Fourth Thursday

Why Persona 4 May Be the Most Important Game of the Past 4 Years

2010-06-10T09:14:00.001-07:00

Nerd post? Nerd post!

So, anyone who knows me knows I play a lot of Video Games. My last video game writeup on Modern Warfare 2 was pretty popular, which I'm pretty thankful for. During a discussion I had with a few friends, though, a little notion was thrown around. A few of my friends made the claim that Modern Warfare 2 was the most important game to come out in the past 4 years because of the No Russian mission and what it did for Video Games as a visual artform. Although I do credit Modern Warfare 2 for doing great things through a very uncomfortable moment, I think I have to look at different game that didn't get a lot of steam but is opening floodgates through it's cult following and ambitious premises.

Atlus's Shin Megami Tensei: Persona 4 came out in 2008 and is considered by many to be the last great PS2 game. Following Persona 3, which was controversial for requiring the main characters to shoot themselves in the head to summon monsters that fight for them, Persona 3 lightens the shock value but keeps the engaging turn-base RPG game play. It also boasts a very compelling story with a lot of twists and turns and a beastly soundtrack.

For the record, the uniform jacket they all have is SO fly. I wouldn't mind coppin one if it, y'know, wouldn't get me lynched for over-nerddom.

What sets this game apart and makes it so important to me isn't inside of it's base mechanics, it's some of the decisions that the writers and localizers made.

1) Keeping Japanese culture interwoven throughout the game instead of "Americanizing" it.

One of the first things you'll notice in the dialog is the honorifics attached to everyone's names. Every character has a "-senpai," "-kun," "-chan," etc. attached to their names which will be very unfamiliar to American players. Also, all health products, spell names, and cuisine retain their Japanese identities. What feels like another world to the player is actually normal life (besides monsters and gruesome murders) for the Japanese, which is long over due in American gaming.

American Gaming suffers from cultural imperialism. It likes to impose American culture onto Japanese games. To market it better to American audiences, most localizers will strip all things Japanese since most American gamers will claim they feel alienated from the game. Atlus refuses to do so in Persona 4, opting to immerse the gamer into Japanese culture and have them learn about it as well as complete a well crafted game. Not only does the gamer get the opportunity to learn abut Japanese school, home, dating, and holiday customs, they learn that in many aspects, life for the Japanese and the American are extremely similar. Even the game play retains it's original Japanese flavor by not nixing the date sim elements that make up about 50-60 percent of the game. Half the game is traditional turn-based RPG, the other half is based on building friendships with your classmates, family, and (if you chose to) significant others. Date sims are just not done in America, so including these Date Sim elements in such significant portions was a huge risk that, by critical standards, paid off.

2) Kanji Tatsumi and Naota Shirogane

Yes, I listed two characters. How can two characters be listed?
Sexuality isn't explored in video games, for real. You may have a stereotypically gay character in a game, but most stories tend to stick with a heterosexual cast. One of the reasons for this is for an ESRB rating. Homosexuality is the quickest way to get a M or a AO rating, which will completely limit (or diminish) sales. Why homosexuality automatically garners a M or an AO rating is beyond me (*cough*HOMOPHOBIA*cough*), but to have a gay character in a game and explore their sexuality is not done.

Kanji is a male who has stuggeled with his gender and sexual orientation since he was a little kid and, even after his own personal resolution and the friends he gains, he continues to question his sexual identity and his feelings for Naoto. Naoto, a female who id entifies as a boy, opens up another can of worms in relation to Kanji and as one of the only non-stereotypical depictions of a Transgerered Male in video games. Their relationship with each other, their friends and the main character open up a lot of veins for discussion on sexuality that video games never touch upon. It is also, easily, the most provocative thing in the game. It begs the question: What is the ESRB really screening for? Why can such beneficial and useful dialog be restricted to "M" or "AO" rated games? Why is it okay to brandish swords and guns in Teen rated games but the moment that homosexuality and transgendered identity is discussed it's too hot for regular store shelves? Not only does Persona 4 bring a video game spotlight on sexual identity and politics, but it puts the spotlight on the discriminatory practices of the ESRB.

(We, as conscious gamers, *snicker* should probably be a little more outraged at the ESRB for this and call on their redefinition of their rating system, but that's a blog post for another day)

Persona 4 is an amazing game, one that was a perfect capstone for the Playstation 2 gaming console. It's not just because it's an RPG that gives SquareEnix games (FFXII, where where you at?) a run for their money, but because it retains it's true identity even through translation and breaks barriers with ambitious characters and situations. In my eyes, it's easily the most important game in the past few years and any game that steps up and makes the next few steps in the movement for Video Game legitimacy will have Atlus and Persona 4 to thank.

