A Maxwell Sighting and other BET craziness...

Now normally, I watch about as much BET as R. Kelly does ID checks, but last night, I was chatting with some friends and the subject was the BET awards. For the second or third straight year, BET put on an outlandishly ridiculous show only to bring it home with a great tribute to a legendary musical figure from back in the day. This year's honoree was the man with the unmistakable voice...and unmistakable kitchen burns, Reverend Al Green. While everyone who performed with one of the kings of Soul did well, there wasn't a dry pair of women's undergarments across America when the homeboy Maxwell sauntered onto the stage and did his thing.

Maxwell's like the Dick Cheney of R&B; NOBODY knows where that man at when something goes down. However, minus his trademark fro, he made an appearance last night and tore the house down. I'm secure enough in my masculinity to admit that Maxwell is a talented dude. Playing a Maxwell album when you have company is the romantic and erotic equivalent to Mariano Rivera in 1998 coming on to the hill for the Yankees; the ULTIMATE closer. Fans of his music have been waiting forever to see if he's still alive, much less ready to release some new material. According to his MySpace page, he's supposed to drop an album at the end of this year. Only time will tell.

About Al Green...can you blame him if he's the only black person in America that doesn't like grits? Just a thought. I mean, you give me a big ol bowl of Cream of Wheat, some sugar and some old Hanna Barbera cartoons and I'm good to go. However, I don't expect whenever Al eats breakfast with family or friends that grits is ever on the menu. "Hey Rev. Al, we got pancakes, bacon, eggs, scrapple...*whispers* dammit Joe, put the hominy box away, now!"

I have a friend, very lovely woman who's also in my chosen profession...who's into Chris Brown. Now ladies, I know the boy just turned 19, but y'all need to stop with the Mrs. Robinson fantasies, it's getting out of control, LOL...on second though, since I have a slight thing for Rihanna....nevermind. Seduce his young ass.

While self-confidence is a beautiful thing, Ashanti kinda sorta took it too far last night when she said she had that "good good." I think that's pretty self explanatory. I mean when you're alone with someone and you kinda want to tell them you've got what it takes to satisfy them (much like me and my offbeat references to my lips and tongue), that's fine. Broadcasting to a few million viewers, not so much.

Alicia Keys is getting thick, and I love it. As I've said before, I have no qualms about dating petite to Big and Beautiful women, so Alicia putting on some weight only makes me lust after her even harder. Jennifer Hudson was off the hinges last night as well. All these fine, thick women with men, I might have to start eliminating cats, Rambo-style.

That's pretty much a summary of the Awards, if you missed it, you know BET's going to replaying 46,000 times, so pick a time, bare through the b.s. and get to the Al Green performance if you can...*sings* Luuuv and Happinesshhhh....yeah....love'll make ya do wrong....but Grits'll make ya call God...

"He's Starting To Heat Up Here..."

I'm having a bad weekend. I feel fatter than normal, even more unattractive than I already believe I am, and to make matters worse, I scrubbed the skin of my neck sore in the shower yesterday. OCD is NOT my friend. It carried over to my morning stay at the basketball court today. I missed everything at first. Lay-ups, short jumpers, three-pointers and free throws go without saying, I've never been good at those. I got so pissed that I eventually kicked my basketball over the hill behind the courts and took my sweet time to go get it.

As I got it and came back around the side of the hill, I was SO angry, I decided I was going to keep shooting until the net started ripping consistently, which is just what happened. I relaxed, let fly, followed through and let the beautiful sound of swish after swish waft through my ears. My nine foot bank shot from each side of the basket was even hitting after a few minutes. I was finally satisfied with making about 12 of my last 20 shots (60 percent is a GREAT one shooting), so I did my final routine of bouncing the ball of the basket in front of me, driving the length of the floor to the other basket and finishing with a lay-up, and jogging to my car straight ahead.

Moral of the story: Determination. If you REALLY want something to go your way, you'll make it work somehow, someway. I want to apply that determination to things beyond an hour and 15 minutes spent shooting baskets, but I'm still struggling with how to go about it. All I know is I CAN'T quit. If women aren't going to like me, then I need to be ready to spend my life alone and like myself doing it. In the meantime, I'll keep shooting for something. Maybe for my own happiness.

