"...some call it music, I call it life..."

Come on, baby, light my fire/
Everything you drop is so tired/
Music is supposed to inspire.
-Lauryn Hill


I am far and away the biggest music snob that I know. I have unique tastes in music. I know this. I am constantly reminded of this. I would think that in a world where everyone carries iPods and where filesharing* is common, where literally an entire world of music is at your fingertips, that maybe I wouldn't be seen as such an anomaly. But in as much as I think less of everyone else in the world because they refuse to share my brilliant musical preferences, I can accept that, hey, perhaps I'm a bit out of the ordinary. I'm a member of two online music communities, MOG and Last, which I thought would give me opportunities to meet other people whose musical tastes were as eclectic and diverse as my own. Then the other day I received some mail on MOG that said: "You have crazy taste in music. You go from Ohmega Watts to Bob Dylan. Now that is classy." And I thought to myself, "Alas! Even here amidst my own kind, yet again I am rendered as an outcast."** I mean, yeah, dude was being complimentary but it still served as a reminder that I do have peculiar interests. So I sat down to think about how I came to be this way. I couldn't come up with an answer right away so I continued to sit. Then I finally figured out the two people who are most responsible: my dad and my brother.

If you were to ask anyone who even remotely knows my family which of my parents is more musical, I guarantee that they would tell you my mom 10 times out of nine (now if I'm lying, fine). My mom loves to sing. Loves it. She's always been a part of every choir that she could possibly join. When we were kids, whenever we would go to her with any kind of problems she would respond by singing a hymn or a chorus. At the time that could be kinda irritating. I'd be thinking to myself, "Dangit, woman, can't you just figure out a solution for me? Claire Huxtable can solve her kids' problems in 22 minutes plus commercials." But while I would say that my love for music comes from my mom, I think my dad is more responsible for guiding what I actually listen to when it comes down to it.

More so than any human being I have ever met in my life, my dad does not give one flying iota of concern as to what other people think about him. If he likes something, then he just likes it. It doesn't matter if it's not popular or if most of his peers think completely the opposite. It just happens to be what he likes. And if he don't like it, he don't like it...that don't mean that he's hatin'. For some reason, when we were younger, my dad has this phase where he really, really liked country music. Anytime we were in the car, the radio woud be on either KSCS 96.3 or KPLX 99.5 (I still remember their jingle: "Guess who's flexing their plex? K-Plex!"). I didn't realize that this was somewhat unusual for many years. When I first took up an interest in DJing, I did what any responsible DJ my age would do. I raided my parents' record collection. Or I tried to anyway. See, most black kids my age would probably be able to look through their dad's records and find what I was looking for: James Brown, Jimmy Castor, Marva Whitney. Nope. Or being Nigerian, you'd think that he'd probably have some Fela.*** Nuh uh. My dad had records from people named Pat Boone, Carole King and Barbara Mandrell. Huh? How the heck was I supposed to find breakbeats in "It's Too Late?" But what ended up happening is that I began to discover and appreciate the quality of this music on its own merits. I can appreciate Carole King's Tapestry for its earthy, piano-driven sound with acoustic guitars gently layered over it. I happen to think that it's one of the best album of the 20th century.

The other thing that my dad did is drive me to search beneath the surface. Not just for music, for anything but especially any kind of entertainment medium. It would happen after every movie he would ever take me to see and also at random times after watching a show on TV or hearing a song. Then the questions would come: "What did you learn?" "What did he mean by this?" "What are they trying to say?" So from a pretty young age, I was constantly trying to find the intangibles and that's grown with me ever since. I know some people just like to hear music that makes them want to dance or go to movies just so they can zone out and be entertained for a couple of hours. Thanks to my dad, I can't really do that. I have a need to find the deeper meaning. It's probably also an extension of this that drives me to seek out music that actually has a deeper meaning.

While it was my dad who planted these seeds, it was Ebun who actually watered them. See, when Ebun started middle school, he took up an interest in the whole Seattle sound: Nirvana, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam. Let me tell you, Ayo and I used to give him all kinds of grief for listening to that white people music. But he didn't care. He liked it. So after observing him for some time, I decided to try it out. Much to my horror, I discovered that I...actually...kinda...liked it. Of course, at first I kept this a secret. But then after a while I said, "Screw it" and openly declared my love for punk and grunge. Ayo never quite got to that point but she did join Ebun and I in our initiation rites (whenever other kids our age came to our house for the first time, we'd introduce ourselves by putting on Green Day's Dookie, and then run around the house, screaming at the top of our lungs and throwing couch pillows all over the place...I miss those days).

Then there's the second part of Ebun's contribution. When he got into b-boying, sometimes I would go with him to various battles and competitions. That's how I was introduced to the funk sounds of the 60s and 70s. At first it was just along the lines of me thinking, "Oh, so that's where so-and-so rapper got that beat." But the more I would hear it, the more I fell in love with it and the more it became a part of me. I love this kind of music with a passion. When I'm alone in my room, with doors closed and locked, with blinds drawn close, this is what makes me dance. When James tells me to get on the good foot, I can't help but comply. Taking up interest in this music caused me to further take up interest in all sorts of music from that era, hence my interest in Bob Dylan and others, such as Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, etc.

Actually, that's probably my biggest beef with modern music "fans." Many of them claim to love music but have no clue about its history. When I first heard Jay-Z say how he's overcharging "for what they did to the Cold Crush" the first thought that entered my mind was, "Wow, that's cool for him to pay homage to the Cold Crush Brothers." The second was "I wonder what percentage of his listening audience even knows who the Cold Crush Brothers are and why that line is significant." Now, far be it for me to claim to be the most well-versed person on all forms of music but I'll tell you this: when I hear a song that I like, that's just the beginning. From there, I want to learn about the artist. Where are they from? What are there inspirations? Who are their influences? (Thanks, pops.) Because I feel that all of that is integral to the make up of the artist. It all factors in to what makes the song worth hearing. Is it unfair for me to expect other people to hold the same level of fervor towards music? Yeah, most likely. And I guess that's what makes me a music snob. That's what makes me unusual.



TITLE TAKEN
Deepspace 5; "The Night We Called It a Day"



* Kids, filesharing is bad. And how do we know it's bad? Because a bunch of rich people in Washington told us so. And we know how they're always right. After all, these are the same people who have told us that marijuana is more dangerous than alcohol and that Iraq was a nuclear threat. So listen to them because they know what they're saying.



** I really think like that too.



*** I was once having a conversation with my mom and, I don't remember how we got on the subject, but she casually mentioned that she and Fela had been friends before he became famous. WTF??? One, how can you have been friends with arguably the most famous musician to ever emerge from the continent of Africa (Dave Matthews notwithstanding) and never have told me this? Two, how do you not own any of his records? And three, I really have trouble reconciling the image of my mom as friends with the public image of Fela. I mean, was she to have been wife number 28? Um...I really need to not think along these lines.

I know that with Nigerians six degrees of separation is more like two, but it's still funny to me when I see it work. A few years ago Wole Soyinka had a lecture tour and one of his stops was in Arlington. Uncle Sola told me to make sure I go see him. I had planned to anyway, but he wanted to emphasize that I go. When I reassured him that I was he said, "Good. I'll tell him that you're coming." I didn't know how well he actually knew Dr. Soyinka so I was like, "Whatever." But after his lecture, I went up to him to introduce myself and he said, "Ah, yes. I've been waiting for you." Holy monkeys. A Noble Laureate was waiting on me, some bum who can barely string two words together. Anyway...that's far too much name-dropping for one post.

"...if you're blessed with the talent utilize it to the fullest..."

This story begins half a lifetime ago.

It was early 1993, the spring semester of my freshman year at Paschal. I can't remember the day, but it was about 2:15 in the afternoon and school got out in five minutes. As usual Mr. C, my biology teacher, had stopped teaching about 15 minutes before the bell rang and was acting like he was going over some papers while most likely wishing that school would hurry up and get out so he could go home and settle down with a nice bottle of Southern Comfort. He wasn't paying attention to the students anyway so I decided that I would begin my departure from school a little bit early and I snuck out the door (remember when it was cool to do stuff like that? It's not like I could go anywhere. I was only 14 and was still going to have to wait for my dad to come pick me up). As I made my way down the hallway of the science hall, I saw a man at the end of the hall just staring at me intently as I walked. I immediately became wary. He looked vaguely familiar but that didn't mean anything. He could have been a pedophile looking to snatch a kid or a teacher about to reprimand me for cutting class; in my mind those were equally bad scenarios. When I got closer to him he started talking to me. He asked my name and age. Despite my reservations, my training as a young-Nigerian-speaking-to-an-elder kicked in and required that I answer him correctly. He finally introduced himself: he was Mr. A and he was the track coach at Paschal. He wanted me to come to practice the next day.