100/100

2010-06-02T21:57:00.000-07:00

So, I'll preface this by saying that I had an exceptionally piss-poor day. Well, technically, it was yesterday, so there's no reason to fret anymore.

I got into a nice argument with a few of my students today. I asked them if it would be okay for them to be interviewed by a fellow student for a research project of theirs. What started a simple refusal immediately escalated into an interrogation of who I am as a person. I thought I'd address that here to bring myself some kind of peace of mind.

The question to me was : Am I a WashU nigga or a St. Louis nigga?

This is not an easy question to answer properly. Was I born and raised in St. Louis? Yes. Do I carry many qualities of the culture with me? Yes. Have I rejected certain aspects such as the accent? Yes. Do I attend WashU? Yes. Have I gone through the unique struggle that higher education brings? Yes. Have I rejected certain aspects of the WashU community? Yes

So the simple answer is "both," but it made me think.

One of my past students asked me about the St. Louis poem I wrote and performed at CUPSI. In it, there's the now-infamous "nigga" section. He asked how why there's such a fierce contrast between the celebration of St. Louis culture (both good and bad) and the indictment of the "other" that occurs in the second half. What I'm realizing is that is a direct reflection of many of the experiences that have at WashU where these two parts of myself are forced into direct conflict.

WashU fosters a fear of the St. Louis nigga. Its apparent in the safety precautions they feed to freshmen during orientation. It's evident in the e-mails they send about crime notices and the way that WUPD reacts towards the black population on campus. The only St. Louis nigga that most students HAVE to come in contact are the workers on campus. To add to that fostering of fear, WashU places limitations on how the workers can interact with students, even when they're off. For example, the open mics on campus are open to ANYONE who wants to spit, but we have been cited for allowing the workers to spit because "it creates an uncomfortable situation for students." Lord knows how uncomfortable it is to know that dude who gives you your food may have a shared interest.

I guess in a way to combat this as well as make themselves feel better, a lot of students reduce the St. Louis nigga to a charity case. This allows them to not seem like they're racist or classist while still exerting their dominance over the St. Louis nigga in a nicer way. (Even the wording we use to describe how we interact with the St. Louis community places us in a higher plane than the enigmatic St. Louis Nigga. More on that some other time.)

I've seen WashU as an institution do terrible things to my community. I've seen WashU students turn the St. Louis nigga into a joke, an animal, a lesser-being and justify it by using every Olin-library supported source they could find. I've seen people go into the neighborhoods of the people that disgust them and act like they have no right to call that place home.

I gained a loot of opportunities by coming to WashU. I met a lot of great people. I've had a lot of fun. I can't discount it, but I'd be lying if I didn't say that there was a huge part of me that hates WashU, and hates that I can be called a WashU nigga at the same time as a St. Louis Nigga.

At the end of the day, I'm going to graduate from WashU. I'll die in St. Louis. That's the way it'll be. Although WashU has done incredible things for me, my city has still done more and I won't let that be lessened by a school.

You're Not Dr. Phil

2010-05-29T12:07:00.001-07:00

So, as we all know, people tend to give me relationship advice all the time...even when I don't want nor ask for it. It's like an unwritten rule: Let's try and teach Gerald how to have a successful relationship even when he's persistent on being single. A lot of this comes from the "Relationship Hubris," a condition I'm still organizing for your reading pleasures, lol.

Anyway, with all these different avenues for advice, I've learned that some people need to learn how to keep their advice to themselves. All pieces of advice I list are completely true. Nothing was made up to make a point. The other issue is that I don't know if some of these work or not.

Gerald, you need to treat the girl like she's not wanted so she'll want you.

...oro?

That's how I treat complete strangers. So, let me get this straight, if I treat a woman like I don't want her, she'll want me...okay...I can accept that. But what if I genuinely don't want that woman? Will she still want me? So every woman I don't want wants me?

And why would any woman want to be with someone who doesn't want them? That doesn't make any sense. That's like me hiring someone I know is going to quit in 2 weeks. That's a terrible investment.

Just be yourself

Thank you, Disney Channel. Even the dude from the Prince and the Frog had to become a frog before he got the right one. Not really himself. Just sayin.

Don't do it, just avoid relationships at all costs

Thank you, Mr. Jaded. That's probably the most self-defeating relationship advice I've heard

So, if you treat them like shit AND THEN love them, they love it and feel like they changed you.

1) This came from a girl...threw me clean off

2) This mess works. Like, I've seen this form of game pulled off by some swagless negroes and it has a very high success rate. Hell, I did it for awhile with ASTONISHING results. I guess this is more of a condemnation of its effectiveness than a criticism of the advice. Can't knock the hustle.

