Monday Ramble #65 “Trick Or Treat”
My first rap performance ever was on Halloween when I was around six or seven years old and I did the “Trick-or-Treat, smell my feet” song at a few neighbor’s doorsteps.
Well maybe that wasn’t a real performance and I didn’t write it myself so I guess we can negate that…but I’ve been thinking about the act of going door-to-door requesting candy from strangers lately and I’m wondering why it has to be tied to Halloween and children.
I think if someone comes to your door in an interesting costume and has a bag, you should give them something no matter the age, date or time of year.
Unless I’m the one answering the door then the rules change.
I know I trick-or-treated (begged) a few times in my life, but I can’t remember what costume I wore. Come to think of it, I don’t remember any of my Halloween costumes as a kid.
But I do know that I never got a trick as opposed to a treat. I got a “no candy,” “sorry, all out,” and even some wack ass fruits, raisins or apple sauce, but I think the whole “trick” part of trick-or-treat is gone.
If I had kids, I don’t think I would let them go around the hood asking for stuff on Halloween because I just feel like someone would drop an E pill in a Skittles bag or place jolly ranchers in vodka and my child would make the news. And even though these may be demented thoughts that you don’t have or you may think I’m paranoid, you’re allowed to have your opinions.
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10 Reasons To Be Scrooge This Year
When is anyone ever really merry? Unless you’re a leprechaun, or a Smurf, or a gnome, or an elf, or one of the Merrymen, I can’t see it. Merry includes sing-talking, jovial dancing, and spreading cheer to others so they feel better or worse about the life they’re living.
Chances are they’re going to feel worse. When I think of anyone being merry, I envision tights, footsies, ukuleles, rainbows, orange moons, green clovers…you get the idea.
Not even slaphappy toddlers fit the description. How did this word become the sole adjective responsible for well wishes on December 25th? No one ever says, “Have a delightful Christmas,” or “Hope you had a swell Christmas.” I’m just saying, I don’t want to be merry.
What the hell is a one-horse open sleigh anyway?
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Monday Ramble #49 Monkey Business
I’m heading to a wake and funeral for a childhood friend of mine today so I have no brainpower to write anything without it being deep and dark. With that said, I am choosing to go back to my original format and ramble randomly so that my depression does not spread to your heart and yet I still get to vent.
I recently watched Rise of The Planet of The Apes and I was totally disturbed.
Not because of the movie but because of the idea that I had a few years ago to create a crew of “murder monkeys” that would carry out deeds for me.
I just feel like my idea is going to get swiped now. And don’t take the term literally, I don’t need my apes to actually take lives, I just figured that if there was an alternative gang to the Bloods and Crips and MS-13s, then kids would have some fear in their hearts.
If there was a real monkey gang that I had some sort of pull with, that would definitely shake up some of these so-called hard youths. I wrote a whole chapter on it in my book that has yet to reach stores, and now they’ve gone and put the concept in the streets.
People are probably copping monkeys right now and training them to sling drugs, or shoot bad guys or something.
Oh well…you know what I was thinking about the other day: if someone has crust in their eye, you wouldn’t have an issue telling them, hell you would even touch it if you had to.
But if they had something in their nose, you wouldn’t know how to break the news, and you definitely wouldn’t touch it.
Why is that? They’re both hardened forms of bodily fluid.
I guess it’s because eye gook is loosely related to tears while boogers are solidified forms of mucus.
And mucus and snot aren’t friendly words at all.
If someone had twins named Mucus and Snot Jackson, you would make the face your making now just reading that out loud.
And yet I know folks named Booger.
Anyway, snot is all slimy, and boogers tend to have specs of leprechaun color in them. So yea maybe I understand why you would run from nose crust but it doesn’t make it right.
You know what else is wrong? When you have to park in a tight space and there are people outside looking at you waiting for you to botch it up.
You don’t want to have to start over and pull out because these strangers who are trying to look like they aren’t looking at you, are looking at you.