Sweet. Thus began my track and field career.

Track seemed ideal to me. I loved to run and thought that I was pretty fast. I envisioned myself as the next Carl Lewis, dusting suckas in the 100 meter dash. The problem was that Coach A's vision was different. He saw me as a middle distance runner (specifically, the 400 meters) and a hurdler (specifically, the 300). I wasn't too crazy about either one of those but I was willing to do what it took to be on the track team. The 400 wasn't that bad. At least the first 300 meters of the race wasn't. Coming down that last straightaway however, really separated the men from the boys. At that point you are no longer running on talent but running on will. I still remember some of my teammates laughing the first time I ran it competitively. As we came around the corner the leaders began to distance themselves from the rest of the pack. I felt like I was about to collapse. But even though I knew I wasn't going to win, I dang sure wasn't going to be one of the last ones. So I grit my teeth, threw my head in the air and willed myself to run faster. Apparently it was a pretty amusing sight. I never ran the 300 hurdles at a meet. One day in practice I was running some drills over the hurdles. I was beginning to feel like I was getting the hang of it. But then at one point my tail leg got caught on one of the hurdles, I hit the grown HARD and rolled into the next hurdle. Back then D-Wade wasn't around to encourage us by espousing mathematical impossibilities. So as I lay there, the pain enveloping my entire body, I made the decision that I was never going to run hurdles again. And I never did.

One event that Coach and I did agree on was the 4x100 meter relay. My best memories of track come from this. I was pretty much the only sprinter at Paschal who wasn't also on the football team but one thing we could all agree on was that the sprint relay was the most exciting sporting event that you could be a part of. There is no feeling like it; the adrenaline rush is crazy. I wasn't one of the four main runners, but since I was equally not terrible on the curve or the straightaway Coach made me the alternate and from time to time he would allow me to run either third or fourth leg. I had always thought that you would want your fastest sprinter to run anchor but Coach's philosophy was to get the lead early and make the last two runners hold on to that lead. So he gave the responsibility of second leg to his fastest runner. And in our case that job went to Stanley J.

Stanley J was a year older than me and I can say, without any hyperbole, that to this day he remains the most talented athlete that I have ever met in my life. During his junior and senior years in high school, he was at least All District as a wide receiver in football, a point guard in basketball and a sprinter in track. He STILL holds the Texas 5A record for most receiving yards in a game (356, which is second all time for ALL Texas high schools of any level; technically the state record is 357 yards but it belongs to someone who played 6-man football so it shouldn't really count). It wouldn't have surprised anyone at Paschal if Stanley had gone on to become a professional athlete in some sport. Except for one thing: Stanley was 5'5". Because of this it didn't matter how many accolades he received or how many records he held. It didn't matter that he could run the 40 in under 4.3 seconds or could dunk a basketball with two hands. Due to his height no Division 1A school was willing to give him a chance. He eventually signed with an in-state Division II school to play football. The last time I heard from him was when he stopped by at Paschal during my senior year to tell us the hazing rituals that freshman football players went through.

Meanwhile, I continued to participate in track and field. I had finally discovered an event where I excelled: the long jump. Well, "excel" may be a tad bit strong, but I was the best (meaning "only") long jumper on the squad. I did have a problem though. See, Coach A basically showed me how to do the long jump but after that he never actually coached me on it. I was basically out there figuring it out on my own. That led to me being wildly inconsistent. The trick with the long jump is learning to make your stride the same every single time. That way, you can time your approach so that you plant your foot squarely on the white stripe. If your foot lands too soon then you're losing several inches or more on your jump. If it lands too late then the jump doesn't count. At virtually every meet where I was entered in the event, coaches from other schools would come up to me with some variation of, "Son, you're a great jumper but you have no technique. You've gotta learn to be consistent." I would try but I could never quite get it (I had a similar issue, and similar comments from coaches, about the high jump. I never learned to lift my hips to get the extra height that I needed). And Coach A was busy spending most of his time with the sprinters. Another problem that I had was the fact that I participated in track and field in the state of Texas, where there are great athletes everywhere. Specifically, I did so in Fort Worth, where track athletes seem to grow on trees. The national high school record for both the 4X100 (39.76 seconds) and 4x200 (1 minute, 23.31 seconds) are held by a group of guys from O.D. Wyatt who were sophomores when I was a senior (perhaps not so coincidently, the collegiate record for both of these events are held by two different teams from TCU...must be something in the water). My personal best in the long jump was 22 feet. Meanwhile, over at O.D. Wyatt, a guy I had gone to middle school with named Charles J with was routinely jumping over 23. That wasn't very encouraging.

Midway through my senior year I decided to quit track. Most of the friends that I had had on the team had either graduated or already quit for one reason or the other. I was the only senior on the team and most of the other people were middle or long distance runners. Since I knew we had no shot at winning district and no schools had contacted me about track scholarships I decided to focus on getting an academic scholarship.

Thus ended my track and field career.

Fast forward about three years. Now I'm a junior in college. All remnants of the track athlete are gone. I fit the stereotype of the backpacker to a T: baggy pants, oversize shirts, cap pulled down low over my eyes, large headphones permanently attached to my ears, constantly screaming about the sanctity of "the four elements." It was around this time that I met a freshman by the name of Ian B. One day I was eating lunch by myself in the Penland cafeteria and this guy came over and sat across the table from me. He recognized me from church and introduced himself. Even though I wasn't the friendliest of people, I liked this kid; he seemed cool. We ended up doing a lot of stuff at church together, and at school we took a Hebrew class together and were part of the same ministry outreach team. I had actually known him for a while before I learned that he was actually a scholarship member of the track team, which was very impressive considering Baylor's prestige in the sport.

When I learned this, a lot of my memories of track and field came rushing back. From time to time I would ask Ian about the team and he was never too annoyed to talk about it. I remember finally asking him about something I was really curious to learn.

FEMI: How are the jumpers?
IAN: They're not bad.
FEMI: Do you know anything about the long jumpers?
IAN: Yeah, we only have one but he's actually pretty good.
FEMI: What does he jump?
IAN: About 22 feet, I think.

There's a lesson in here somewhere, I imagine...

Oh yeah, by the way...I'm 5'11.


TITLE TAKEN
Blackalicious (Gift of Gab); "Deception"

The Omagus' Big Black Book on White Women

I'm thinking of writing a book based on the interesting experiences that Hilary and I experience anytime we go pretty much anywhere. She suggests that I title it The Omagus' Big Black Book on White Women.

We went to the Nasher Sculpture Center and we were looking at a bunch of sculptures that were made by people who are obviously far more profound than I am. At one point we were reading a description of one of the art pieces and I put my hand against the wall so that I could lean in closer to read it better. A security guard came up to me and told me that I wasn't allowed to touch the wall. I apologized and removed my hand.

But then he pulled me aside and wanted to know if he could ask me something. I thought he would ask me a pretty normal question like, "Where did you get your hat?" or "Are you Jerry Rice?" but no. He wanted to know, "Where did you meet your lady?"

Ok, so he thought that we were a couple. Perfectly rational expectation. After all, we are two extraordinarily good looking people together at an art exhibit. I thought about explaining that we weren't actually dating but that would have taken too long. Then I thought about telling him how we actually had met, but that would also take too much time. So I just said, "We met at work." Then the guard says, "Where would you recommend me finding a good woman? I just moved here and I'm having trouble finding one. I've given up on the sistas."

Now, here's my thing. I have no problem with interracial relationships. As a matter of fact, I think they're awesome and for the most part I encourage them. If two people love one another, and if they're willing to really put in the work, I don't think that they should let differences in race or culture keep them apart. And if other people give them grief for doing so, they have my permission to tell those people to "Eff off!!!"

