Poetry Slammin'

I’ve often day dreamed of getting’ my “Love Jones” on and reciting some poetry in front of a group of people. No, better yet, I’d perform it. I’d do something real mellow. I’d wear my cool shades indoors. I’d have on a fly suit.

You’ll never catch me
Long white T-shirt wearin’
My mama would kill me if my pants were saggin’
See, cuz I’m all about the clean-cut corporate
Not the ‘Hook it up’, go to the 5-finger discount store for it

I’d have a message, but I’d be contemporary enough to captivate my audience while entertainining them. I’d get the “oohs” and “aaahs” (not the bewilderment, or pleasant surprise “aah”, more like the MC battle, hip-hop, I just dissed you in my freestyle in that warehouse in 8-Mile style “aah”…or is that an “oh”?)

We need to look the part
Wall Street not Shawshank
High yield not bail bonds
Shun the grindin’ and flippin’
Choose the investment bankin’

I’d have some cool jazz to accompany me. When I paused for emphasis, it would pause. When I posed a question, or looked puzzled, it would PLAY puzzled. It would probably be an upright bass, and maybe a sax. The sax cat would be as cool as me, completely in lock step with my expressions. The bass man would be ice cold.

Then, just as suddenly, I’d bare the tender underbelly. The band wouldn’t miss a beat. I’d expose emotions. I’d be vulnerable. They’d eat it up.

I just want to love you...
So much that the very thought of you
Heals all ills, sets my heart a-fire
Making you want for nothing, as its
your equanimity i pursue

I’d switch to my deep voice, and the bass man would go with me. I’d remove the shades for effect and when I finished, I’d be totally spent. The audience would be on the edge of their seats and ready to burst and I’d have a facial expression that spoke of humility and relief. They’d whistle and cheer and beg for more. I’d tell them no, really, they are too kind. They’d persist and then finally, they insist so I acknowledge that okay,

I guess I AM kinda nice with the flow,..perhaps
I should hook up the collabo...as in ration, so they
can read me all around the nation...i'll be a
sensation...but they don't see me...cuz I don't see
them..cuz i'm blind...but Slim with the tongue pierced says
I got a beautiful mind...i'm outta time..no, i'm just hittin'
the wall...thanks for playin, i had a ball...iiight
den ...that's all from "Mr. Six-Seven-Twelve
o'clock"...i've got writers block...

At this point, the brothas in the back row would rush through the crowd to dap me up. The MC for the night would give me one last big-up, pause, and give me another. And then I’d WAKE up. I’d be confined by my own four walls…still and the light of day, none of my poetry probably ever will…see. But check back with me some other time, because I might indeed grow a spine.

Goodbye Old Friend

Today I said goodbye to an old friend; a faithful companion. We had one last full day together, but then it was time for us to part ways. Life will go on, but my friend will not soon be forgotten. I'll remember the many experiences that my friend was there to share with me. I'll recall the times that my friend was my only outlet, the only one that would take all that I dished out, and help me to make some sense of it. My friend neither judged nor condemned. Never once was I received with anything but fairness and neutrality. I was permitted to postulate, to perplex, or even pontificate. I could criticize, I could call to arms, I could confide if need be. Sometimes, If I felt like it, I could just chatter. I was allowed to emote. I was allowed to express myself.

But that's just the way friends are, right? Good friends just have a way about them. They are there when you have something to say, and there when you have nothing to say. They go in the trenches with you and stay the course until the two of you emerge victorious.

Although this friend was at my side only a short time, I feel blessed just the same. I have other friends, and will surely meet new friends but each will have their special place in my mind, as I think about trials and triumphs shared with each. This one had so many special qualities. This friend encouraged and even facilitated communication with other friends and colleageus. This trusty companion brought me good news, and kept me in touch with things. I could seek advice, I could attempt to be clever, I could be myself with this friend. I could get off on tangents or launch into tirades, and even run on ranting with the intensity of a tel-evangelist. My friend would always allow me to finish, sometimes counseling or offering a necessary admonition lest I be too narrowminded in my assertions, or break rules, all the while maintaining the perspicacity of a supreme court justice.