Just smile and nod, let them do all the talking.

If that's a condition for a relationship with someone, I don't want that someone. If you're wrong, you're wrong. If you talk all the time, I'll eventually get tired of listening.

There's plenty more, but Its saturday and I have stuff to do. What's some dumbass advice you've been given?

Welcome Back, Chilly Mac!

2010-05-29T10:23:00.002-07:00

So, I tried to switch to tumblr mainly because it's easier to post there...and quickly learned that I just hate tumblr. It's just kind of lame. I had to install a program to allow comments. Get flippin real.

So, 4thursday will remain my home, but the mindset of the Shy Microphone will remain. I'm still here for y'all, just on a medium that I can actually enjoy.

A few preliminary notes for this not-so-triumphant return. Let me make a few things as clear as possible. If you misconstrue these things, you'll simply be ignored.

All poetry on this site is the property of Gerald M. Jackson. If it appears anywhere besides on his own personal FB page, it is plagiarism. I out a lot of time and energy into my craft. I take it seriously. Even if the piece comes out like crap, I love it to death. Do NOT try to get away with taking my works for your own glory.
Opinion posts are just that, opinions.
Every once-in-awhile, I put a post up that is clearly satirical. This is not a blog like Very Smart Brothas. My satirical posts aren't meant to have some deeper meaning. They're just satire. You won't uncover some deep, mythical secret about the way Gerald operates or thinks or the situations he's entangled in. You will not find the secret to life. It's satire. Do not try to be a psychologist with me, you're probably (are) wrong.
I love feedback on poetry. Don't be afraid to dish it. Do NOT be all anal about the spelling and grammar here. A lot of this is written on my phone or on a wireless keyboard that has a tendency to skip letters and punctuation. Besides, this is all informal. Let's not be trolls, mkay
Drama is for twitter. Don't bring that mess here. No name dropping, please.

With that said, it's great to be back!

In St. Louis

2010-03-22T04:40:00.001-07:00

I (My City is a Science)

The Arch's elevator follows the rules of gravity

It rises at it's maximum speed,

Slowing down as it reaches the top,

Stops

Looks around,

Descends,

And reaches the ground at the same speed

Until it hits the brakes.

II (My City is a Burden)

She wrote my tombstone at age 15,

Said that I would be buried on top of her

She said that I was more than a child to her,

That I would be able to protect her

To defend her,

I want to love her,

But the bullies at school have those "momma" jokes

And sometimes, they're right,

And sometimes, I feel my eye twitch

And I know this isn't the way it's supposed to be

III (My City is a Protector)

My city cries water,

My city cries leaves,

My city cries liquor,

My city cries weed,

My city cries blood

My city cries needs

My city cries contacts

My city cries weave

My city cries anger

My city cries breeze

My city cries murder

My city cries pleads

My city cries drug deals,

My city cries fees

My city cries rivers

My city dried me

IV (My City is a Trending Topic)

#FoolsInSTL holla at women like car alarms

#FoolsInSTL make metro rides a hassle

#FoolsinSTL wear forces with cargos

#FoolsInSTL never know when to stay away

#FoolsInSTL eat Chinese food made by black men

#FoolsInSTL have no business on our campus

#FoolsInSTL play jazz like prayers

#FoolsInSTL sing jazz like hymnals

#FoolsInSTL think they're real

#FoolsinSTL will hurt me if I look at them weird

RT @SuchAndSuch #FoolsInSTL have no business on our campus (<--COSIGN! LOLZ)

V (My City is a Zoo)

Years ago,

A popular dare at Washington University

Was to travel into the hoods of St. Louis

To see how far you could get

Without getting hurt.

It's like putting your hand into the tiger's cage,

Draped in scholarships and entitlement,

Which probably tastes like ribs

And waving at the tiger

Who's too afraid

To be put to sleep

For biting the hand

that taunts it.

Maybe I should be that tiger,

Grab you by the fingers

And slam you against the bars,

Let you remember how tigers are in the wild,

Let my fur run against your shaking arms

Snarl the same way lions do,

And let them stick a needle in my neck

Let me close my eyes

And know that the last thing I tasted

Was this.

VI (My City is a Bullet)

When a gun is fired into the air,

It begins traveling at it's highest speed,

Decreasing as it gets higher

Stopping in mid air.

It looks around,

Admires the view,

And falls

At the same speed it rose,

Until it lands

Somewhere.