That being said, I absolutely cannot STAND when people try to make excuses for why they only date a certain race. If someone has a preference, I guess I can grudgingly accept that. However, to tell me that you've completely disregarded an entire race (especially your own) is beyond my realm of understanding. "I've given up on the sistas." What the HELL does that mean?

Maybe I'm being too hard on the guy. After all, I don't know his history. Maybe he's dated 100 black women and there was something seriously wrong with every single one of them. But I have to make two points. One, if he's dated 100 women and there's something wrong with ALL of them, there's one common denominator and it ain't the women. It's you, bruh. Two, even if he has dated all these black women and found something wrong with all of them, that still isn't every single black woman that's in the available pool. Every black woman is a human being, meaning each one is a freaking individual. To lump them all in the same category because you've experienced trouble with a few is insulting. I wanted to ask him how he felt about his mother or his (biological) sisters; aunts, cousins, etc. Were they all worthless enough to be "given up on" as well?

And when Hilary and I have kids named Miles and Gemi this will be one of the first lessons I teach them.

"...I ain't on some 'oh, I'm a celebrity,' I deal with the real..."

Ok...

So it's Friday and Hilary and I went out for our customary weekend dinner. We were at Maggiano's in Plano. Not too long after we'd gotten our food and started eating, this man approached our table and we both looked at him wondering what he wanted. So the guy said, "Sorry to bother you, but my kids think that you're Jerry Rice, so I want to play a trick on them. Would you mind giving me an autograph?" I thought that was hilarious so I agreed to do it. I signed a piece of paper as "Jerry Rice." I thought that was the end of it.

But it wasn't. Because now all of these kids wanted an autograph. And there were at least six of them who wanted me, or Jerry actually, to personalize an autograph for them. I did that too even though some of these kids were old enough to know better. And if that had been the end it would have been okay too.

But as we try to continue eating dinner, these kids keep coming back up to me to ask for more autographs or ask me questions. And when they weren't approaching us, they were standing on the staircase near our table and just staring at us. At this point I was ready to approach their dad and tell him, "WTF, dude? I did you a favor and agreed to this stupid joke. Can you please have the decency to watch your freaking kids? We're trying to eat." Fortunately the maitre d' and the rest of the waitstaff took care of that for us. They forced them all back up the stairs and wouldn't let them get near our table again. Except for right before we left when one of the kids came up to your table, dropped off a piece of paper and walked away. I completely ignored it and got up and left. Kid probaly thinks that Jerry Rice is a jerk now.

I think that this was probably the most bizarre random thing that's happend to me. I'm pretty sure that half of the people in the restaurant thought that we were a celebrity couple. But dang...if I didn't know before, I know now that I never, ever, ever want to be famous. That mess is annoying.


TITLE TAKEN
The Roots (Black Thought); "You Got Me"

Your Ultimate Band Lineup

What would be your ultimate band lineup? If you could take whatever mix of musicians and put them together, who would you choose? You don't have to worry about how they would actually sound together, this is just your fantasy lineup. And it could be anyone that you choose. If you'd like to see 12 country singers, a flute player and a drum n bass DJ, cool. There's only one rule: all members of the lineup must be alive.

As of right now, here's mine:

LEAD VOCALS
Lauryn Hill
Common
Christina Aguilera
Ben Harper
Serj Tankian (System of a Down)

BACKUP VOCALS
Jazzyfatnastees

GUITARS
Carlos Santana
Tom Morello (Rage Against the Machine/Audioslave)

BASS
Flea (Red Hot Chili Peppers)

KEYS
Sly Stone (hey, he is technically alive)

DRUMS
?uestlove (The Roots)

DJ CUTS
DJ Qbert
DJ Jazzy Jeff

To tie all this together, as producers, I would bring in DJ Premier, Kanye West and Prince Paul...

"...I hope they bury me and send me to my death, headlines reading 'murdered to the death'..."

"Something touched me deep inside/ The day the music died."

Don McLean, "American Pie"

I was 13 years old when "Brenda's Got a Baby" dropped. His debut single wasn't a particularly significant song for the era. A lot of hip hop songs at the time spoke on social issues; but for some reason this one stood out. Maybe it was because we all knew someone like Brenda; maybe it was the stark black and white video; maybe it was the unique song structure (instead of the standard two or three 16-bar verses, he opts for the Slick Rick approach: the entire song is one long verse with a chorus sung at the end). Maybe it was something different for everyone who heard it. But regardless, while it wasn't the first time I had heard Tupac Shakur's voice, it was the first time I heard the voice of 2Pac.

I find it interesting how this song became an allegory for his life. Both the children of drug addicts, Brenda and Tupac naively wandered into the world of something that should be beautiful and pure; for Brenda it was sex, for 2Pac it was hip hop. They were both taken under the wing by someone of power who did not have their best interest in mind (Brenda's cousin and Suge Knight). And they both died as victims of their beautiful world being distorted into an ugly perversion of what it should be.



I was 18 the day the music died. Ten years ago today, Friday the 13th of September, 1996. It was the second week of my freshman year at Baylor. I had yet to learn how to navigate the vast nightlife of Waco so I was hanging out in the lobby of Penland, my dorm hall. I was sitting there with some other black freshman students. Someone had put the channel on BET but no one was really paying any attention. Until a news flash came on announcing that Tupac Shakur had succumbed to the gunshots wounds that had been inflicted upon him in Las Vegas. We all jumped up and watched the TV in disbelief. I recall thinking that when I heard 2Pac had been shot I never really believed that he would die. It seems blissfully ignorant in retrospect, but at the time deaths in hip hop were uncommon, and the violence that ensnared the culture for a time still didn't actually seem real to most fans. Up until this point the biggest shooting death in hip hop had occured nine years earlier when Scott LaRock of Boogie Down Productions was killed in the Bronx. But in that case hip hop had yet to grow into the worldwide phenomenon that it later became and BDP was still a relatively new crew. 2Pac's death was another matter entirely: he was arguably the biggest name in arguably the most influential musical genre on the planet. And he was dead at age 25.

Over the past decade I've heard countless times 2Pac referred to as the greatest emcee ever. I personally do not share that belief. At no point during his life did I ever think that he was among the best lyricists; he never had the dopest delivery or an amazing voice nor did he spit the most clever punchlines or most meaningful metaphors. In my opinion, that automatically eliminates him from the discussion. I don't think there was ever a point where he was my favorite rapper. Truth be told, I only own one 2Pac album and it's the only one that I would argue merits "near classic" discussions: Me Against the World. What I cannot deny that he had, however, is a presence. Perhaps he was limited in some aspects of emceeing, but he overcame them by taking what abilities he did have and somehow making them something greater than the sum of their parts. That is why he is still remembered today.

"What if" is one of the most often asked questions. We don't know how things would be if Tupac Shakur were still alive. In a recent article in Urb magazine, a scenario was created in which Shakur had survived the Las Vegas shootings. In this fictional account, 2Pac would have settled his beef with the Notorious B.I.G., quit rapping and become dedicated to social reform. Today he would be the mayor of Oakland. It's a nice thought. I don't know how realistic it is though. We have a tendancy to magnify our heroes in death, especially when they die young. James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, John Lennon, Kurt Cobain, Tupac Shakur...all of them loom larger in death than they did in life. As a matter of fact, over the past 3,652 days 2Pac has become the best selling artist in the history of hip hop. From a completely cynical standpoint, a young, tragic death is one of the best ways to market an entertainer. Indeed, there are plenty of conspiracy theories in existence that hold on to the belief that that is precisely why 2Pac was killed. Who knows what would have happened were he still alive. Personally, I think he would have fit in perfecty in the current atmosphere of hyphenated entertainers. In an era where all rappers want to become actors, Tupac Shakur would have made a seamless transition. Thanks in large part to his training at the Baltimore School for the Arts, he was much more well-rounded in various artforms than most of his would be contemporaries. He showed himself to be an excellent actor, especially in his very first role as the pychotic teenager Bishop in the film Juice. I can envision a world in which 2Pac places music in the background to focus on acting...a more street credible Will Smith.



Nevertheless, all the speculating and wishing in the world won't change the fact that he is dead. A mere five years after telling us how Brenda died, the author too was dead. In that time he went from being an unheralded backup dancer who showed us how to do the Humpty Dance to being the biggest casualty in a fictional war that his boss invented as a way to sell more records. And 'Pac is his name.


