finding that it’s delayed by about 25 minutes, we post up in the cigarette room, have a round of Coronas and wait. We meet up with my boys “Stay Hype” and “Pac” there, and we quickly get lost in the anticipation of our Manifest Destiny…so much so that we don’t hear the alleged last calls that the obnoxiously flamboyant gate boy insists he’s been repeating ad naseum. Turns out the gate time posted was wrong and the boarding time was indeed 25 minutes prior.

I immediately text “The Boss of Me” to tell him we almost miss 2 flights in one day.
===

Have you ever flown into LaGuardia, or say O’Hare or Louie Armstrong…and notice how usually when you get off the plane there are like, restrooms right outside the gates?

Not in Vegas, baby.

I thought it was a joke when I heard there are slot machines in the airport.

Not only were there slot machines, them sons a bitches are damn near on the tarmac.

Muhfucking Vegas!

Oh yeah, Bow Wow was on our flight from ATL…and I’ll be damned if he doesn’t stand all of 3 apples high. I got speakers taller than that kid. The best part was that no one cared that he was there (with one brolic bodyguard). Ok there was one girl who asked to take a pic with him at baggage claim, and I tried to piggyback and take a flick with my phone to send to my niece, but he turned away mad quickly[that's is his back]. But trust, these are indeed his freshazimiz braids. [pic taken with my cellie]

Amidst severe overpopulation at baggage claim, we manage to coordinate our arrival with my cousins “Oh Canada” and “MIA,” and head to the telly.

Over the next 36 hours “Boss of Me,” “Bourgie Boy” and “Entourage” join us to round out the travel crew.

The Strip, Spics & Sluts:

The next 4 days are spent wandering The Strip, pilfering hotel buffets, ping ponging through casinos playing slots, getting shit faced and modestly tan.

If you’ve never been, I will do my best to compile the So Wise “Everything You Need To Know About Vegas” list, but for now here’s the deal. Basically the Strip is a 5-mile road that is home to hotels/casinos and restaurants and shopping and sight seeing. Think Times Square if it spanned from like 14th Street to 42nd…think Times Square back in the smut days.

Spics…

Ya know, I’ve never heard a Latino call his hermano o hermana a “spic.” I’ve heard them say “nigga”, tho.

Anywho, there are none here. These are hard working Mexicans, and I say that sincerely without sarcasm. I can only imagine the powerful imagine it would send to Capitol Hill if the Latin population in Vegas was to protest the immigration bill along the Strip.

Let’s just say they appear to run this town, and I ain’t mad at ‘em. They contribute to a real genuine diversity in LV that I sense immediately, and enjoy immensely. There’s a little bit of everybody there, doing a little bit of everything. My crew blends in nicely.

So the first thing we learn as we step out onto the Strip on Friday afternoon is that Vegas has lots of freebies to offer. No sooner do we pass by a “Dirty Babes and Beer” marquee, are we accosted by a bevy of street salesmen and women.

“Are any of you a couple?” [so they can offer you free tickets to shows]

“How long are you in town? [so they can invite you to some promo presentations about various shows, products, services]

“Want girls?” [so you can get to know them?? Huh?]

This was a very frequent inquiry, usually spoken in broken English. The Mexicans get their hustle on promoting escort services. They wear their shirts that say, “Girls,” have a blond in a slutty backshot pose and a phone number.

After passing through a gauntlet of them for like the whole first mile and a half of walking, reaching over me to get to my boys, I start asking, “Got Boys?” all of a sudden they don’t speak no English.

White trash ain’t even standing in nobody’s hot azz sun handing out no soft porn postcards. F immigration laws. Open the borders, dammit. Puta.

Sluts...

I expected to see so many more, and I didn’t have the pleasure of seeing any. In fact, there seemed to be more couples than anything, and not too much T&A to speak of. At least not during the day. There was a fair share of skin shown after hours, but even that was tame compared to a night out on 23rd St in the city.

I personally find Vegas to be counterproductive to quality time with the honey…I think I prefer it as a Homey Weekend destination. But then there are lots of places like this to get your cuddle on…

But I think perhaps the new millennium slut is actually a preppy dude in cargo shorts and short sleeve Polo. Now THEY were on the prowl. And I LOVED it!

Up next… PT II..."Buffets, Booze & Boys”

Part III..."The Fight"

Westsiiiiiide, Bitches!

Who the fcuk says, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas?”
Who made that shit up? And who’s boss enough of me to enforce it?

Sean Paul will be at House of Blues on Friday night. The Mayweather/Judah fight is Saturday. This is probably Spring Break for many.