VII (My City is a Nigga)

I am a St. Louis nigga,

I am Cardinal red nigga

I am pigs feet kind of nigga,

I am riverfront times kind of nigga,

I am imos pizza nigga

I am Mizzou fan nigga

I am twisties and beer type nigga

I am bullet-hole kiss dreads type nigga

I am tax-refund type-nigga

I am "stompin in my Air Force Ones" nigga,

I am not Nelly, nigga,

When's the last time you've seen St. Louis nigga

Say you live here, nigga,

Say this city neglects you, nigga,

Say it doesn't protect you, nigga,

Say you don't need it, nigga,

Say it doesn't need you, nigga,

Say it doesn't affect you nigga

Nigga

I am St. Louis, nigga

VIII (My City is a City)

A friend of mine said

the Delmar Loop

would be so much better

if WashU just bought it out.

A friend of mine tried

to make frustrations with 3

people in the city

global.

A friend of mine said

these people

aren't worthy of having

children

A friend of mine said

they wonder

why life will never

get better for them

A friend of mine said

the universities

are all that matters

in this city

A friend of mine said

the people in St. Louis

are best used for

community Service

because it looks good

on her resume

A friend of mine said

these are the nation's

unwanted pregnancies

A friend of mine said

this city

doesn't exist

And I wish I could tell them

to stop it.

IX (My City is Not a Child)

Washington University

Remember

That you are still

In St. Louis

X(My City is a Mother)

She decorated my tomb at 21,

She asks if I will be ready to come home

And I smile

At this lady who raised me

To be as proud as her arch-shaped smile

And river-shaped fingers

That hold this country in her grip

XI (My City is Me)

I rose at the speed my mother launched me

Stopped at the top

Am admiring the view

Knowing that eventually

I'll fall

At the same speed I was launched

And will land

Back home.

Where My Short People At?

2010-03-01T09:20:00.001-08:00

In sperm banks across America, thousands upon thousands of men are turned away daily because of several "defects." You can be turned away because of a low sperm count, a sign of infertility. You can be turned away because of physical disabilities or for being deformed. You can be turned away for having a mental disability. And, you can be turned away for being too short.

And by too short, I don't mean 4'5" or something. The acceptable height for a sperm donor is 5'8" or above. If you have any one of the defects listed, you are considered "Undesirable"

Funny thing about the process: They give a personality test. Sometimes, the person who controls the test is instructed to reject people who have an undesirable personality...but they tend to accept people with piss-poor personalities because their physical desirability is so high.

Guess what, my 5'7" and below brothas! You're defective! You're natural genetic code has been deemed a deformity, and through practices like this, it's being handled. Be proud, you've become an undesired minority in a world of skyscraper males and the females who are taught to look up instead of right in front of them!

What I find funny is that personality comes so far after looks in a time when political correctness is supposed to make us think that the opposite is true. (I guess the funniest thing is that height is considered harmful to one's looks.) In the end, though, it makes sense. People will always say what's politically correct as long as they can still act as honest to their hearts (read: libidos) as possible.

Well, I'm here to represent for my short folk, who are persecuted everyday. Whether its the realm of relationships or the realm of business (which aren't very separate worlds, I'll have you know), we short people are tired of being treated like creatures to be tossed aside for your own selfish gains. We will not become an afterthought in your eugenic genocide of our people! Short people, get on a chair and STAND UP!

As a short person:

1) I demand shirts that fit my size without falling to my knees!

2) I demand the same level of respect and possible upward mobility as my taller counterparts in the workplace.

3) I am tired of hearing the political correct jargon of acceptance and willingness from lying women who refuse to acknowledge my identity as a man, instead acknowledging me as a kid.

4) I am tired of my good leadership abilities being attributed to a Napoleon complex.

5) You will NOT use me as an armrest unless I am allowed to thunderpunch you in the genitalia.

6) I am tired of people thinking that because you can literally look down on me, you can figuratively look down on me.

7) I refuse to be called little brother when I'm fucking older than you.

8) I am just as capable at any act as someone who is a few inches taller than me.

9) I demand a reevaluation of worth based on aesthetics. Just because I'm half your size doesn't mean that my worth is half yours.

10) I demand acknowledgement that, as a short person, I am treated different by a society that prizes height. This is especially apparent in the black community, with a higher average height. I am rightfully disappointed in a race that has been socially marginalized since being in this country for taking part in the marginalization of people who fall just short of the national average height.

I hold this truth to be self-evident: All people are created equal. It's just sad that I have to stand on a stage for you all to notice it.

A Game of Wolves (Draft 1)

2010-02-28T08:12:00.000-08:00

When hunting wolves,

hold the rifle steady,

butt against your shoulder,

breathe slowly, downward

so the wolf doesn't see

your breath,

Be part of the environment

never chase the wolf,

tempt the wolf,

don't get too close,

distance is key.