"One, two, three/ It's kind of dangerous to be an emcee/ They shot 2Pac and Biggie/ Hold your head when the beat drops."

Mos Def and Talib Kweli are Black Star, "Definition"

TITLE TAKEN
2Pac; "If I Die 2Nite"

"...skip second place, sucka, we need top ranking..."

(People keep asking me if I've recovered. And I will. I just gotta get some stuff off my chest. It's the blog that I didn't want to write. To be honest, I really didn't think I would write. But I definitely would have written something had the Mavs won, so let me be fair. And for all you non-sports fans, rest assured that this will probably be the last sports' blog I write until college football season starts.)

(As long as you realize that college football is a year-round sport.)


The Mavs lost. That pretty much sums it up. They lost in six games to the Miami Heat. Let me first do the proper thing and congratulate the Heat for winning the championship and their fans for being able to enjoy it. Let me give an extra-special congratulatory salute to Nick for being the one Heat fan I know to treat the series with respect. And for all you anti-Mavs, people who called, texted or emailed me immediately after the game, let me just say that we're not as cool as we were a few days ago. I am not even in the slightest joking about that. I can respect anyone rooting for or against a team. That's your prerogative. But to try to rub it in immediately is low-class. On the flip side, thanks to all the Mavs fan who were on this journey with me. And everyone who was apathetic about the whole thing but still tolerated me, thank you all the most.

The sentiment in Dallas-Fort Worth is that the Mavericks got screwed out of the championship. I've never been a conspiracy theorist. I've never even complained about NBA officiating because, by and large, I think that they have an incredibly thankless position but do a very good job (there are exceptions of course--the refs completely screwed over the Kings in the Western Conference Finals in 2002 when they pretty much just handed the series to the Lakers). Even after Game 5 of Mavs/Heat, I thought that the refs had done some things wrong but that, for the most part, the Mavs lost the game more than they got cheated. I had a long argument with Apollo about this. He was livid at the officials. So I decided to do some research. And I discovered something: Apollo was right. Let me just point out a few things:


* the Mavs had a player suspended in three straight series. I challenge anyone to find an example of this happening ever before. I won't say anything about Terry's suspension because the replay clearly shows him making a fist and punching Michael Finley. However, explain how the other two make sense. How is it that Mbenga gets a longer suspension than Antonio Davis when he was on the bench in street clothes but Davis actually left the court. Really? This makes sense to people? And Stackhouse was suspended even though the refs who officiated the actual game only assigned him a "flagrant one" and didn't eject him. On top of that, opposing players from the Heat said themselves that the foul wasn't that bad and didn't merit a supension.

* Dwyane Wade getting every single possible call imaginable. I know he attacks the basket. I know that home court often gives players the benefit of the doubt. But the extent to which the refs were bowing down before him is utterly unforgiveable. There is absolutely no excuse for it. Of course, the worst of it was in Game 5 where he took 25 free throws, culminating in that foul called against Dallas with 1.9 seconds to go in OT. I have yet to find someone who can watch the replay and actually see where a foul was committed. Had the refs not bailed out Wade, there is no way he would have made that shot. And while we'll never know what would have happened afterwards, since there were three Mavs right there and one off them stands eight inches taller than Wade, I'm guessing Dallas would have gotten the rebound, won the game, taken the 3-2 series lead and forced Miami to be the team playing on its heels. And of course, the favorable treatment of Wade continued into Game 6, highlighted by Marquis Daniels' getting called for a foul when he was at least a foot away and then in the final 30 seconds of the game (when the outcome was still very much up in the air) Dirk getting called for a foul after he was elbowed by Wade. [And I know someone's gonna try and bring up Game 3 of Mavs/Spurs when Dirk made 21 of 24 free throws. Two differences: 1) Dirk was playing in the post where there's a whole lot more contact and 2) the Spurs actually took more free throws than any one player on the Mavs.]

* I've heard different people making a joke about the fact that Chris Webber is happy because now he doesn't have the stupidest timeout call of all time. From what I see, yes, Howard made a timeout gesture, maybe more than once. What I do not see is Howard ever looking at the ref, as the officials later claimed. Greg Anthony, who picked the Heat to win the series, said that in a situation like that, refs would always double check with the coach to make sure he really wanted a timeout. Why was this instance different?


If any one of the situations had occurred independent of the rest, it could be a forgiveable offense. After all, referees are humans and they often have to make snap decisions. But when you put it all together, it seems very suspicious. But why would that be allowed to happen? Of course, you must know that I have a theory.

David Stern did not want the Mavericks to win the championship. The idea of handing over the Larry O'Brien trophy to Mark Cuban disgusted him. See, I like David Stern. Personally, I think he's the best commissioner in all of sports. Bud Selig and Scotty Bowman don't belong in the conversation. Paul Tagliabue has done a great job, but his task was also much easier. David Stern took the NBA from an afterthought in the mid-80s to the global, billion dollar enterprise that it is today. Sure, it didn't hurt to have Magic Johnson, Larry Bird and Michael Jordan at their peaks, but neither should Stern be shortchanged.

Anyway, the way the commissionary is set up in the NBA, the holder of that position wields more power than that of the commissioners in the other sports. Stern has a lot of power and likes it. He also has made sure that the owners of the teams in the NBA are aware of that power. But then something happened: in early 2000, a gentleman by the name of Mark Cuban bought one of the worst teams in the league. He then proceeded to turn that team around. However, at the same time he was doing this, he was also spitting in Stern's face. Cuban was a new breed of owner who didn't quite view the power that Stern wielded the same way the old school owners did. Cuban wasn't the first new-breed-think-outside-of-the-box owner (that distinction would probably go to Pat Croce, who in 1996 made the unheard of decision to draft a sub-6'0 player who wasn't really a true point guard named Allen Iverson) but he was the first to openly defy Stern. This had to rankle the Commish to no end and he sought to pay Cuban back. (By the way, I get how non-Mavs fans feel about Cuban. If he didn't own my team I'd probably hate him too. Or at least really, really, really dislike him. Kinda like how every baseball fan outside of the Bronx cannot stand George Steinbrenner. But the fact of the matter is that Cuban does own my team and in six years he took them from the worst professional sports' franchise in North America to the NBA Finals. And for that, I am eternally grateful.)

So here's what I think: Stern didn't want the Mavs to make it to the Finals. He tried to prevent it from happening by um, persuading officials that it wouldn't be such a bad thing if the Mavs didn't make it. Unfortunately for this cause, the Mavs were playing too well and had too deep a team to fall victim. So they made it to the Finals and Stern realized something...it would be better if the Mavs won. Because 1) since pretty much all NBA teams are copycats, it would mean the return of higher-paced games and 2) the highest profile player on the champion team would be foreign born, both of which he desperately wanted to expand the interest of the sport. So now he wants the Mavs to win, but either he can't get the message to his officials without being caught or the refs are so pissed off at Mark Cuban that they've taken it upon themselves to humiliate his team, with the end result being Miami over Dallas, 4-2.

Here's the thing about that though: none of that should have mattered. The Mavs still should have won the series. If at any point over the past year, you had told any Mavericks player, coach or fan that we would beat both San Antonio and Phoenix in the playoff and in the Finals we would not be facing Detroit we would have started planning the parade right then and there (um...oops). The problem is that the Mavericks team that showed up in the Finals was NOT the same team that went 60-22 in the regular season or played in the first three rounds. And it definitely wasn't the same Dirk Werner Nowitzki. And as much as I hate to say it, that falls squarely on the shoulders of Avery Johnson.

Over the past season, I saw Avery as the LeBron James of coaching. It's what he was born to do. But when he made it to the Finals, the pressure seemed to envelope him. When his team started making stupid mistakes (taking quick jump shots instead of pushing it to the basket) he failed to make the proper adjustments. And I think that the players became too content way too early. After simply outplaying the Heat for the first 2 3/4 games of the series, they thought it would be a cakewalk. And it probably would have been had they continued to play that way. Problem is that Dwyane Wade never got that memo. But if you can't capitalize on a 2-0 series lead, if you can't sustain a 13-point lead with six minutes to go, and if you can't defend your home court when you're facing elimination in the Finals, well, you just don't deserve the championship.