Good Thoughts, Bad Thoughts

In this ongoing process of becoming a better person physically, mentally and emotionally (I need to throw spiritually in there as well, but baby steps), there are a ton of mishaps and mistakes along the way that you make, but the general idea of those screw-ups is that you learn from them so you don't do it again. Apparently, the bridge-burner that lives inside of me must've scored that memo with the first touch. I have problems swallowing my rage and anger and saying some things that I regret within seconds of them leaving my mouth or fingers. By that time, it's usually too late to take it back and I'm ass-out like a sista wearing a thong. So in another cathartic post, where I lay my cards on the table, I'm going to acknowledge things that I might not want to, but hopefully getting it out in blog form will help me fix this foolishness before I really screw myself over.

For all of my good traits my friends and readers have listed that they see in me, there is a darker side to Chris that usually presents itself at the worst of times. Those dark traits are things that I really don't like, but have come to rely on as a defense mechanism, something like a salve to ease the pain and suffering I feel like I deal with. I guess for all the old soul characteristics I display, the immaturity of having the last word is something that I can't seem to shake. And it's come back to bite me in the ass more often than I'd like.

For one, I'm a very needy person. Yeah, I said it. I feel like if no one tells me they care or that they like me or that they see something good in me, then I must be a total failure. Sometimes that leads to a little -- o.k., we're being honest here, screw it...a lot -- of fishing for positive feedback, compliments, kind words, the desire to have sex with me...it's all a trip. I guess that comes from the lack of self confidence that I'm still dealing with deep into my 20s. I have NO idea what it's going to take for me to find some sort of inner peace and self love, but I welcome the day when that happens.

Also, I'm pretty good at being jealous/envious/a hater. I never really say how I feel at the risk of rocking the boat with the people I care about as friends and family, but EVERY TIME I hear about someone I know entering into a new relationship, especially with someone else I know, I'm like, "God, I wish they'd crawl under a rock." And that's not necessarily a reflection of anger or hatred at them, it's more like "why can't I have what everyone else has?" Or, admittedly, in quite a few cases it is a feeling of "Why didn't she want me? What's so freakin' great about him?" I always feel like the fifth wheel a lot of times because most of the people I know are dating someone or dating each other, and I'm the lone oddball that can't even get a date, let alone a relationship.

Thirdly, sometimey, to quote my mom, is something I do very well, especially when I don't get my way. That girl who hit me with the 90-day rule? Ask me if I've talked to her since she found my blog and got on my case about being selfish and childish. I haven't. I can't tell you how many people -- alright, here's that honest thing again...WOMEN -- have IMed me and sent me e-mails wondering why I don't talk to them anymore. Yet of course, the beauty of being stubborn and abrasive like I can be is that you can pawn off the explanation of "I don't owe anybody anything," as a suitable reply. That's really just my way of saying, "since you have no interest in me beyond friendship, I'm not going to make a fool of myself and my feelings any longer." I guess I become a hypocrite of the highest level when I say I want honesty and truth from women, but I hide behind a cookie cutter reason when the time comes for me to explain myself. Yes indeed, I've got a lot to work on.

My worst transgression, however, is one that I get mad at myself for because I know I'm dead wrong and that I should never let my temporary anger get in the way of potential positive situations. I can be, and have been the cruelest, most ignorant, evil, disrespectful so and so during the course of an argument. Hence the burning bridges portion of this entry. When I'm mad, you'll know it, because I'll say some off the wall stuff that will either make you laugh or really hurt your feelings and question if I'm even the same person I was before the disagreement began. Ranging from "find out who the father of your kids is," to "Good luck working at McDonalds with a degree in communications," I've said some wrong things to women during an argument that usually has to deal with either of the previous two situations before this one.

As I said before, that need to have the last word, the desire to hurt more than I feel hurt is something that has cost me a lot of friends and potential relationships over the years because of my lack of patience and understanding, absence of self confidence, and a general disregard for common sense. As my grandmother used to say, "Common sense ain't that damn common!" Well, at least I know what I need to improve on in the negative aspects of my life as well as lifting up and promoting the positive ones. I just wish I could stop hurting people while doing it.

Eff It Fridays

A co-worker and classmate of mine at Delaware State University had two days of the week that she really looked forward to -- she called them "Wild Out Wednesday" and "F*** it Friday."  Well today, readers of my blog, is my own personal f*** it Friday, and I'm about to list the things I am so over as the mercury inches back up towards 90 here in the depths of hell...I mean Southern Maryland.

Things that Chris is so over:

Obama drama.  I can't have an opinion one way or another in my chosen profession, but it is mighty annoying, all the barbs being thrown his way.