I hadn't seen her in years,

but I remembered her teeth,

straight, white, with sharp

incisors that left bite marks

on my shoulder,

when we were children,

we were always either

hunters or wolves.

She always won.

Always,

knew to either fire first

or be chased.

A cornered wolf

is more dangerous

than a rifle.

I saw her in shnucks,

ironically,

she smiled in my direction

intentionally,

tempting,

she always knew to never chase,

always knew to keep her hands

where I could see them

I'm not saying I didn't trust her,

but I didn't trust her,

most women,

most hunters,

she knew to never chase

and always tempt

"I remember when you used

to chase me,

it was cute"

"Was it?"

"Like a baby chasing bubbles,

or tag,

you were never very good at tag,

though"

and we both laugh,

eyes locked on each other,

Never let the target out of your sight

"Well, I remember when you

weren't able to see me.

I was a good hunter,"

"You were just good at hiding."

"That's what a good hunter does,

that's why you always made me

play the wolf.

You never learned how to lose."

"What happened to us."

and I should have told her:

You never learned how to lose,

that rifles and bite marks

are not mutually exclusive

and that, maybe,

I was too good at giving

and never knew how to take

very well.

I was comfortable

being a wolf,

because sometimes,

it's nice not to see it coming

Make sure the wolf does not

see it coming

and she says

"I remember when you

used to love."

"When was that?"

"Between the tempting

and the shot,

when I could see you

in my scopes,

you were always loving

harder than the bullet."

"And how did you love?"

"Huh?"

"How did you love?"

Never chase,

tempt

"I don't know"

"You were always good

at knowing when to fire,

knowing to tell when the wolf

is completely in love

and striking

either between the eyes

or in the chest cavity,

you made sure

that you didn't leave

the target alive."

"What are you trying to say?"

"That, maybe,

you were a better huntress,

and I was too good at loving.

I'm not able to dodge bullets

but I can tell

when I'm being tempted,

and you are a little to good

at hiding, sometimes."

"You were good at hiding, too,"

"Maybe.

Maybe I exist somewhere between

wolf and hunter

between giver and taker

but I've always been a better giver,

and maybe

you were better at receiving,

and maybe I should have bitten you

when I had the chance,

to make sure that you

were never able to take from me again."

And she nods

and I know

that we will probably

never speak to each other again

and that she will tell her friends

that she killed another wolf

and I might

have to agree with her.

No matter how much you prepare

eventually, you will chase the wolf,

and a cornered wolf

is more dangerous than a rifle.

When stuck in this situation,

remember,

that the one who walks out alive

is the one who

willing to fire first.

2010-02-27T23:02:00.000-08:00

I had a really long, angry post...but I'll abstain from posting it. I'm having a good night and I don't wish to vent about it now.

They're Not All Bad (At Least For Me)

2010-02-24T18:11:00.000-08:00

So, I was looking at 4thursday today, just going through posts and ish....realized something. If someone wanted to, they could easily make the case that I don't uplift black women enough.

You're right, I don't. Black bastards. White Girls, 2010!

Enough of the joking. Contrary to popular belief, when ya'll ain't making my life a living hell, you're making my life heaven. I came from a black woman, love black women and will always love black women. I love them off all shapes and sizes, of all locations and upbringing, and of all ideas and beliefs. Ya'll mean the world to me, which is why you must be subjected to criticism, the same way you all criticized me and helped mold me into the person I am today.

So, today, I'm taking a break from crazy heifers, dumb heifers, lost heifers and the non-existent slut to talk about the beautiful black women in my life that have had the greatest impact on me.

(Not done in any specific order)

1) Jeana

So, apparently, she didn't like me when we first met. Funny, eh? How do you not like lil-ol' AD? Anyway, we became pretty cool in 11th grade and it's been history ever since. From withstanding my hilarious interrogations to offering up really good anecdotes for day-to-day situations, Jeana is one of the women that prove that good things of the XX pair can come out of Hazelwood Central. Although we have debacles over height, I respect her an equal scholastically, as an apt friend and as family. And, as of late, she definitely can roll with the punches when it comes to jokes. She don't take it sitting down anymore...although when she sits down, we're technically seeing eye-to-eye.