People are talking about having to go through a defeat like this to prepare them for next year. I'm not so sure about that. This season was tailor-made for Dallas to win it all. Next year, the Western Conference won't be as easy. The Spurs will have Tim Duncan and Manu Ginobili healthy again. The Suns will have Amare Stoudemire back. Tracy McGrady, Yao Ming and the Rockets will be back. Elton Brand and the Clippers have tasted playoff success and they'll want more. It won't be easy.

Oh, and that comparison of Dirk and Larry Legend? Not yet.

Not...yet.


TITLE TAKEN
LA Symphony (Sharlock Poems); "Composition No. 1"

Whatever

"...I was receiving, I didn't get whippings, I got AFRICAN BEATINGS..."

- This past weekend, Xavier Carter of LSU won four golds at the NCAA Track and Field Championships. He was part of the winning 4x100 relay team and the 4x400 relay team. But what really gets me is that he won both the 100 meter dash and the 400 meter dash. Not only did he win both events but he set personal bests in both: 10.09 in the 100 and 44.53 in the 400. I know it's not the same as Carl Lewis winning four golds in the 1984 Olympics or Marion Jones winning five overall medals at the 2000 Olympics. But winning a 100 and a 400 at the same meet (on the same day and only 31 minutes apart) may be the most impressive accomplishment I've ever heard of in track and field.

- Last week I was out with a friend and somehow we got on the subject of kids. And she made the statement that she thinks that I'm not going to be the disciplinarian. That amused me. I asked her why she thought that way and she said, "I don't know. You're just so laid back that I can't really see you being the kind to discipline." Ok, I guess. But then she went on to say something that really got me bugging. She said, "I don't think you're going to be the disciplinarian because you're laid back...like your dad."

Um...nicka, what?

She thought that my dad wasn't a disciplinarian? Oh, I had to correct that misguided notion right away. Now, my dad was never a dictator, or the kind of parent to force us to do what he wanted. BUT...when it came time to mete out discipline, my father was not one to hesitate. I still remember the worst one I ever got, mostly because it was applied to all three of us.

I was probably around nine or ten (making Ayo seven or eight and Ebun five or six). In school I had learned how to play indoor balloon volleyball. That is, we'd take a regular ballon and play volleyball over some a small net. It was so much fun that I just had to teach my sibs so that they could share in the enjoyment with me. So I taught them how to play, using a table or an excercise bike as our makeshift net (isn't it amazing how much imagination children have?) One day our dad saw us and told us not to do it because we might break something. And we were all like, "Come on, old man. It's a balloon. It won't break anything." (Of course, we didn't say that out loud.) But since our father had told us not to do it, we respected his command. While he was around.

So one Saturday morning, we were done watching cartoons and we decided that it was time to engage in some balloon volleyball. So we start playing. Oh, look how much fun we're having! And then one of us hits the balloon and it starts to go up. Towards the ceiling. Specifically, towards the light fixture in the ceiling. None of us were concerned because the balloon hadn't been hit that hard and really just seemed to be floating peacefully in the air. But for some reason, when it came in contact with the light fixture, it was the fixture that decided to yield way. In other words, it shattered in pieces while the balloon lazily floated back down.

We stood there staring at our handiwork for at least five minutes. How had this just happened? But finally, I had to go tell my dad what had occurred. See, this is how stupid kids are. We were doing something that our dad had specifically told us not to do while he was in the house and could have caught us at any moment. So my dad comes out, examines the destruction that his children had just wrought, then orders me to go grab is favorite weapon of punishment: his right sandal. So I fetch it, hand it over, and since I'm the oldest I get to have the punishment administered to me first. My sister was next because Ayo's in the middle. Where she at? In the middle. After that...the fun began.

When it was my brother's turn, my dad called him to come over. But I guess that Ebun, after seeing his brother and sister get the beatings of their lives and sitting in a corner crying and letting snot run down their noses, wanted no part of that. So he just takes off running. I'm laughing at the memory because I have absolutely no idea where he thought that he could go, but hey, he was gonna give it an effort. My dad chased him at first. But then he outsmarted him. After chasing Ebun for a couple of minutes, my dad decided to hide behind a door. Ebun had just been running this entire time so he unaware that he was no longer being pursued. So he continues to run, until he runs right past the door my dad was hiding behind. And as Ebun comes running by, my dad's hand jets out, grabs his arm and now the credits are rolling on Run, Ebun, Run. The most prominent recollection I have of that is my dad trying hard to suppress a smile. I actually wanted to laugh myself. But it hurt too much.

Sometimes, after being punished, my dad would come talk to us and say, "I really don't like punishing you." Oh yeah? Sure coulda fooled me. Well, that's how I felt then. Obviously, as I got older I realized that he really didn't want to punish us but he would do so until we learned the difference between right and wrong. Or at least until we learned how to cover our tracks better. But coming from that background, it really amazes me how some parents allow their kids to act nowadays. I'm sure we've all been at the mall or been out eating somewhere and some little kid just starts screaming bloody murder. And the parents sit there and let them do it! WTF? Don't get me wrong, my mom would let us throw tantrums too. If we were at home. But if we ever tried to pull that mess when we were out somewhere...boy. We had better NOT embarass her in public. One of her favorite sayings was, "If you're going to cry, I'll really give you a reason to cry." So I dunno. When I see kids acting up in public it just irritates me.

Or when kids tell their parents to shut up. The hell!?!??!??! Look here: as I'm typing this, I'm 28 years old, I stand five inches taller than my dad and the mere thought of saying those two words to either of my parents terrifies me. Not even as a joke. "Shut up" is something you say to your peers. Parents should not be treated as peers. The closest I'll ever get to that is when I call them by their first names. And even then, it's only as a joke and I know I better not try that more than once or twice a year.

There's definitely something to the belief that parents from other cultures raise their children differently than those from within this culture. I could explain further but I think Russell Peters does a better job of it, so I'll let him tell you.

"...ain't a woman alive that could take my mama's place..."

Once again, I need you to stop what you're doing and go grab some type of beverage. I'll wait.

No thanks, I already have mine.

Ready? Ok, heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere we go:


- Here's to the woman who gave me my nose.

- Here's to the woman who has the most distinctive laugh I've ever heard.

- Here's to the reason I respect women.

- Here's to a woman who managed to get her MBA while working full time, being a pastor's wife and raising three, um...mischevious kids.

- Here's to the woman who always knew all of my teachers.

- Here's to the woman who always encouraged our hobbies even if she didn't understand them.

- Here's to the woman with the most beautiful smile God ever created.

- Here's to the woman who has set an incredibly high standard for whatever woman gets stuck with me.

- Here's to the woman who insists on pestering me until I bring her whatever woman gets stuck with me.

- Here's the woman who is responsible for me having thinner hair than my father.

- Here's to the woman who would take that disgusting mix of flowers and feathers that I had made for her and treat it like the greatest treasure in the world.

- Here's to the woman who gave birth to three children but is a mother to so many more.

- Here's to the woman who refuses to acknowledge that I am an adult.

- Here's to the woman who shows me everyday what it really means to love.


Happy birthday, Mommy.


TITLE TAKEN
2Pac; "Dear Mama"

"...(something something) get with me (something something) like Nash and Nowitski..."

WARNING: THIS POST IS LONG AND IS ENTIRELY ABOUT NBA BASKETBALL, WITH A STRONG EMPHASIS ON A CERTAIN DALLAS BASED TEAM OWNED BY AN ECCENTRIC BILLIONAIRE. PROCEED AT YOUR OWN PERIL.

My Mavs are in the Finals. Do you people realize how long I've been wanting to be able to say that? Right now, all of Dallas-Fort Worth is pretty giddy with the idea that we finally have a championship caliber team again. I guess there were the Stars in the late 90s, but for some reason that doesn't seem to resonate as much. Of course, the gold standard are the Cowboys. They get respect and attention from around these parts like no other team. As a matter of fact, if Bill Parcells were to call a press conference at the same time as Game 1 of the Finals, I would not at all be surprised if that received higher ratings in the Metroplex than the game. And if any of you think that I am at all exaggerating then you really do not understand how fanatical locals are about the Cowboys. Not me though. I support the 'Boys because they're my hometown team but I really couldn't care less about pro football.