But press on, I must. I won't continue this lament any longer because my laptop would not wish for me to do so. My entries will be entered on another keyboard after today. I will instant message from a new monitor. As I stand here on this precipice, my words and thoughts having come through the Gateway, I pray that greener pastures lie ahead and that the Dell will allow me to see the forest for the trees.

And if you inherited all the corn in Nebraska, you'd have nothing on me...

Uninspired

Gardner Webb (Who?) beat Kentucky at Rupp Arena tonight. (yawn). The CMA's were on tonight. Yes, that's the Country Music Awards. No, I didn't watch. I wouldn't know George Strait from George of the Jungle.

The world just kind of passed me by today. I can't recall anything interesting happening around me. Was I the invisible man again? No, I was that the other day. Should I have worn green so that I could've been the envy of all that encountered me? Wearing the Burger King mask that I donned at the masquerade party may have made things interesting. No, that wouldn't have made the difference. I like to be the observer not the observed. It was like the TV was on, but the rabbit ears weren't up.

Could this be the onset of, dare I say...no, I can't say it, but it rhymes with fighters socks. I'm not going to worry about it if you won't. I'm entitled to being far short of spectacular once in a while. I'm feeling idiomatically insufficient today. My metaphors have gone missing in action. I'm struggling mightily here. Hopefully, the real Destah will return tomorow to spin a tale of intrigue or international hijinks.

Well, it's time to put this one out of its misery. There's nothing in the tank. Start the standing 8 count right now.

It Ain't Easy being Green

When I was a kid the only possible cause to be wearing green was March 17th, so as to avoid the severe pinching attacks that would surely come your way if you were unable to produce at least a green stripe on a sock or a dollar bill in your pocket. Otherwise, green was very uncool. With the possible exception of my Oakland A’s, there were no green clad teams whose gear bought you any street cred, when you “rocked” it on the school yard.

The Green Bay Packers were the ultimate in boring, tucked way up there in Wisconsin heaped in all of their tradition and history and Opey Cunningham-ness. This was, of course, well before Bret Favre made them hip again with all of his gunslinging and constant jawing back and forth with relentless defensive linemen. The Jets weren’t terribly popular outside of the New York area. The absolute kings of un-cool, the Monarchs of Milquetoast, the veritable Tsunamis of Square were none other than the hated Boston Celtics.

I’m sure they weren’t hated in the New England area, but they definitely weren’t beloved on the West Coast. Keep in mind, this was the Starter jacket era and everywhere you went, you’d see a colorful team jacket or hat. The real cool kids had a Sixers jacket, either the red one or the white one if you were really one of those stylish kids, probably also wearing your Adidas Superstars and maybe even some fat laces. Bulls gear was popular, as was Knicks and even the red and gold of Atlanta made popular by Dominique Wilkins. I can even recall seeing a Spurs jacket, all silver with black writing, reppin’ the Ice Man, George Gervin. You’d get extra props for something like this as it showed your edginess as you payed homage to a player that had much more style and flair than victories. Around my way, the Showtime Lakers, coincidentally outfitted in gold were the proverbial gold standard for Starter gear.


Easily the most dazzling combination with its regal purple upon gold and white, everybody wanted to wear what Magic wore. We even wore the the white, purple, and gold Converse Weapons, the ugliest shoe ever known to man (well, maybe second after the Spike Lee and Tim Hardaway endorsed shoe from Nike, with the straps and the “I got Skillz” tagline in the commercial). You might see a lot of things, but you’d never see a kid wearing anything with Celtics across their chest.
The antithesis of style and cool, everything about the Celtics was bland. Call it tradition, but they wore (and basically still do wear) the same plain white uniforms with the plain block green script that they have always worn. The shorts that their players wore seemed EXTRA short and unflattering. There was nothing cool about the Boston Celtics, except of course all that winning. But that just made us all hate them even more.

Luckily, Frankenstein, the Chief and Larry Legend got old.