2) Mychal

I don't exactly know when and where this friendship formed, but it did. She dated one of my boys, which probably kept our deep, unbridled passion for each other from ever truly being realized. In all seriousness, Mychal reminds me that any stereotype about Black women being too this or too that is completely untrue. She may be a coon at heart, but she's a great one, worthy of the greatest respect and love I can give. (Hell, she's the only one to tell me that I have to wear a tux and chucks to a wedding and I NOT balk at her. lol)

3) Brittany

One of my black tags at Six Flags, Brittany did more for me than she may realized. At first, we were purely co-workers, but quickly, we opened up to each other and I was able to learn more about the adult side of black women, about expectation over entitlement and how to treat women in general as people, not something to be placed on a pedestal. She always gave me great advice and was one of the few who didn't judge my relationship with a certain melanin-deprived leech.

4) Audrey

Audrey is Audrey, through and through. Never met anyone like her. Highly affectionate, blunt and talented. Whether it was in a studio or in a classroom (with me probably surfing the net or dozing off), I could always rely on at least a smile. I don't know if you know, but a smile on a dark day can mean the sun. Yea, we have disagreements on gender roles in the black community. I'm usually right. She can't help it. At the end of the day, she's one of the people who has made my WashU experience exponentially better and has reminded me not to write all you Black bastards off.

5) Naia

On some realness, Naia is the only chick that can go blow-for-blow with my ignorance. Another one of my WashU sisters, she can easily beat you down in life, poetry, rap or jokes. She's one of the few who I can rap with about a lot of things ranging from the little quirks to the "OMG, I think i just fucked up my life" things. She's also the only one who will randomly give you a Domo-Kun. C'mon now, that's gangsta. We got through WU-SLam last year as a team and are getting through this year as family.

6) Mom

No matter how rocky our relationship was growing up, I never lost love for my mom. She is a lady me with more patience and experience. When I was acting up, she set me straight. When I needed some encouragement, she gave it. If I need anything, she'll bend over backwards to get it. My biggest fear in life is not being able to live up to be the man my parents raised me up to be, someone my mom can look back on with her girls in the hair salon and say "My boy did well." She's the woman I'll do anything for and who will do anything for me. I may not always know how to show it, but I love her for that.

There are a lot of women I can't write on this list because...well...that will be a blog in itself. These women have had profound impacts on me, helping to create the genuinely messed up but amazingly perfect me you all love, hate and adore. I love them more all then my pens and computer screens will allow me to type.

To the fellas: It's easy to bash ladies and ish, but sit down and make a list like this sometimes. I know black women can get on our nerves, but also remember that there are more to love. Remember: these women push us to be great, demand us to do the same for them and love us unconditionally.

Why I Believe that Every Woman I am Interested in is Inherently Insane

2010-02-22T20:44:00.000-08:00

Note: All women aren't inherently insane. (I don't think so...)

So, as I sit in Whispers and see a beautiful black woman that reminds me of missed opportunities, i reflect upon the women I have interacted with in the past. Anyone who has seen my Tweets today may see that I ran into a former fling that was pretty evil...like, on some, "let me tell this other girl who threatens me shit that could make her want to kill herself" evil. I actually call her Dr. Evil...or the Indian Mini-Me...she's about the same size.

So, I started thinking about the last few women I've messed with and have broken them down into Archetypes of Crazy Individuals I've encountered and been strangely attracted to.

1) The Body

Okay, let's be real...all the psycho-crapulent-bibble-babble of political correctness and such won't stop me from saying that I love a woman's body. Breast are second to none except the almighty ass. I know, I probably killed someone's self-esteem and for that I'm (Almost) sorry. But back to the substance, The Body will make you do some crazy things. They can have NO personality, but The Body will make you think that her body is worth all the trouble that comes with her. Then you finally talk to her and realize that the teapot your boiled water in had more substance than her. (A lot of bodies have a face like the Mule...remember, always look up before embracing The Body)

2) Ms. Philosophy

Ever met that lady that makes you feel...challenged? (That really means you met that lady that makes you feel dumb but you say challenged because you want to feel better about yourself.)

So, they have substance...not much else, but you don't care because dating her makes it look like you're not shallow. Ms. Philosophy knows Kant, Rawls, and Mills and will hit you with every bit of Tyler Perry/ Rev Run Wisdom she can to make you feel like you're not doing enough in life...daily. Oh, the last few Ms. Philosophys I've dated (or...actually...said "hi" to) have all tried to stalk me in some way. Whether it's documenting all my actions to turn it into some form of "sweet" poetry that is randomly found in my inbox to locking me in a room and yelling at me until their face turns blurple, i've seen it all.

3) Mrs. I-Pray-Right

...I'll keep this one brief: No fun, no conversation, no sex. Religion is great. I am a devout Christian...but c'mon, there's a lot to talk about in this world.

So, I started looking over this and realized something. These types of women that have come into my life are nuts. They all lead to stressful relationships and stories that, albeit are funny in your guy groups, always leave a bitter taste in your mouth. We all have that group that we just think is inherently crazy and can cause us a lot of problems because we've run into crazies before.