The Boston Celtics.  Although I am not a Laker fan, it's in my blood to beef with Boston...the Celtics and the Sixers hated each other when my mother was just a small girl.  Last night's game was NOT a good look.  I can hear the irritating, insufferable and annoying Boston sports fans now.  "PAHK DA CAH IN HAH-VAHD YAHD!"  I'll just counter with "18-1."  I'm so evil, LOL

This heat.  Usually in Delaware, the heat wave alerts don't start until after Independence Day. Down here?  We've already had one heat wave and gearing up for a second one next week.  Wonderful.  If nothing else I'll drop about 15-20 pounds of sweat during the summer, which is a good look (I'm just a few measly pounds away from getting back under 3 bills, be proud of me y'all!)

Joan Clayton.  While I watched Girlfriends strictly for the lusciousness that is Jill Marie Jones, I did see the episode where Joan (played by the shapely Tracee Ellis Ross) talks about her "three-month rule."  Basically, the rule means that she won't sleep with a guy that's she's dealing with for the first three months of the relationship/courtship/kicking it/talking/whatever.  I've recently been victimized by this rule and it just reminds me why I'm always in trouble with women.  I guess I ain't all that if restrictions are being put on me.

As an extension, I'm definitely over being told how to feel, how to think and what to want.  The bottom line is that just because I don't fit the description of Boris Kodjoe, 50 Cent, LL Cool J, LeBron James or whoever women would drop the drawers for, doesn't make me any less of a man with desires, needs, and wants.  Or that just makes me a jerk, but whatever.

Portion Control.  Damn this is tough.  Maybe I've got a tapeworm and don't know it, but it's tough to eat less than what you're used to eating.  Eating different foods, no problem.  Keep it to a minimum, not so much.  Oh well, I'm getting there.

Maryland State Troopers.  'Nuff Said.

Not having cable.  With me having to switch car insurance providers, my jonesing for regular TV has  been put on hold once again, and I'm really hating it.  I catch what I can when I'm in the office, but I refuse to sit here at my desk and just watch something because I can't see it at home.  I think it's time for me to sketch out a real budget. I NEED cable.

The length of the Major League Baseball season.  162 games.  Ouch.  My Philadelphia Phillies currently lead the National League East by three games over the second place Florida Marlins, and I'm so scared they'll choke that the Mets did last year, that getting through these next 94 games (or three-plus months) is going to be a challenge.  Pray for me, y'all.

And that's pretty much what I'm over for right now.  The way I feel, this won't be the last time I post about what I'm so over.  It clears my sinuses.

ETA: R. Kelly found not guilty?  I'm SO OVER this pervert and the alleged justice system.  I resign from society.

The Price Of Being Raised Right

As somewhat of a joke, I rep my hometown of Wilmington, Delaware seriously. I can't help but remember the place I spent the first 26 years and three weeks of my life before I embarked on this current journey in October. If you've come in contact with me offline, online, through Blogger, whatever, you can tell that I'm not exactly what Plies would call "street-approved." Considering where I grew up, you'd never believe it.

Much like Anyhood, USA, Wilmington's East Side is faced with deterioration after being pounded relentlessly by the drug game, jobs lost and/or cut along with the White Flight back to the city. Wilmington, once predominately white, turned into a black town during the 1968 riots following the outrage over Dr. King's assassination. Now that Wilmington has become a force in the banking world, urban renewal and gentrification are at an all-time high, and East Side seems to be next on the list for places to be torn down, blacks to be pushed out and whites to be ushered in with a police escort.

I was privy to watch this development, this multi-layered happening from age 10 on, and I was usually the one of the few kids who had a strong family structure that cared what we were doing. My mother, a social worker who dealt with people who felt like her agency owed them money to turn their lights on even though they would spend their money on other things, felt like her kids were not going to be another statistic, so she kept me and my younger sis in after school programs, playing sports, and encouraging us to basically do better.

While we were fortunate enough to have things to distract us from the war zone, my mom did NOT shelter us either. She would tell us about folks she went to school with, use to be pretty/handsome/sharp/slick/fast, and now they're asking folks for a couple of bucks for the next high. It was shocking to see in a lot of cases, and to this day that's why I've never had a drink, much less smoked or sniffed anything.

Before I go any further, this AIN'T a Bill Cosby situation. Never in my wildest dreams will I be removed from inner-city and black life for DECADES, then come running back and telling my people what's wrong with THEM, as if I'm not a part of them or not one of them. I was just fortunate enough to have a mother who cared. I know a gang of kids with the right guidance could be in better positions than I'm in right now.

Such is the dichotomy I'm faced with. I'm proud of where I came from, I'm blessed to have been afforded an opportunity to improve myself. So where do I stand? What side of the fence am I on? Quite frankly, the black side. That's who I am, that's what I'm proud to be, and that's who I want to see excel in the world. The only reason I'm so unsure about these ramblings is that from time to time, my blackness comes into question because of two things; my voice and my upbringing.