And they’re just waiting for the chance to say, “Look at this idiot, can’t even park in that big ass space. Need some help man?”
That’s the last thing you want. No one ever wants ‘unsolicited stranger parallel park assistance.’ If you need it and you ask for it, “Sir, can you tell me if I’m close to that car?”
No! You don’t want to give some stranger the power to direct your life. You focus and get the whip parked correctly in one try. If not, you’ll have to deal with one of the most annoying motor vehicle experiences.
The most annoying would be a male asking for directions after being forced by his lady because they are lost.
Men don’t get lost, we may not know where we are, or how to get to where we’re going, or we may get turned around, miss an exit and have no clue how to find our destination while our location is unknown, but lost is something else.
I don’t think I’ve been lost.
Well maybe in another country, but even then I didn’t ask for directions, I just asked people if they knew a certain street name and how to get there, that’s different.
Speaking of different, I was arguing with this kid on the basketball court last week and for some reason I called him a bird, or a chicken or something, and the word “poultry” came out of my mouth. Now I know the word poultry is no place for a park in the hood of Brooklyn, New York where the teenagers aren’t the wittiest…but I didn’t expect him to say he wasn’t a “pole tree.”
No one bothered to help him out as he explained to me that he may have been slim but he was strong…so I guess calling him a “pole tree” wasn’t a strong enough insult.
Now I want some chicken. I get hungry very easily, and I’m one of those people that can’t leave the house without constructing a meal plan in my head. Should I eat before I go, while I’m there, do I have to buy food, can I bring food?
Church would be crazy popping if they served appetizers. Just a thought.
I don’t think I’m going to do the whole murder monkey thing after writing this. I just feel like they might turn on me at some point and I don’t know if I’m ready for that kind of disappointment.
I do think that the original movie will become real life and we humans will be ape slaves in a few thousand years.
Well not me, because I won’t be there unless I’m in ghost form. I hope they have ghost food.
And it would be great if someone shows the Ape leaders this piece, and the chapter in my book, and they honor me, and my music gets played at primate parties and on monkey radio after the takeover.
I’m almost at 50 of these ramble things and you guys are still checking for the kid. Who the hell is the kid? Always wanted to use that. Thank you all. R.I.P Kampane aka Rhian Stoute.
But if you do find yourself mixing dark and white liquor by accident, definitely do not accept one or two glasses of Moët champagne after you’re finished the other alcohol. It doesn’t matter what the celebration is. That would be a mistake. Trust me.
Sometimes it’s hard to say no to folks, so if you find that difficult and you go ahead and sip the bubbly after the Henny and the Diddy-endorsed poison, you should thwart any peer pressure to join in on a Patron shot. That would be lethal and idiotic. I would never condone anything like that.
Yet if you can’t refuse people’s generosity, and you want to be a part of the festivities, and it looks cool, and you don’t want to come off like a lame, and you must partake in the elixir, do yourself a favor and make sure you’re not driving home.
Although you may tell yourself that you sober up behind the wheel, or enough time passed, or God is with you, it’s not worth it.
But for argument’s sake, if you have to get home and there’s no other method than in your vehicle, just have someone ride with you to keep you up and attentive.
On the other hand, if you came alone and you must leave alone then do not drive fast or crazy.
Though if you need to drive fast, try not to stop at a fast food restaurant late at night because that’s a bad mixture.
In case hunger calls and you cannot, not answer, please, please do not go to a McDonald’s drive-thru. Stop yourself right away.
But if the golden arches mesmerize you and you happen to end up talking to a distorted voiced lady in a machine at 2am, then find one close to your home and order some finger food like nuggets or those crispy strips that are ok every one out of four times. But the important thing is not to order five when they ask you how many. Get three and do not order anything extra like apple pies. You don’t need all that.
On the contrary, you may feel really hungry and if you do order the 5-piece and two apple pies from a Mickey D’s that you thought was the closest to you but it isn’t, it’s ok, just don’t eat and drive.
