Observations

1. I hope line cooks never get outsourced. I just couldn't trust anyone that isn't Mexican to prepare my Chinese, Italian, Indian, Ethiopian or Mexican food.

2. There is no evidence that Lil' Wayne is not from a planet other than Earth. In fact, there is lots and lots of evidence to suggest he is, in fact, a martian.

3. Whoever coined the term "sub-par" understood golf about as much as JaMarcus Russell understands NFL defenses.

4. According to a sign near me in the library, Motorola DynaTAC 8000x (1984) phones aren't allowed. I guess JHU is too good for cellular dinosaurs.

5. When the question is really, “Do you want to have drunk, sloppy intercourse later?” why does it come out as, “Yeah! Should I bring my Michelle Branch CD collection over too so we can compare?”

6. There's just no way Robespierre was French.

7. Cedar al (My partna dem)

Adamsville (My partna dem)
Bowen homes (My partna dem)
Simpset (My partna dem)
Ethel ridge (My partna dem)
U know westside (My partna dem)

Ok once you start no stoppin him
Can stop dem from jockin him
Braylen b da watch for him
Jupitor we spotted him
Old schools {My partna dem}
New schools dey got alot of dem
Maserati new farries all o dem {My partna dem}
30 inches hard as dem
Deep dishes like pizza rims
Diamond cole like keyshia dem
Ritz frozed like freeze and dem

Kc marley murry mel mel dey believe in him
Everyday we eat steak and shrimp
Because Benihana my partna dem

I'll stop at 7 for now because it's a magic number and my primary goal in about 85% percent of anything I do on a daily basis is to please Harry Potter.

Just a sunny day

***This piece was originally published on Sept. 30, 2009, in the Dexter Flank Literary Journal and is posted here now due to the boundless generosity of that institution, for your reading pleasure.***

Today, after slightly early release from my Urban Politics class (taught by the alarmingly entertaining Lester Spence--take a class with him if you can), I was seated at a picnic table on the little patio southwest of MSE (just behind Krieger). The sun was warm on my broad, rippling shoulders and the sweet intonations of Kelly "Heart-Melter" Clarkson emanated from the twin speakers on my wonderful Apple machine. My attention was shared betwixt "Breakaway", a story on the Twins recent victory over the Tigers (now 1 game back, yay!) and the assorted passerby. As my eyes combed through the students wandering in and out of the library, searching desperately for a lad(y) worthy of more than a moment's glance, a large figure flashed across my view. Who, you ask, was this striking person capable of catapulting himself from the periphery of my vision to the singular focus of it? It was the suavely disoriented Samuel Eckstein, somewhere between a trot and a canter, accelerating but not yet exceeding the Olympic regulations for speedwalking. His phone was to his ear, his mouth was equaled only by his churning legs in exertion and his head was on a swivel as if searching the windows and rooftops for enemy snipers. He saw me and managed but a small wave, however, I was less interested in his salutation than his mission. The main question pressing through my inquisitive brain at the walls of my captivated head was, "Where the fuck is he going? And what is there which he needs?" As Sam traversed the brilliantly sunlit marble terrace, brushing bewildered asians aside, I began to chart his movement in an attempt to predict his destination. He wasn't taking a sensible route to Krieger, nor was he veering left toward my perch and the stairs beyond. There was no logical end to his dash in sight, the only thing in front of him being the black metal railing guarding against a multi-story plunge to the pavement beneath. As young Sam picked up speed going toward nothing but this railing, however, my breath gathered in my chest as I realized his true aim was to take the leap over the boundary at a run, perhaps to land in the soft bed of a speeding truck below or maybe to be caught mid-fall by a giant snowy Egret sent by Agent Sam's handlers back at the base. Excitement mounted within my loins, as now I knew the true reason for Sam's quirks and the cause for his strange disappearances and his possession of such a perplexing assortment of talents. Excitement built, too, from the knowledge that I was to see the extraction of high-level agent, usually something that occurs on abandoned rooftops under cover of night. I tried to yell, "Good luck!," but my voice caught in my throat and my whole frame was taut as he drew within mere feet of the leap. The leap, however, never happened. Instead, Sam skidded to a halt just short of the railing, bent over double (affording me a generous sight of his shapely tushy) and grabbed a packaged set of plastic silverware--complete with tiny salt and pepper pouches--from amidst a pile of dry leaves.

I have yet to ask Agent Sam what the meaning of this action was, but I suspect the extraction was somehow red-flagged and called off at the last second, though I may never know. We can only guess what was contained in that tiny plastic package; Sam probably isn't at liberty to enlighten us. No matter, I now feel safer that we have someone of his status among us.

I solemnly swear that all the facts contained herein are true. He did all the things I describe and though my mind added the rest, it wasn't so far-fetched if you had been there.

Peahzy

Fairy Tale or Lies?

As I sit on B Level of the MSE library--to most who pass, just another unobtrusive head, barely popping above the wooden walls of my horrible little cubicle--studying the jumbled Sand- & Shit-storm (also known as the Arab-Israeli Conflict), my adventurous mind begins to wander. After my third (and by then, sweaty) set of Kegel exercises, it's time for some close observation on the herpes-esque scab on my wenis (the 'W' right there is crucial). No new developments were observed, however, so for the 14th consecutive time, my medical log book reads simply, "No signs that this ugly shit is anything except a FAT case of the herp-a-lerp." As my attention wanes and waxes like the fucking moon on methamphetacrack, I continue my search for something to stave off having to interpret another "Towelheads vs. Fat-nosed Christ-Killers" dance-off illustration that dominates my notebook in lieu of written notes (high-five, me!).