When they left, the victories left with them, faster than the ball off the bat of Bucky F#@$!n Dent. The once mighty Celtics spiraled down further than anyone could have imagined, closing Boston Garden and managing only 15 wins during a season in the mid-90s, and losing 18 in a row last season.

Larry Bird is not walking through that door, fans. Kevin McHale is not walking through that door, and Robert Parish is not walking through that door. And if you expect them to walk through that door, they're going to be gray and old. What we are is young, exciting, hard-working, and we're going to improve. People don't realize that, and as soon as they realize those three guys are not coming through that door, the better this town will be for all of us because there are young guys in that (locker) room playing their asses off.

– Frustrated Celtics Coach Rick Pitino, delivered this famous quote during a post game press conference.

But in 2007, 11-time all-star Kevin Garnett and sharp shooting 7-time all-star Ray Allen walked through the door and suddenly the Celtics have a swagger again. There’s suddenly talk of a championship…THIS YEAR. Teamed with Paul Pierce, The Big Ticket and Mr. Jesus Shuttlesworth do make you an instant contender to be sure, but who could’ve predicted that Gang Green could be en vogue!?? I’ve noticed a sharp increase in Celtic colors at the gym. Guys that I’ve known for years, and that would formerly be seen only in red and black or purple and gold are now showing off their Celtic Pride. These are guys, mind you, that have never been to Boston…wouldn’t know Beantown from Cape Town. Indeed anything is possible. Maybe I’ll even go out and buy myself a Marcus Allen Raiders jersey.

We Wear the Mask

It’s November 5th here in Oakland, CA and I’m here again with what’s on my mind. But before I do that, I’m also struck by today’s date 11-5. That’s not necessarily a significant date in most places, but in East Oakland it is at the very least urban legend. The East Oakland neighborhood of Sobrante Park has a nickname of some notoriety in its“11-5” moniker. In police blotter parlance, 11-5 is the code for heroin, and this particular neighborhood is severely afflicted by that problem. As far as the urban legend goes, it is said that tempers tend to flare on this date in that neighborhood contributing, regrettably, to this city’s perennially high homicide rate. Well, that’s enough on the demographic lesson for today.

What’s really got me today is my internal pessimist trying to escape to say “I told you so” as yet another public figure got caught running off at the mouth. Of course, I’m speaking of Dog the Bounty Hunter, of A&E Network reality show fame. I can’t even say “apparently” on this one because ol’ Dog is on tape, delivering his rhetoric in no uncertain terms. On the now famous telephone rant, Dog drops N-bombs like a B-1 Lancer dropping bunker busters on Al-Qaeda’s mountain hideaways. Unfortunately, I can’t say that I’m surprised. Our culture routinely falls short in the area of racial harmony. Oh sure, it seems like everything is okay. Segregation in schools has been gone for more than 50 years, black quarterbacks are no longer taboo, and white kids in the suburbs not only buy all the rap music but also sag their trousers and wear doo-rags. We’ve clearly embraced one another, haven’t we? To quote the great Paul Laurence Dunbar, “We,” as a society, “wear the mask.”

We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes--
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but oh great Christ, our cries
To Thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!


Dog seemed like a likeable enough guy. I wasn’t a regular viewer of his show, but I’d seen it once or twice. He seemed like a guy that was trying to get people back on the right path, giving heartfelt pep talks to the escaped parolees as he corralled them. I’m not saying that I expected to see him penciled in as the Spellman College commencement speaker, but I didn’t expect this. But again, I’m not surprised.