I’m headed to Vegas folks, and I’m telling EVERYTHING!

Stay tuned...

Penis = Pay...An Addendum

[NYC Subway]


And why in the hell are you picking up this strange woman (with her own whip) for a first date?

In your car??

Confined and trapped??

With the obligation to take her home afterwards in uncomfortable silence if the date bombs??!

Ladies...are you really getting into a car with dude that grabbed your azz/hand on your way to the unisex bathroom at the club??

Leaving your car keys at the crib??

AND Y'ALL AIN'T NEVER RAN UP NO ANYTIME MINUTES??!!

Whoa.

Penis = Pay

Had an interesting chat this weekend...

Stevie: “I actually sat down the other day and did some math…and I discovered that with the money I spent on first dates alone in the past year, I could have put a deck on my house.”

Wise: “Damn, B. For real, a deck? That’s the American dream. And you have neither dream nor weatherproof azz to show for it.”

Stevie is a client of mine. He’s a guy of few words, so if he ever picks up the phone and calls me, I know it’s about some business we couldn’t easily handle via email. But we spend countless hours on the phone talking about dating. He’s a straight guy in ATL…which I always thought meant a daily Lotto jackpot. But, alas, he's at his wit’s end with dating, and finds many ways to express his frustration.

Stevie: "I kid you not, Wise. A deck."

But whose fault is that?

Why are you boys breaking the bank on chicks you don’t know?

And why is it taking you 2 and 3 dates to figure out that she’s just not feeling you?

YES, you cheap bastard...men should pay. Why?

Answer: Because you asked her out.
Answer: Because you’re taking her out with the expressed intent to hit it.
Answer: Because you’re the man.

You ARE the man, right?

Take it or leave it, it’s called chivalry, it’s not dead, and no matter how independent women are these days [read: how independent they NEED TO BE], this is one of the rules of dating that should not be compromised. For several reasons…

1. Forget examining on an individual basis, I don’t care what she does for a living, and I don’t really care who asked who out….you’re there to get her to sleep with you. She’s there for the free meal and to gauge the probability of sleeping with you. You pay for the meal; she pays for the decision.

2. The moment the check comes is a commonly awkward one…so why not man up and take care of it and make the transition smoother? Boom, you meet a woman, you take her out…if for no other reason than that you don’t wanna hear her fcuking mouth later on, pay for the damn date. Shit, is that so difficult??

3. It sets the tone early. Dudes are scared that by always paying she will think you’re Mr. Money Bags. No, no. What it says is that you have established yourself as someone who is thoughtful, dependable, and reasonable (attributes that all translate well sexually). It says, this is A MAN.

And please save that sorry azz: “Do you want me to pay for that?”

It doesn’t work. You think you’re showing that you have good intentions, but what it’s really showing is your passive-aggressive way of having us ask you to pay for it. Bitch move.

Splitting the bill is actually very fair, but again, beware of the message it is sending the woman whose draws you’re imagining from across the table.

Personally, I always grab the bill to pay. Not split, but pay. And for sure if I do the asking out. Why? Because it’s slightly emasculating and I want to see how the guy will handle that.

And because I can.
[Chicks who go on dates without a dime to their name are obviously just there for the wings. Don’t get it twisted.]

But the question remains…Why are you blowing your deck money on a complete stranger in the first place?

Would you spend dough you don’t have on an expensive electronic or even a discount CD or book without first reading the back or the instructions of the specifications?

How stupid would you feel if you got home and realized that software doesn’t work with your Windows XP?

So why then take a woman out to a restaurant or two, wasting not only your time, but your hard earned, without first knowing what you’re in for? Shouldn’t you know by then if she’s into you?

Instead of bitching and moaning and giving reasons why the woman should sometimes pay, or why you should split, consider an alternative…and I know it s a radical one…

When getting to know someone, spend some time talking on the phone first. Better yet, shoot them an email or two. Get to know if this is someone you would even want to spend an hour or two with.

So many of my dudes, like Stevie, tell me about bad dates where the convo was lame, or she didn’t get his sense of humor, or they just had nothing to talk about. But that’s what the phone is for. Call her up. Tell a joke or two. Is she responding?? Did you get a dial tone?

This will save you at the very least the cost of supplies, if not labor.

And even more radical, and I’ll leave you with this…why not ditch the dinner and movie, and get to know her over coffee or drinks? It’s cheap, it’s casual, and if it sucks, it’s not hard to break out, cut your losses and go grab a brew and plot your next move toward your American dream.