But if you absolutely have to eat and drive, use a napkin, pay attention to the other thingies that look like cars and only eat the fries because warming them up in the microwave is senseless anyway.
Just don’t try to apply ketchup in the car…unless you absolutely need ketchup then go ahead, it’s your world. Whatever you do, don’t get home and eat both pies, just eat one.
Unless you’re extremely starving, then do you, but the most important part of the evening is to not fall asleep on the floor in your clothes because that’s just not cool. And alcohol and food need to settle while you’re upright and awake.
There is a chance that you may fall unconscious wherever you digested the food and I understand that. The morning will be a time of mystery about how you made it home, what made you drink so much and why you didn’t save one pie.
You don’t listen.
DWI is serious. Some people think it’s funny and they can just jump in a car intoxicated and the effects will wear off magically.
Am I one of those people? I would answer that but I would hate to be one of those people that always asks questions directed at themselves and answers them any chance they get?
“Was I excited?
But was I afraid?
Now would I go back?
Can you shut up? Yes I do it too. I interrogate myself a few times in conversation but only because the person I was talking to didn’t ask the right question to get the information I needed to communicate.
“Am I happy the Mavericks beat the Heat?
Am I more excited to see Dirk win than LeBron lose?
I’m not sure.
Do I wish baseball season wasn’t 12 months a year?
Yes I do.”
See, in order to get those responses, only I could do the interview. So I get you habitual-self-question-asker person. But be aware if you’re one of those folks.
And also take notice if you’re a chronic lister that uses numbers or letters.
You know the folks that rundown their reasons for the most random stuff in list form all the damn time. But sometimes they mix up the prefix.
A female friend of mine said,
“Number 1, I don’t even like him like that.
Number 2, there’s mad fish in the sea.”
Then she rambled on with some reasoning explaining her reason and went back in where she left off,
“And C, I ain’t really that fat.”
See you can’t go from “number 2” to “C.”
There has to be consistency if you’re a chronic lister. I know humans like this. They love to give you visual charts to show their feelings.
And I applaud them; just don’t confuse me when you start to give me the list. And don’t throw in 1A or 2B, that’s just too tough to keep up with.
I know you may not feel like it’s important to listen to me because I am not an authority figure on alcohol or English or human relations or baseball…and that’s cool.
I don’t blame you.
But I became reflective recently after sipping and steering one night, then I was watching Amy Winehouse stumble on stage and I read that Nivea crashed her car with her baby inside because she was drunk.
And I thought to myself, “this isn’t funny, I need to let people know the wrong I’ve done.” But I laughed while I said it so it negated the serious tone.
Then I asked, “Does anyone really care?
1) Not really
3a) I’m writing this anyway, it’s my site and I can do what I want to.
There are people in your circle, maybe some relatives or a few friends that happen to be somewhat, slightly “over-religified,” and you may not know how to tell them.
Does someone mention the Lord a little too much? Is Jesus coming up in convos that he need not be in? Is Christ getting tagged in anecdotes, banter and overall everyday life by an acquaintance of yours while you cringe with the hopes that they would just let some occurrences be handled on Earth? Just send them this post and walk away.
The other day I thanked God that I didn’t leave my Blistex in the house. Then one time I gave him thanks for getting somewhere safely. One was trivial, the other, a little more understandable. But some folks have a habit of handing God and/or Jesus awards for things they have nothing to do with.
You know who I’m talking about. Those people that thank God the drive-thru was still open or the ones praising Jesus because their corns on their toes went down before sandal season, I get it. God Almighty fixes it all.
Does He or She really though?
There are instances where I’m not so sure the shout out to the deity of your choice is in order.
I know it may slip out. A “Oh God!” here, a “Thank You Jesus!” there, but being thankful you lasted long because she was gonna talk about you was most likely all your doing.
“Praise Jesus he wasn’t small,” technically you may have a case but I’m uncomfortable now…you know what I mean. Leave God out of it.