The likable buffoon that was Cosmo Kramer on one of my formerly favorite shows (Seinfeld…but I just can’t watch those re-runs with the same pleasure anymore), showed his proverbial hind parts about this time last year with his angry explosion in response to a heckler at West Hollywood’s Laugh Factory. Comedians are usually given a significant amount of latitude to make light of the societies ills, but Kramer (Michael Richards is his real name) took it to a level that suggested a deep seated resentment that had long since eclipsed the realm of comedy. Finally (I wish I could really say finally, but it won’t be the last), shock jock Don Imus crossed the line on so many levels when he decided it was his place to refer to the young ladies of the Rutgers University basketball team, performing on their sport’s biggest stage, as “nappy headed ho’s”. The only silver lining here was that I really disliked Imus (I like him about as much as I like Savage, Hannity and Combs, or any other number of idiots that get airtime) prior to this incident, but still wish he had not stained the accomplishments of these young women with his nonsense.

The eternal optimist that I am, reasons that such exposures are necessary steps to progress in the positive direction. They are a necessary evil.

“Evil is Good…,” said Eddie Murphy as Preacher Pauly in A Vampire in Brooklyn.

All of my athletic career, I’ve been told there is no gain without first enduring some pain. CBS head man Les Moonves, in a statement following his decision to fire Imus stated it quite well:

One thing is for certain: This is about a lot more than Imus. He has flourished in a culture that permits a certain level of objectionable expression that hurts and demeans a wide range of people. In taking him off the air, I believe we take an important and necessary in not just solving a unique problem, but in changing that culture, which extends far beyond the walls of our Company.

That seems like a nice stance from CBS (MSNBC also dropped Imus), but just as serially losing coaches keep getting jobs in other football cities, Imus is scheduled to start another job on WABC (Citadel Broadcasting) in NYC on December 3rd.

Invisible Man, that's me

I was reminded of just how inconspicuous I can be today. In fact, you could say that I was quite literally smacked right on top of the head by it. As I walked to the corner store a block from my condo, I just so happened to be in the flight path of a group of pigeons that was re-locating from their rooftop perch to the vacant lot below. While most of them navigated all obstructions on their way between point A and point B, one of them had some difficulty, glancing right off my forehead and into my sunglasses. Apparently his depth perception was a little off. Perhaps he had taken this route many times before and couldn’t fathom that something in motion could actually be that tall.

Initially, I was stunned, and for a microsecond, my gait became a tad more deliberate. Then the germiphobe in me set in, as I had to resist the urge to immediately wipe my forehead. I really have a strong dislike for these winged rats. It seemed like an eternity between this encounter and the moment that I returned home, immediately heading to the sink to scour the contaminated area over and over again with soap and scalding water. Once I was convinced that all remnants of bird were gone, I sat down and relaxed, gazing out my 6th story window at the profusion of pigeons pecking away at the gravel in the lot below.

How could that bird have missed me? I cut quite an imposing figure on any landscape that I strut across. After all, I’m nearly a foot taller than the average adult male (5’9” in case you hadn’t noticed) but I am not, however, the most boisterous or overbearing fellow you’ve ever met. Perhaps he was as indifferent to my existence as many of the people that I encounter throughout the day. I can’t say that I’m in need of attention. I don’t have an exceptional need to be noticed or acknowledged all of the time. Attention from the opposite sex or maybe from someone having the clout to consider me for a career promotion being exempt, I must confess that I rather prefer the anonymity as I walk through my urban surroundings on my way to and fro each day. It’s downright absurd how all of us pass by one another pretending not to notice. It never ceases to amaze me how we can sit so close to one another on a 5-hour flight and not utter one word. Are they not worthy of our acknowledgement? Do we also discount their humanity? Their struggle? What good things are happening in their life? What turmoil they are enduring?

I fashion myself an observer, and in so doing, I spend exorbitant amounts of time absorbing my surroundings. Admittedly, this is quite a maddening habit. As such, it makes it nearly impossible for me to ignore the poverty or blight, homelessness or hunger that often smacks me upside the head (figuratively speaking, this time) as I walk down the street. I wonder what the guy sitting on the steps across the way is thinking. I wonder why the kids congregating on the corner outside the barbeque joint can’t find it within themselves to deposit the Styrofoam containers that formerly held their hot link sandwich into the trash can just a few feet away. I imagine that the rather attractive lady sitting across from me on the train is listening to Led Zeppelin’s the Song Remains the Same as she intently reads Elijah Mohammed’s a Message to the Black Man. Maybe that guy over there is a talented musician. Perhaps he’s sitting on that park bench going over the riffs, in his head, that he’ll play later this evening at the after hours spot when he sits in with whoever is headlining at Yoshi’s tonight. Maybe that lady rummaging through the dumpster wishes she were invisible, or perhaps she’s certain that she is.