But another issue I'm presented with is why do I find these types of women attractive? Why is it that I can settle on a particular aspect and be okay with a maximization of that aspect while neglecting the rest? I think that we have this idea implanted into our head that we're not going to find the best because, well, it isn't out there. We need to take what we can and keep it moving. If we don't, we're single. (And we all know that if we're single, we're not happy. Ask your friends. Especially your coupled up friends. They'll all say "Enjoy being single" while looking around nervously...they don't buy that shit as much as you do.)

Why are we so pressed to be coupled up that we'll settle for these monstrosities who's sole purpose is to tear our hearts and our minds from their homes and place them in their teeth? Is being in a relationship worth all that? I dunno, bro, I dunno.

Why I Love Anonymous Postings So Much

2010-02-22T00:03:00.000-08:00

Hey all!

So, I've been sick all weekend, fighting the mysterious bug, and dealing with limited contact with humans. It's rough for such a social creature as myself [/sarcasm]

Had a...daunting meeting with someone friday afternoon which I may post details about later. Whew.

So, you're looking at the title and wondering "Yo, Wonderful-splendiferous-stupendous-masterful AD (because you always think this when thinking of me), why do you love anonymous postings so much." Well, my friends, I'll explain it to you.

A few years back, Honesty Box popped off. It gave people the opportunity to be completely honest with someone who had the app on their facebook page. (It was offered on MySpace, but by that time, MySpace had taken its place in the corner where it belonged while it's many lame users filtered their way into facebook with their bathroom profile pics and their angle shots and whack usernames like "Sexxxikittykatmeowbark") A lot of people took advantage of the opportunity, especially when someone like me put one on his page.

I got the usual: "You're cute" "You're shot" "You're loud" "No one knows the real you" "You're a wonderful friend" "I've had a crush on you for awhile but am too afraid..." "Banana-Cream-Pie!" etc. Nothing special, nothing worth changing my life over. Then I realized something about these programs, which extend to the currently popular FormSpring.

Imagine, you're holding something in. You've always wanted to say it, but you've been told by society that it's wrong to be confrontational. You've been told to be as indirect as possible and that people won't like you if you're upfront. You're held by gender roles and by social stigmas that prevent you from really being who you want to be. You see a box that promises to release these demons you bear to finally be cast out and given to the person who invokes such a powerful emotion within you. You type out your demons and send it and you instantly feel better.

Yeah, it's some whack shit. Honestly.

But whackness is what whackness does. These whack individuals need an outlet as well. These feelings could fester within them, but now they can let it out in the most whack way they know how. And that's okay. Who am I to deprive you of that.

So go ahead, my enemies, my haters, my nay-sayers, my crushes, my exes, my almost-friends, my impersonators, my could-have-beens, my Judas's, send me your comments. Allow these demons resting on your chests to be let free.

I'll simply smile, answer the question and return to living, the same thing I would do if you swallowed your whack, held your demons in your hands, and approached me in Whispers.

Have We Gone Too Far: Video Game Violence and Art

2010-02-18T16:39:00.000-08:00

Let me preface this by saying that I don't know shit about visual art, but I like putting it in titles.

That being said:

Today, I finished the campaign mode in Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2. I was completely impressed with the gameplay, the score, the sound effects and the first-person cinematics. At times, I actually felt like the action hero in the SEALS or the Army Ranger who is defending D.C. from invaders. It has quickly become one of my favorite shooters.

When I started the game, I was told that there would be some disturbing moments and that I could skip them if I wanted to. I nodded and brushed it off. Nothing surprises me in games anymore. I've seen nukes get detonated in Call of Duty 4 and Metal Gear Solid 3, I've seen monsters savagely rape other monsters in Silent Hill 2, I've seen a family get slaughtered in Max Payne. Like I said, nothing surprises me, so I launched forward into the game expecting to be impressed.

-Spoiler alert-

A soldier you watched develop is put in Russia undercover. His name changes from Joseph to Alexi. . He's standing in an elevator in an airport with a group of armed men, and their leaders says "Remember, No Russian." The elevator opens, the men line up around a metal detector holding their guns in firing position. There's a sea of civilians in for the metal detector. One of your cohorts fires prematurely, and your line opens fire on the innocent people. Your group kills every living thing in the airport terminal, nothing is allowed to live and remember your face. Blood splatters on the walls and the floor and the air as bullets strike the panicking civilians who try fruitlessly to run away. Some security guards try to stop you, but compared to the rifles your group wields, their handguns are nothing. Your cohorts stop by people who are wounded, crawling for a place to hide and execute them in cold blood. Once there is no movement in the airport terminal, your group runs outside to escape, killing as many riot police with grenades as you can, possibly taking down a plane if you choose to take that route. You reach the escape vehicle, are shot by the leader who knew all along you were American, and left for dead so the world can blame your nation for the incident.