Which brings me to a thought that I've been trying to suppress throughout the entire playoffs. But maybe now I can start to just THINK it (nothing more). Anyone who's known me (or read this blog) long enough knows that I am basically a fan of just two sports: NBA basketball and NCAA football. And in each of those sports I have a team that I am fanatical about: Dallas Mavericks (NBA) and the University of Texas Longhorns (NCAA football). The Longhorns won the championship this year and the Mavs are four wins away. How am I supposed to react afterwards (after the celebrating, I mean)? The two teams I root for in the two sports that I'm passionate about will both be champions. Simultaneously. If there is any such thing as a sports' nirvana, that is where I will be if the Mavs win the championship.

Of course, with the Mavs advancing this far, all of a sudden everyone around me is a Mavs fan. Freaking bandwagon jumpers. I actually don't mind them all that much. It's exciting to be associated with a team that has a chance to win it all. I mean even I watched the Stanley Cup the two years that the Stars were there. So I can forgive most people for this. There is an exception though: anyone who has rooted for any other franchise within the past six years. I don't care if it's because your favorite player was there or you just thought Raja Bell was cute (and you know who you are). If you're one of those people but now claim to be a Mavs fan I would like to introduce your backside to the business end of my size 12s. (But even to THAT rule, I can understand certain things. For example, Tayo is from Minnesota and is a T-wolves fan. But more importantly, he is a basketball fan. And like most real basketball fans, the last thing he wanted to see was another Spurs/Pistons Finals. So he was pretty excited when the Mavs bounced San Antonio. Plus, and I say this with as little arrogance as I can, it's pretty hard to be around me and not get caught up in Mavs hysteria). But I also want to tip my hat to my brethren: the Rowdies who have cheered the Mavs since they played in Reunion Arena; since we went through the Roy Tarpley debacle (twice!); since they drafted Randy White over Tim Hardaway; since the Three J's imploded because they each thought they were the best player in the league (and that Toni Braxton wanted them and them only); since Quinn Buckner; since 11-71. This is for US.

Now, on to some business type stuff...

After the Spurs were knocked out, I was pretty certain that the Mavs would make it to the Finals. I wasn't overlooking the Suns (I said from the beginning, Mavs in six) but I just never thought that they had what it took to get past Dallas. I don't see Phoenix as a good team. Let me explain what I mean by that. I think that the Suns have the talent to win it all, especially if Amare Stoudemire can come back close to what he was. I just don't think they are a good team; at least not like I see the Mavericks or Spurs or, heck, even the Clippers as being a good team. Here are the Suns in a nutshell: they have a coach who has a unique offensive philosophy and they have the one player in the league who is best qualified to make this philosphy work. That's about it. The way the Suns win is by out-shooting their opponents. If they start off pretty hot, it's hard to beat them because in order to catch back up their opponents have to speed up the game, which of course falls right into the Mike D'antoni's game plan. But the reason I say that they're not a good team is because they can't win any other way. If you look at any NBA champion over the past 20 years (basically, since I started paying attention) every team that won had to win at least a few ugly games. Phoenix has yet to prove that it can do that. CAN the Suns win a championship with their style? Well, they've reached the conference finals two years in a row so they're not far off. I think that they CAN, but they'd have to make to the Finals and then somehow force their opponent to play at their speed for at least four games. I think it's possible, just not likely.

I also think that Steve Nash is slightly overrated. Is he a bad player? By no means. I was one of his biggest fans when he was here in Dallas. I remember back in 2000 when the Mavs were trying to figure out who to start at the point. My homie Rashad wanted them to start Howard Eisley. I told him that that was ridiculous. Eisley just looked better than he really was because he had played with two Hall of Famers in Utah. I knew then that Nash was a good player (although I never imagined he would become as good as he has). I had seem him play a little and knew that he had a live dribble, that he was a good shooter and that he had a knack for finding the open man. His problem was that during his first stint in Phoenix he had been stuck behind Kevin Johnson, Sam Cassell and Jason Kidd. Then when he finally got a chance to be a starter in Dallas, he got injured. When he was finally healthy and was able to start, he showed everyone what he could do.

That being said, do I think he's two time MVP worthy? Nope. Compare his past two seasons statistically with Jason Kidd's during the 2001-02 and 2002-03 seasons and tell me exactly why Nash has two MVP trophies but Kidd doesn't. Oh, by the way...Kidd led his team to the Finals both of those years, somewhere Nash has never been.

You know how over the past 15 years any player who has the least bit of hang time and made more than one acrobatic layup/dunk has been labeled "The Next Michael Jordan?" Well, over the same period of time every white player over 6'7 with a decent jump shot has been called "The Next Larry Bird." I've seen 'em all: Christian Laettner, Tom Gugliotta, Adam Keefe, Keith Van Horn, Raef LaFrentz, Wally Szczerbiak, Mike Dunleavey Jr, Adam Morrison. And of course, Dirk Nowitski. And here's the crazy thing. Just like Kobe finally got to the point where we started thinking, "You know, it's really not that crazy to think that he's that far off being the next MJ" Dirk has used these playoffs to show that maybe we're not all insane for comparing him to Larry Legend. There are some minor differences, of course. Although he's drastically improved his passing, Dirk is still nowhere near Bird's league. On the flip side, Legend gives up three inches to Diggler. In height, you dirty mofos. On the surface Larry Bird and Dirk Nowitski have just one thing in common, and that is they are both tall white men who can shoot a basketball very well. But Dirk has finally given us another reason to think that the gap is closing.

See, I have this theory that Larry Bird made a deal with God. He said, "God, I want to be a basketball player." And God said, "Ok, Larry. How about this...I will make you 6'9 but you'll have to work for everything else on your own." Larry agreed to it. And then he went out and held up his end of the bargain. Larry Bird was slower than a river running uphill and had a vertical leap that would sometimes allow him to jump onto a sheet of paper. There was no reason to expect him to become a Hall of Fame basketball player. But he had an indominatable will and work ethic. He knew he was better than you because he knew he had worked harder than you. Bird was one of the most famous trash talkers in NBA history because he knew exactly what he could do on the court and whether or not you had any hope of stopping him from doing it. It is this edge that allowed him to become a three time MVP and three time NBA champion. And it is this edge that Dirk has finally added to his game. Dirk Nowitski is the best shooting seven footer ever, and he's been that for years. But this year, thanks to prompting from Avery Johnson, a light bulb finally went off over Dirk's head and he realized that yes, he's better than you and yes, he can prove it. To wit:

*with some people were whispering that Pau Gasol might be better than Dirk, he went out and made sure the Mavs swept the Grizzlies in the first round;

*Dallas had to face the Spurs in the second round. The same San Antonio team that had been the Mavericks nemesis for years, had three championship trophies, and had the one player who kept Dirk from being the best forward in Texas, the Western Conference and, really, the league. So then Dirk goes out and proves that he's in Tim Duncan's class and leads his team to an upset of Duncan's;

*in the conference finals, the Mavs took on Dirk's best friend, former teammate and "two time MVP" Steve Nash. After suffering his worst game of the playoffs in a loss, Dirk came back to have his highest scoring game of the playoffs and led his team to a come from behind win.

And the best thing about all this? Dirk is doing it with a sneer. He's shown it several times during these playoffs: he'll get the ball in the open court, fake a jumper, drive to the hoop, score the basket and draw the And One. Then he'll pull out that goofy looking sneer that is his version of: "I TOLD you I'm better than you."

Think about that for a second. A European player playing with an attitude. That's only happened once before, when the late, great Drazen Petrovic used to score at will for the New Jersey Nets (I really do miss him, he was one of my favorite players to watch). Some people might add Detlef Schrempf to that list, but I eliminate him because he spent four years in an American college before going to the NBA. But Dirk is now a seven footer who can drain a three in your face, take you off the dribble, post up, find an open man when he's doubled AND is now a good offensive rebounder. I've said it before and I'll say it now: Dirk Nowitski is the most complete offensive player in the NBA today.