My voice, well...Those of you who have heard me on Utterz (blame Jameil) know that despite my heavy stature, dark complexion and strong features, I sound pretty much like a mouse. Or an emo gothic white chick, whichever you prefer. I can't tell you how many times I've either been called Ms. Stevens on the phone or have people's jaws drop when I open my mouth to speak, and that's fine. It's the random "damn you sound white," and "you talk like a white boy" comments that irk my life. Of course that only comes random phone conversations with women I haven't met in person before and it just makes for more self-esteem issues when the "white" thing comes up.

My upbringing, once again I'm fortunate, but I can't help but wonder what life would be like if my mother wasn't as active and involved in our dealings outside of the house? Would I have stayed the course after high school and find my way to DSU and journalism? Would I finally have the courage to speak up and handle my business like an adult should? Sure I might've discovered sex a little quicker, but that's about it. So why do I feel guilty that my mom gave a damn? I have no idea.

The rare times I am back home, I see some guys I grew up with and all they say is "man, you're doing big things, keep it up." And my heart aches for them. Those dudes feel like their lives are over because they're stuck in something right now. I want to say "look, I got lucky. I just was too chicken to do what you guys did, but it ain't over for you yet." Yet and still with a failing economy and laws designed for young black men to fail after making mistakes, I can't help but wonder if I'm hoping against hope.

I've never looked at myself as an Oreo or being special or different because of my voice and upbringing, but I do feel like I question my own blackness because I've never seen my mom strung out on drugs, I didn't have to work odd jobs to put diapers on my younger siblings, and that I never have had the cuffs put on me *knocks on wood*

Another part of me doesn't question it however, because I'm bold enough to check my co-workers on any borderline racist spiel that might be tempted to throw out there, I still think God's greatest creation was the black woman and I'm in love with the idea of the rebirth of a black community (commerce, church, schooling, etc.). I want to see us succeed in the faces obscured by Klan hoods.

So I guess I contradicted my title. There isn't a price to being raised right -- just benefits. Ones that I hope future generations will reap from for a long time.

I'm Not A Basketball Legend, but I play one on TV...

When I head out to the basketball court down the road every morning, I kinda/sorta like to re-enact at least one NBA play I remember from the countless NBA on CBS/NBC/TNT/TBS/CSN/WGN/WPHL/WWOR/ESPN/ABC (*whew*, that covers about 24 years of basketball fandom) games I've seen in my life. One of my favorites was from the lockout-shortened 1999 NBA season and the Eastern Conference finals. My best friend is a Knicks fan, and they were the last team to make the playoffs in the East, but had upset Miami and punished the Hawks to advance to the conference finals against the Indiana Pacers, whom I hated (mainly because they swept my Sixers in the previous round). I told my boy "I'll be happy if the Knicks upset these goons." As much as he had been through drama with the Knicks before, he said "I'll believe it when I see it."

Game 3, in the Garden. Just about 12 seconds left, Knicks down three, and well...I'll let youtube take it from here...



Great stuff. I snapped in my moms living room that day, and to this day, whenever I get excited about something, I take a quick jog like LJ and then talk to an imaginary Chris Childs like "I know, I know. Gotta hit the freebie."

So this morning while I was out there I took my dribble to the left, faked like a defender hit me, fired the shot...bang. Well, his was straight on, I hit the glass first and it went in. Then, just like LJ I went on my lil' jog stopped at half-court and said "I know, I know. Gotta hit the freebie."

The beauty of being alone with your thoughts and your imagination when you do something you enjoy is that it more often than not, brings out the best in you. Considering I worked for about 12 hours in the blazing heat yesterday (so blazing that when someone handed me a ice cold bottle of water, I put to my head and the steam was so thick you could cut it with a knife), I rightfully could've stayed in bed and still be calling the hogs. Tough to do that when your imagination is calling. And who am I to resist?

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You Should Take A Second, Think About It....

*ding* matter of fact, you should take four, b...and think before you fool with That writer named C....yes, I told y'all have a way of remixing damn near every song I hear to fit my mood. I swear, I've got a full scale library of murdered hits in reserve, I just haven't had time to post the lyrics.

Today's post, I will leave in the hands of my readers. Since the homegirl Memphiz did this first, it's coming courtesy of her. I ask you all, in the time you've read this blog, talked to me, in some cases met me, what do you think you know about me or how would you describe me? I won't tell you if you're right or wrong, but it should be interesting to see what you all think of me. So have at it!