My desperate search comes to a sudden close as my eyes rest upon the most intriguing thing I have seen in days. On a shelf across from where I am seated, sits a book that I believe is the reason for so many asian peopre studying at American universities. The title of the book is simply: Fertility In Asia. Now let me get into my theory.

I have this friend, let's call him Butterscotch Fritter*, who I share a number of views with. He and I combine for some, dare I say, very astute observations. One rainy day, as we discussed everything from discuses to disgust, we came to the stunning realization that we have never seen a pregnant asian woman before. Not only that, but we had never smelled, tasted, heard or touched one either (although B-Fritts said he may have smelled one once, but he thinks it was maybe just an accumulation of scents as he walked down Canal Street). This realization seemed especially odd considering the fact that China is home to 16/17ths of the world's population, and this number is growing (some predict that the fraction will soon become improper, as crazy as that sounds and may eventually have to be converted into a mixed number). We consulted our friends, and determined that not a single person that either of us knew, had seen a Preggasian. This was the only picture that Google provided me with. Anyway, we came to the conclusion that asians must be mass-produced (a la milk, see upcoming post) without the aid of any uteri, placentae or love. We speculated that all the rice patties across the great country of China, must really be disguised growing fields, like in The Matrix. No wonder so many are pumped out so fast! Hot with our new discovery, B-Fritts and I caught the first train to the District in order to alert Mr. Nobel Peace Prize to the secret Chinese plan to engulf planet Earth with their growing numbers. We were headed off, however, mere miles from the White House, by the ever-vigilant Rahm "Bahm-Ba-Dahm" Emanuel, who told us plainly, "Come back with proof you fear-mongering Yiddiots."

And find proof we did. After over-hearing two little yellow men whisper about "The Plan" while in deep cover at the E.L.Q.R.E. (East Lansing Quarterly Rice Exchange, duh), we knew it was time to take matters into our own hands. And by "matters" I of course mean "Asians, against their will." We performed several abductions--mostly in broad dayright in front of several of Baltimore's finest--and proceeded to interrogate our prisoners for information on The Plan. After several hours of arduous waterboarding (great for triceps and lats!), we got the information that we required. The truth may shock you. It turns out that the secrets to The Plan (codename: Operation YelloWash), are contained within a small book that was lost many years ago by its caretaker Bao Yu Xiang (codename: Crouching tiger, hidden poonsnatch). "Where is that book?" you might ask. It is the same Fertility In Asia book that is currently resting between Fertility Policy In Israel and The Decline Of Belgian Fertility, 1800-1970, not seven feet from where I sit.

It turns out that the Chinese government suspected that the book was housed in one of the libraries of one of the United States' top universities. Thus, China deployed its brightest and best, spreading these young products of YelloWash to America's top centers of higher learning from Stanford to Samford, in an attempt to locate the all-important book. The most talented droids were sent to the best universities, as these institutions usually have the most extensive book collections. "So THAT'S why they spend so much time in the library!" you are now saying to yourself. The answer is yes. Additionally, you're welcome. I can't decide what's stronger in me now, the pride I feel for being an American Hero or the surprise that I found what the army of enrolled asians never were able to.

You're welcome too, Barack Hussein. I saved your ass. Between paragraphs I got up and secured the most important book in the world, stowing it deep in the safety of my JanSport. There's a chopper waiting on the roof, so I got to get going in a second, in order to personally deliver the key to American hegemony into the capable hands of the Leader of the Free World. Save your congratulations world, just promise me you'll attend the parade in my honor. I am proud to be the vanquisher of the evil designs of China. America, fuck yeah.

Stay classy, folks.

*Butterscotch Fritter is not my friend's real name.

Up a creek without an Orr

Onetime Atlanta Brave, Pete Orr, is a player that few people will remember. He's known by some in Atlanta as a scrappy, fast, utility infielder. Well for some reason he cropped up in my life, and I came to a happy realization about the Canuck. I mean what the fuck ever happened to Pete? Turns out, he is currently not only a Canadian national, but also a Canadian National. Get it?

Paul Wall knows two to five SAT words

"Turn your hazard lights on when you see them hoes." I totally forgot about this gem of a song. Never have I gotten such good advice in my entire life. Kanye used to know what was up. Paul Wall makes grills so we already know he knows what's up. I mean, if he has a bad day, at least at the end of it he can feel better about himself because he made thousands of dollars selling blinged out braces to grown ass men. Anyway, I digest. The song is DRIVE SLOW and it's Kanye and Paul Wall, whose SAT words are maybe more like an 8th grade vocab quiz: evident, immaculate and genetics. I could have sworn there was something akin to an 'opaque' in there. Oh well.

I promise I'll get back to which artists are going to play my birthday concert soon in addition to B.o.B.

Can you feel turbulence?

Bobby Ray (aka B.o.B) is the real deal. I personally feel like the phrase "the real deal" is pretty stupid so if I use it, rest assured it's not being used lightly. I'm not going to waste time comparing him and talking him up, because, 1. He is going to blow up very soon regardless, and 2. He talks himself up enough for the both of us. Let me analyze him using unconventional but worthwhile criteria: his ability to perform live. I've seen him twice, at the Apache Cafe in Atlanta in June and at Sonar Club in Baltimore in September. His energy and utter seizure of the audience makes his performances a full immersion experience. Even people who had gone to Sonar to see Schwayze (eh) were compelled to rave. Bonus: he plays some guitar and his band is very solid (check out Asian bass man who smiles widely throughout the show). YOU need to acquire YOU some right HERE.

My First Post [MUSIC]

In honor of the reference in the jocular title of this here weblog, my first post will concern music, more specifically, hip hop music. When the mood strikes, I like to kick back and consume some dirty rap songs. I'll tell you what a dream concert would be. Above are some rappers I've seen and should all get together and put on a concert for my birthday.