And now we're about to engage in the battle of American Airlines homes. The Mavericks gets homecourt advantage at the American Airlines Center in Dallas while Miami defends at the American Airlines Arena in Miami. I think that this may end up being one of the most exciting Finals ever. While recent Finals' may have been interesting or even intriguing, I think it's been at least 10 years since one was actually exciting. That was when the Bulls defeated Seattle 4-2. Remember that this was the same Chicago team that had won 72 games in the regular season and was supposed to just dominate in the playoffs. But then they met up with a scrappy SuperSonics team (that had won 64 games, so was no slouch) led by a still-in-his-prime Gary Payton and Shawn Kemp was he was still Shawn Kemp (translation for all you newcomers to the NBA: Shawn Kemp was Amare Stoudemire first, before the drugs and his inability to keep it in his pants destroyed him). Each game was closer than expected, but Chicago's experience, and some guy named Michael Jordan, prevailed in the end. I still remember thinking that, even though his team lost, Kemp should have been named MVP of the Finals.

Anyway, here's my prediction: exciting Finals, Shaq remaining rejuvenated, Dwyane Wade being frustrated early by Adrian Griffin and Josh Howard before realizing that they really can't stop him from getting to the rim, Dirk hitting shots from all over the court and Dallas' depth perservering. Yes, Dallas in 7.

GO MAVS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


TITLE TAKEN
Lateef the Truthspeaker; some freestyle he did when he was here a few years ago

"...we opted to stay independent and give another lesson in artistic direction..."

- Cliff Robinson is still in the NBA.

I have to repeat that: Cliff Robinson is still in the NBA. Let me just point out that when Cliff Robinson was drafted, I had yet to start the 6th grade.


- If going 60-22 in his first full season didn't validate his Coach of the Year honors enough, Avery Johnson went out and really proved it last night against the Spurs. The adjustments he made from Game 1 were perfect. He replaced Adrian Griffin in the starting lineup with Devin Harris to give the Mavs an edge in speed; he didn't make Dirk the primary focal point on offense to neutralize Bruce Bowen's defense; he had his team rotating to trap Tim Duncan; and he made sure they attacked the basket. Beautiful results. Josh Howard showed why he's the second most important player on the team and Harris out Tony Parker-ed Tony Parker. Maybe he'll end up with Terri Hatcher or Nicollete Sheridan.

By the way, I obviously want the Mavs to go all the way, but should Godfather David Stern decide that he doesn't want that then the only acceptable consolation is Phoenix versus New Jersey. The average score in that series would probably be like 151-147.


- Am I the only one who wishes Tom would just sometimes say, "Yes, the rumors are true. MySpace is shutting down."???


- I feel the urge to address what I think is a misconception about me. Or maybe I just like reading my own words. Either way, here come more punctuated sentences and stuff.

I often get accused of being anti-mainstream, mostly in regards to music, but for other things as well. That is NOT true at all. Well...take out the "at all" part. Because there might be some elements of truth scattered around in that statement somewhere. For example, I've insinuated in this blog that I hate FM radio. I haven't always, but the reason I hate FM radio now is because the vast majority of it is nothing more than the private playlists of executives at ClearChannel. Radio stations once catered to the specific and unique needs of the communities in which they served. However, once ClearChannel was allowed to start buying up stations with the same aggression with which Charles Barkley attacks buffet lines, everything changed. Now radio stations nationwide have become a homogenous group of same-sounding dopplegangers. I will freely admit that I take umbrage with that. In general, I oppose anything that tears apart a community, no matter how infinitesimal it may seem.

Here's the thing about me: any math more advanced than algebra causes my head to hurt; sciences are a foreign language to me; I enjoy most aspects of technology but I'm not as knowledgeable in that area as I would like to be; I enjoy the occasional political discussion but I can't really say that I'm a very politically minded person; and I don't have a head (or much interest, for that matter) for business. However, I love creative art and the artists behind them. Actors, dancers, filmmakers, musicians, painters, poets, singers, writers...love 'em all. As Nicole Kidman said when she won the Best Actress Osacr, "art is important." I could not more strongly agree with that statement.

That being said, there's a caveat. I have very high standards for artists. To earn my respect, they'd better be pretty darn good at what they do. I don't really care how popular someone is; I'm more interested in how talented they are. If someone is talented and blows up, cool. I don't have a problem with that. I'm not one of those guys who thinks that everyone who goes platinum has sold out. I do, however, find artists much more fascinating and appealing when there's a connection between their work and me. And when there's not, that doesn't mean that I can't enjoy their work, but there's always going to be that distance that separates them from me.

"What do you mean, Femi?" Glad you asked.

Ok...I like Jay-Z. I would consider myself a fan of his. But I can't really relate to him. I know this is going to surprise most of you, but I couldn't tell you the first thing about being chauffeured around in a Bentley or having a refrigerator full of Cristal or dating a world famous R&B singer. I have no idea what it's like to dodge cops while slanging on the corner or to own an NBA franchise or to rub shoulders with the rich and famous. No, really, it's true. I've never done any of that. So as much as I enjoy the work he creates, when it comes down to it, it's really just fantasy as far as it relates to me.

Now, contrast that with someone like Pigeon John. He raps about hoping he can afford rent this month, approaching a girl and having her blow him off, purchasing meals at Taco Bell, being kinda skinny, being ostracized because he's not "black" enough but realizing how dope he is anyway. Hey, waitaminute...that's me! That's all stuff that I've been, or go, through. There's instantly that connection. So even though the sounds that both artists create may be pleasing to my aural orifices, one of them very quickly resonates with me on a more personal level. And the fact is that most of the people who are in the latter group tend to be people who are underground or independent artists.

Then there's the live performance factor. If Jay-Z were to come to Dallas, I would probably pass on seeing him. Why? Because he'd most likely be performing at a large venue like American Airlines Center or Reunion Arena. That's no way to enjoy a musical performance. I think even Nokia Theater is too big. Clubs, man. That's the way to go. There's something to be said about the smaller venues that provide more intimate shows. You get more for your money.

But that's what it all comes down to, isn't it? Jay-Z would never perform at places like the Gypsy Tea Room or Rubber Gloves because there's not enough money there for him. And that's good for him, he earned his money by rapping about the same things that he's always rapped about. My problem lies with people who change their art for the main purpose of acquiring more money. I have a term for that. Ready to hear it? I call it "selling out." As I stated in my very first ever post, I liked the Black Eyed Peas when they first came out. I own both Behind the Front and Bridging the Gap. But then they decided that they weren't making enough money. So they changed up their sound. So that they could appeal to a wider fan base. So that they could sell more units. So they could make more money.

And look...I understand that people gotta eat. They gotta take care of their families. No artist in any medium ever starts doing what they're doing with the hopes that a small, niche group of fans are the only ones that ever hear/see/read them. But why did you get into your respective medium in the first place? Was it because you had a passion for what you were doing and knew that you just had to do it? Or did you plan to "get rich or die tryin'?" If you as an artist were to find out that starting tomorrow you would never again get paid to practice your art, would you still find a way to do it anyway?

I guess those are questions that each artist has to answer for themselves.

And I know not everyone's like me. I know some people couldn't care less what's being said as long as they can move to the music or be entertained for a couple of hours by a movie. And if that's what you like, cool. I don't think less of anyone who approaches art that way. All I ask is that you don't think any less of me just because I don't.


- I want to start a blog-writing crew. We'll write dope blogs, practice looking hard and go around finding other blog-writing crews to battle. Who's down?


TITLE TAKEN
Visionaries (Key Kool); "DJ's MC's"

Sorry...I had to do it

Why wasn't Jessie Spano in the band? I guess they had a "No Future Adult Film Stars Allowed" clause.

Love's Not

Abandoned children in abandoned buildings, random killings
Love's not slow to help you, Love is ready and willing
Love is patient and kind, Love is sight for the blind
Love was born before the morning, Love's transforming your mind
Love is Body and Blood, Bread and Wine, "Remember the time"
Love is God Divine crucified for mankind

-manchild

"...I start to flinch as I try not to say it but my lips is like an oowop as I start to spray it..."

- I now realize that my presence at Mavs games has an undue effect on both the outcome and Dirk's game. I was in attendance last year during the Mavs/Rockets double overtime game when T-Mac went off for 48 points and a triple double. But Dirk trumped him with a career high 53 points and the win.

Then we get to tonight's game against the Golden State Warriors. Again, I'm in attendance. And Dirk goes for a season high 51 points. But this time they lose on a last second three by Jason Effing Richardson.



Good thing that the Longhorns won (on a last second three, ironically enough) and are in the Elite Eight or else I may have had to kill someone tonight.