I’ve heard spiritual shout outs that the traffic slowed down…that the line at the DMV wasn’t long…that the babysitter was available so you could go to the club…that your spouse didn’t check your phone when you forgot to lock it. Really? We’re thanking God for some obscure things and I’m sure He’s saying, “Wasn’t me.”
But that doesn’t stop you does it?
I know we’ve been on teams where we pray before a game. Sometimes we ask to be injury-free but other instances we ask for Heavenly assistance for a victory.
Now I’m sure there’s some thanking going on once the game is done but don’t assume He chose your team over the losers.
God doesn’t pick one squad over another because you had a better prayer.
Thankful those shoes were on sale? That you won that eBay auction?
That shawty’s man went away for a week?
God’s not accepting your award my friend.
Now that I think about it, according to the Bible, God did choose David over Goliath and he had Joshua kill a lot of folks and he did destroy the world with a waterslide so maybe he does pick sides.
You know I was in deep thought a few days ago when I saw a small part of the movie, The Ten Commandments and I noticed Moses with all his plagues and tricks that got the Pharaoh to let his people go and I wondered if God is a racist.
I mean he got the Hebrews out of bondage, bodied the first-borns of everyone, changed water into blood, parted a sea…but all the Negros got was Harriet Tubman and an underground railroad.
I guess it took some time to work out the kinks and now we’re all cool on the surface and if you think about it, Moses’ folks got jacked again years later with the whole Hitler debacle.
Well it wasn’t really the same people but you know what I mean. I guess God isn’t a racist after all; maybe he’s just slow with deliverance.
I’m sure glad I’m not a slave now. I wouldn’t be a good slave at all. And if I was in Moses’ place back in the days, and I found out I was really Hebrew after I had been an Egyptian prince, I know I would have kept it on the low and changed the game from the inside. I would have kept the perks, got the crown and then let my people go, he took the difficult route because of God and whatnot. It made for a solid story though.
So I guess I wouldn’t make a great slave or a strong deliverer. Well thank Jesus I’m not in the olden days. Is olden a word?
And when you thank Jesus, does God get jealous or does He think it’s ok because they’re like intertwined or whatever. I don’t know too much about religion but I think the Bible has some cool fables…I mean facts.
I don’t know why snakes don’t talk in today’s times, or why hair doesn’t give you strength, or why I couldn’t walk through fire, chill in a whale’s stomach or fight a giant… and the closest thing we have to miracle workers are David Blaine and Criss Angel but I’ll take it.
Thank Christ you read this…oh and sorry if I offended you and your beliefs. I’m not really sorry. Happy Easter!
Have you ever gotten so disturbed by other people so much that it made you look at yourself and analyze your own issues? Me neither, but if I did I’m sure I could find a bunch of things I don’t dig about myself.
And so I write:
-I hate humans that are great tiny talkers. I can’t compete with their thoughtfulness and insightful questions as I shift my shoulders, play wrap-up music in my head and search for the uncertain ending of our conversation.
-I hate the fact that Bernie Mac and Michael Jackson aren’t alive, primarily because I didn’t meet them.
-I don’t like the fact that I watch some of Tyler Perry’s movies with the hopes that the newest one will be better than the last one. But it never is, and I lose precious moments of my life. I don’t blame Tyler, he’s rich and he’s a smart man. It’s my fault.
-I hate The Situation for coming up with a better stage name than most of us.
-I dislike people that panhandle without the panhandling uniform. I’m not saying some of us aren’t underprivileged out here in the world, I’m just saying if you’re gonna ask for money, look the part please.
I don’t want to limit this to New York, but my hometown is the one place I’ve seen folks begging with name brand gear, fresh haircuts and the scent of Versace Blue Jeans or something. At least have the decency to skip the fragrance. That’s just disrespectful, you’re slapping me in the face because I don’t have the small amount of pride that it takes to go from train car to train car politely asking for contributions.
I realize you can make more per hour than the average minimum wage worker but does that mean you’re on your grind? No it doesn’t. Display a talent, show that you have a nice speaking voice or some dance moves, not that you have fashion sense. I am prejudging and discriminating like the rest of the world. And I don’t dig that about me.