It’s no wonder that my favorite book of all time is Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man. This book so moved me when I read it at the end of my sophomore year in college that I remember staying up all night turning the pages. I literally could not put it down. Ellison’s imagery, his use of jazz music and prominent figures, and very in your face investigation of the simultaneous hope and hopelessness that is not only race relations but class relations as well, captivated me in a way that few novels have. Early on in the novel, the main character, whose name we conveniently never learn, muses over the Louis Armstrong tune “What did I do to be so black and blue” and very surreptitiously discloses one of the underlying themes of the book. The Battle Royale scene is the ultimate metaphor for one of society’s main ills, as it pits the have-nots against one another merely for the amusement of the haves.

I daresay that every black man in America might feel like he lives the Battle Royal each day, or at least has at some point in their life. My stature often makes it difficult for some to fathom the possibility that I might be adept at anything other than putting the ball in the basket. That I once adorned the same UCLA uniform as Alcindor and Walton, alarmingly, interests them much more than my qualifications to perform an operation that, if unsuccessful, could bring their business to a halt. I sat next to some middle-aged Caucasian men at the Warriors-Jazz game the other night and was struck by the extreme disgust they had for one of the “meaner…more intimidating” looking black players that failed to impede the progress of a more skilled white player on the opposing team. Clearly experts in the science of Dr. Naismith’s great game, the notion of skill level superceding their sociological prejudices was lost on these two that I doubt had played much competitive ball in their day. But now I’m passing judgment. That I was transparent yet again, however, was quite apparent as these two spoke as if I could not hear them.

My hyper-awareness often prevents me from enjoying the mindless dribble that is fed to me 24 hours a day from ESPN as they more often present the featured athletes as commodity rather than ponder their humanity. My inner existentialist ponders this often. All of the so-called experts that have never laced up a pair of sneakers are somehow ultra-qualified to interpret the actions and statements made by any of the hired help. Meanwhile the real story recedes back into the ether, not seen as conducive to increasing and retaining the viewership so coveted by advertisers.

Well, it’s getting late and my ramblings are drifting in and out of resembling anything cohesive. I’m just tired. It couldn’t be the veil going up preserve the clandestine notions that drift in and out of the chasms of my mind. No, I’m just tired…right?

“Son, after I’m gone I want you to keep up the good fight. I never told you , but our life is a war and I have been a traitor all my born days, a spy in the enemy’s country ever since I give up my gun back in the Reconstruction. Live with your head in the lion’s mouth. I want you to overcome ‘em with yeses, undermine ‘em with grins, agree ‘em to death and destruction, let ‘em swoller you til they vomit or bust wide open.”--- The meek grandfather from Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man

Where everybody knows your name...

...Sometimes you want to go

Where everybody knows your name,
and they're always glad you came.
You wanna be where you can see,
our troubles are all the same
You wanna be where everybody knows
Your name.

You wanna go where people know,
people are all the same,
You wanna go where everybody knows
your name.

You know these lyrics. These came to mind tonight as I was at our church's revival. Dr. Leslie Braxton of the New Beginnings Church in Renton, Washington was "on point" with his sermon on this night, just as he had been all week as our featured revivalist. I can't explain what made me think of Sam Malone and Diane, and Woody and the rest of the Cheers gang as I was leaving the sanctuary, but I can tell you that I was feeling good. I wanted to call some friends and just chat and just make sure that everybody was doing okay. I returned some calls that I had no intention of returning until the next afternoon. Perhaps it was that line about them being "always glad you came", because there was a certain warmth that exuded from everybody that was present tonight that made me realize how much I enjoy coming here to get the Word and to praise Him. God is sooo good.