- I recently had "The Talk" with one of my co-workers.

You know...THAT "Talk."

Yep, he wanted to know why it was ok for me to use what is colloquially referred to as "the n word" but not him.

(Now, before I go any further, let me say that yes, I do use the word on occasion. Not very often, but I do. I'm not trying to paint myself in a better light by saying that I don't use it frequently because if you have a problem with me saying it, it's not going to matter if I use it 100 times a day or once a year. I'm just trying to give you an idea of the point of view from which this is coming. Some of my friends grew up in...ah, let's call it an "extreme urban setting." And when we're engaged in fellowship with one another, like Tip says, "we use it as a term of endearment.")

My coworker shares the same point of view that I've heard from many others in his demographic (that is, white males) and that is he doesn't think that it makes sense that one select group of a population can use words that another group cannot. At first I thought that there was something to this logic, although I couldn't shake the feeling that it was flawed somehow. When we were talking about it, I brought up the fact that growing up black (or perceived as such) and growing up white (again, or perceived as such) are two different experiences. And he retaliated with the argument that he as a person shouldn't be penalized for iniquities that were done years ago by people who happened to look like him. Which I only partially agree with. And I'll return to that later.

The original question is: "Why is it that black people can use 'the n word' but no one else can?" Here's my answer (and I'm not asking people to agree or anything, this is just my point of view; Omaguslosophy, if you will): if a word can be used against you in a derogatory manner, then you have the right to determine if you want to use the word yourself. No one could really degrade my coworker by using that term against him, but they could against me. I use the same logic in referencing "the b word." Don't like it, don't use it (although, yes, I have run across some women who cause me to strongly consider it...). The connotation that that word has taken on in modern American society is as a disrespectful description of women. I'm not thrilled if a woman resorts to using that term to describe another woman, but hey, that's between them. I get upset if I hear a man calling a woman the word. And I will get get downright medieval if I hear a man say it about any female whom I personally know.

However, the original question has an unfair slant to it. The question shouldn't include "why can't white people use the word" because white dudes use the word ALL THE TIME. I've been in too many situations where my presence was evidently overlooked and the word came tumbling out with an all too familiar ease. I've heard it used by white males as both an insult (as in the "-er" version) and as an apparent badge of honor (the "-a" version). And then they would remember that I was present and either: a) hope that I didn't hear them and act like it was never said or b) apologize profusely and say something along the lines of "I don't know where that came from. I never use that word!" Which, of course, is a load of horse doo doo.

Now I'd like to get back to the point that white people today shouldn't be held accountable for the actions of those their descended from. I think that it's wrong to try and use a single person as the scapegoat for the ills committed by a large group of people. I also think that it's unfair for people today to be vilified for their ancestors atrocities.

But I have one question.

When the hell did life become about being fair? That memo wasn't forwarded into my inbox.

Is it fair that a woman can do the same job as a man and earn two-thirds as much?

Is it fair that the United States doesn't provide the same type of aid to developing nations in Africa as it does to developing nations in eastern Europe?

Is it fair that a woman can have six kids by six different men and abuse the welfare system?

Is it fair that a black kid can't listen to punk rock without being ostracized?

Yo, Shaheed, take us the [blank] outta here!

"You're not any less of a man if you don't pull the trigger. You're not necessarily a man if you do."


TITLE TAKEN
A Tribe Called Quest (Q-Tip); "Sucka Nigga"

"...my high school reunion is soon from now and I only got $2 in my checking account..."

- Calling all cars, calling all cars...
Be on the lookout for a tall, skinny brother with pimples
Wearing a brown Kangol, t-shirt, Nokia phone and sneakers
Last seen stranded on the Dallas Tollway
Alias Ladies Love Cool Femi
He's bad...

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
No blogger can blog quite like this jerk
I'll take a horn-rimmed nerd and throw his face in the dirt!


- We are now in the year 2006. According to my research, that means that 10 years have passed since 1996. That fact was recently confirmed for me when I started receiving emails from fellow Class of 1996 Panthers as we prepare to congregate for our 10 year reunion. And the one thing that I'm thinking is: "When did this happen?" Meaning, when did I grow up? Has it really been a full decade since I've seen most of these people? It sure doesn't seem like it but then I started thinking about everything that has transpired since Sunday, May 12th, 1996. And I realized that lot actually has happened.

I went to college and graduated. I got engaged twice (to the same girl) and had her break it off both times. I spent 11 months in Toronto while trying to figure out my citizenship status. I had a kidney operation. I tried to start a record label, had it fail miserably and had to declare Chapter 11 bankruptcy. I would have been on the losing end of a civil suit if the person suing me hadn't had to drop the case due to a serious illness. I became an uncle. I appeared in three different commercials that were shown nationwide.

Ok, everything in that previous paragraph after the word "graduated" is a lie. My life is nowhere near that interesting. But nevertheless, time has passed, things have occurred, life has happened. I have been out of high school for over twice as long as I was actually in it. And now people are wanting to reunite so they can see which good looking people are no longer so good looking, which ugly people became beautiful and who's gained the most weight.

My initial reaction was: "Why the crap do I want to go to a Paschal High School reunion? It's just going to be a gathering of the now-grown offspring of Fort Worth's Caucasian elite, none of whom are going to remember me." And I said as much. I clicked "reply all" and said, "Look here, you wealthy white folk. Leave me alone. I spent four years being your token black friend and I refuse to do it again! None of you even remembers who I am." Well, not really, but it would have been funny if I had. But I did send an email inquiring if people even remembered me and I got several responses. And here I present a few of them to you.

"You know, dear Femi, that I remember who you are!"

This one was from Shelly. She's not one of the people I was referring to. As a matter of fact, before QD discovered me here on MySpace last year, she was the only member of my graduating class with whom I kept in semi-regular contact. Actually, that's not true. She kept in contact with me (I am the WORST person at calling anyone back). I met Shelly our junior year in high school in Mrs. Philps AP American History class. We were also both on the track team. After Paschal we both went to Baylor together and ended up graduating at the same time (Shelly's leg was in a cast and she had to hobble across stage to accept her diploma from President Sloan). After that, she moved to the east coast where she got a Master's and is currently working on a JD. Freaking overachiever. In a couple of years I'll probably be asking her for money.

"I always thought that you were such a courageous kid in high school."

From Kendra. I remember her as being extremely cool and carefree. I'm not sure what to make of this statement though. Maybe she thought I was a special education student. Um...let's move on...

"Are you kidding? I remember you. I still have a picture of you and me from when we were all studying for some final and had to go to Kathryn's dad's office to make copies or something."

This is Courtney S. I only had a couple of classes with her but I remember two things very distinctly. One is her smile. The other is that her mother was the teacher whose car Eddie and Alejandro snuck into. They hid in the back seat and when Mrs. S came she just got in and started driving. When she was almost home she was nearly frightened to death when she heard voices say, "Hey, it's kinda hot back here. Could you turn the air up?"

I also remember that final she's talking about. It was our very last semester and the class was AP Government which was being taught for the very first time by some coach. It is from that class that I was kicked out due to the teacher and I having a disagreement over whether or not it was proper for me to engage the use of a video camera in note taking (to be fair to him, I probably should have asked before starting to record). Anyway, the night before the final a bunch of us met up at the aforementioned office to share notes and study. Well, that was the plan anyway. I think we ended up doing a lot more goofing around and picture taking with a Polaroid (I'm pretty sure Thomas started that). But hey, I got an A in the class.

"I do, bro! I do! But do YOU remember who I am?"

I sure do. Like QD, I actually met Justin way back in '89 at Morningside. He was one of the few grains of salt in a shaker that was full of black pepper. We never thought about it at the time but in retrospect I can't help but wonder what some parents were thinking by allowing their kids to go to that school. Sure the academic aspect of the Pre-International Baccalaureate program was both rigorous and well-renowned. But could they not see where the school was? I don't know if I could send my kids to a junior high that had a liquor store right across the street and had SWAT teams stopping by on a weekly basis.

Anyway, in corresponding with all these people, I realize that there are a lot of them that I would really like to see again. High school is an experience that almost everyone goes through but everyone's recollection is different. I think it'll be a lot of fun to relive some of those moments.

TITLE TAKEN
Pigeon John; "High School Reunion"