-I don’t like myself for always saying, “pause.” I’m not homophobic but it’s a fifteen-year habit I can’t seem to break. Has it been that long? Yes, and you would think that I could just stop saying “pause” but I have truthfully only paused saying “pause” for brief moments of time and maybe pausing was all I was supposed to do because if I stop then there may come an instance where I didn’t say it and…forget it, now I hath confused myself.
-I actually used the word “swag” for lack of a better word. I used it twice last month and the delay right before I got it out was like 4 seconds. Everyone that was listening to me chimed in with “swag” to assist me as if to say, “come on, you can do it…say it…join us”
And so it was done. I was pissed.
-I can’t believe I still call Black people, “Black” and White people, “White.” We’re not even close to those colors; Tan and Peach make more sense. I still say “nigga” too.
-I don’t enjoy being on the phone as much as I did when cell phones initially became the standard way of life but for some reason if no one calls me I feel neglected. I can not touch my phone for hours and then look at it and I want to see double-digit text messages, emails, a missed call or two, some Facebook love, a few Twitter mentions, what’s wrong with me? Is this the same as checking your answering machine after being out all day and hoping you have a whole lot of messages? Yes it’s pretty close.
-I know this sounds weird…but I rap. I look down on rappers and I rap. When someone asks me what I do I don’t claim to be a rapper but I still rap, and sometimes I am embarrassed. People ask what’s going on with it? What’s your rap name? Are you trying to get a deal? I have to group myself with the foolery that exists, then get advice from acquaintances about how to get more poppin’. They aren’t the blame for my issue. Sha is.
-I talk to myself and answer. I mean I conduct interviews like a psychopath. And sometimes the questions are in Oprah’s voice. And if it’s a wack question it’ll be Tyra Banks’ voice in my head. She asks some foolish stuff sometimes…but I answer anyway.
-I don’t like the fact that I’d rather be comfortable than fashionable. That’s just lame.
-I am totally upset that 79% of the time that I have a face-to-face conversation with someone I imagine punching them in the face out of nowhere. Who does that? But I picture it in my head and I think, ‘I wonder what this person would do if I just caught them in the jaw mid-sentence for no reason.’ That’s not cool.
-I eat food sometimes and get sad when I’m almost done because I’m still hungry. I go to sleep thinking about breakfast most nights.
-I don’t know how to play video games. Even deeper than that is I hate doing things I’m not good at…for example, I went to a batting cage and missed every ball and I was so upset at baseball the sport. I am still bothered by the pastime itself and I apologize for that.
-I judge people based on their knowledge of movie lines, Seinfeld, grammar skills…I’m just slightly off and I know that now. I mean I always knew it but it’s surfacing more as I open up to the world. Is this a pessimistic post to start off the week? Maybe, but only if you view it that way. Who’s the cynical one now?
Do you remember being a kid and meeting one of your friend’s Moms for the 1st time? If your friend’s last name was Brown, you would say, “Nice to meet you Mrs. Brown” and she would say, “Nice to meet you little whoever you are.”
And it was all good. But then there was a time when you would meet someone’s Mom and the convo would start out, “Nice to meet you Mrs. Brown” and she’ll scowl and say, “Brown is his/her father’s name, and I hate that bastard. My last name is Pearson.”
Or something like that. And she might even point out that she isn’t a ‘Mrs.’
But as a kid, what do you know? It’s not the kid’s fault. If she hated that guy so much, she didn’t have to give her seed his name. Maybe she didn’t know how it would turn out. She also didn’t know that she was going to have a kid with another dude. And when she did, she thought this guy was the one.
And now just like Doughboy and Ricky’s mom, (Boyz ’N’ The Hood) she has a favorite babyfather, a favorite kid, and she’s throwing herself subliminally at some guy that looks like Laurence Fishburne who lives on the block.
The closest thing I’ve had to offspring was a cat when I was a kid. I took care of the little feline, emptied his litter box, bought his cat food, gave him water and spoke to him about drugs and peer pressure in the community.
It worked out well and although he lived to be around 90 years old, I don’t think it readied me for a human pet. I mean a baby. Sorry about that. I’ve watched a lot of kids though. If you ever need someone to watch your kids, I’m one of the best.
Oh no not babysitting, I mean watch them, I don’t do diapers or vomit cleanup or anything but I’m an excellent watcher. I can look at them, stare at them, I am exceptional at that, especially from far away. You should see my skills.
I am related to some children, I’ve hung out with them, conversed about school and kindergarten drama, I’ve even read a children story or 2…with animated voices and all that. If I did have a seed, I don’t think I would ever be cool with letting the little bastard…sorry again, out of my sight. I don’t trust babysitters. I can imagine being a single parent and trying to date someone. I would be so leery letting a person in my life that didn’t help me create the youngster.
The other day I’m watching What Chilli Wants and every time she gets with a dude, she starts mentioning her son and dudes start to get shook. The guy that was trying to get some TV time, maybe a little bedroom action with the consolation prize of a relationship is now faced with the thought of an add water, instant family.
The kid has to like you, respect you, and not try and kill you. Then you have to worry about the other parent in the picture. Does that parent still come around, still have beat-rights, are they paying some bills? Do you care enough to go that far?
The toughest part about dealing with a single parent is putting yourself in the place of the kid. You are Lebron James, and Delonte West is lurking around trying to be cool with you so he can get in and maybe get out once he’s done. Go ahead and envision all those tattoos, and some weirdo breathing heavy on top of the woman that gave you life.
But you don’t think about that, you’d rather be Delonte playing the role of the predator and your mission is to invade the birthplace of the little homie. And once you’re there you have to stay, or else you hurt a bunch of folks. How do you escape the notion that there is a child that isn’t yours but is going to pretend you’re the new parent with the hopes that a newer baby doesn’t get more attention, that your love will mirror that of a blood relative and that your disciplinary actions never provoke the phrase. “I’m not your child!!! (followed by bitch or nucca) ”
So you have to make a decision and try not to let the extra pressure affect your thought process. The opposite spectrum is the kid that’s really feeling you and vice versa; then you’re like Jerry Maguire rolling with the Mom just because you bonded with the little youth.
There are limitless scenarios to this unsolvable equation:
-2 Baby Daddies, 1 with drug habits, the other makes drug deals.
-2 or more Baby Mamas, one likes you, the other says she likes you or they all like each other and call you a bitch that doesn’t know he still wants them.
-Disappearing Baby Daddy with intrusive family that keeps getting your name wrong.
-Cool Baby Mama that gets child support not ordered by the court system so he has to bring it to her house…at night.
-Baby Daddy that wants to get back in so he buys presents for everyone…including you.
-Baby Mama that posts subliminal hate on Twitter but if you say something about it, you’re a hater.
-Baby Daddy that posts “The Real Family” pic on Facebook that you’re not in at Chucke Cheese, even though you were at the party.
-Baby isn’t a baby and wants money to leave y’all alone on weekends and can go to the club with you.
-Mother-in-law that wishes you would go away and the original family can work it out because her marriage didn’t work so she’s pissed at you and won’t let your mother receive a Nana or Granny moniker because she’s not blood and you don’t like her but you’re glad that she’s not phony about her feelings…or something like that.
Like I said, the different complications and situations can become elaborate yet beautiful.
And when it gets to the point where the child has to get called into the room to hear the explanation why Mr. Jamal is going to be spending the night and checking homework…or why Ms. Sharon was yelling at Jesus in Daddy’s bedroom the other morning, it’s real.
There’s no answer, solution or knowledge I offer you here today, all I can do is speak on what I see.
“The best advice is keep moving slow/’cause honestly, you don’t know what the future holds/one day you’re dating model broads, groupie hoes/next day you’re watching Pokemon and Yu-Gi-Oh…” –The Milf Song.