This scene has caused a firestorm of reactions. It has been talked about, banned from certain nations, edited in others and protested in most. It was chilling enough to be brought before the United Kingdom's House of Commons. It's easily the biggest maelstrom of reactions to a video game moment since GTA3.

And I'm torn.

Like I said, I'm usually never surprised, but the depiction of this terrorist act rocked me. The complete ruthlessness of it, the fact that you were firing on innocent civilians, the fact that someone thought to put this as an interactive moment of the game really made me uncomfortable. It seemed like no choice was the right one. If you don't fire, then you're watching your cohorts mercilessly murder about 100-150 innocent people as they scream and run from the bullets. If you fire on your cohorts, you blow your cover and sacrifice millions of lives to the ensuing war. If you fire on the civilians, then what does that say about you? It's a real damned if you do, damned if you don't situation.

It's really disturbing, but it also does something for the medium that I think people are unwilling to accept just yet. People hear the term "Video Gaming" and think "children." They don't see gaming in the same light as movies, where anything goes, and it may be because games started really tame. Y'know, pong, et (*shudder*), tetris, stuff like that. Now, Video Games are becoming more epic, more cinematic, more gritty, and attempting to break free of the children association. It's trying to claim the same legitimacy that movies have, where they can do some outlandish things and no one second guesses it.

The scene, which is tough to get through if you're in the general vicinity of a decent person, fully encapsulates the the horrors of war. Think about it, you're undercover for your nation to protect it. You have a choice between blowing that cover and causing the deaths of your compatriots or killing innocent civilians and possibly protecting millions more. What do you do? The game deals with complex issues and moral decisions that soldiers face on the regular in a way that no movie could ever do. It makes you uncomfortable, it makes you evaluate the ethics of war and it makes you more invested in the rest of the story.

Why can't a medium that is able to do this be considered a legitimate medium like movies or visual art? Is it because the word "game" is in the title?

Games like Metal Gear, GoldenEye, Uncharted and Call of Duty have pushed the boundaries of gaming, crossing into the realm of interactive movies and it seems that more games are heading in that direction. As they become more cinematic and art driven, the things done in them will be more and more controversial, especially if we keep viewing them in this childish light. Video Games are growing up. Maybe instead of being angry and banning them, its time to take a step up and let them grow strong.

People I Hate in Class

2010-02-17T18:10:00.000-08:00

Do i really need to preface this? I'm taking a Sex, Cyborgs, and Society class and one of the things that really irks me is that there are people in there who embody every annoying quality possible. So, why not go through the list...mkay?

1) The "Yes-Man"

You know those people that you can bet money on never being able to find a mate because they have no spine? In class, they are worse. Rocking a goofy smile and confused eyes, anytime the teacher or another student questions their position, they simply agree with a bass-heavy "Uh, yeah." They tend to have high grades, though, so I guess i'm hating. They also will say shit that makes no sense as to not come across as a "Yes-Man." Anytime they speak, I just shake my head while saying under my breath "I still get more than you..."

2) The Enlightened Ho

I Know, I shouldn't call them hos...but let's be honest, some of these people in your class are on that Walt Whitman tip (I am vast, I contain multitudes). Like, you see them in class, shaking in self-hatred while the night before, you saw them eyeballing a new set of gonads to place perpendicular to their nose. The funny thing is that they have an advantage in class...they're very sensory and use very provocative allusions to make their point...and no one of the opposite sex will counter those examples because, well, everyone is hoping to be the next one to put their children under her eyelids. Yo, I always find it funny how these enlightened hos can cite sources that are supposed to make their hoing become socially acceptable and spiritual. Like, "I'm not a ho, I'm just in tune with my multitudes of sexual partners and I'm liberated from the social constraints of sexual purity. I have transcended my gender roles and you should not judge me..." which can all be translated to "scut." Scores high with male teachers and low with females...haters.

3) The Libertarian

...First off, how many libertarians do you actually know? I'll answer it for you, one. Basically, being a libertarian means that you like no one taking your opinion seriously and that you are perfectly content with being compared to the sugar-water eater from men in black because of your brutish simplicity. In class, they are firestarters, comparing everything to communist Russia and slavery while simultaneously reaping the benefits of financial aid to be at the university that allows them to bitch and moan about every single governmental policy. And how does a discussion about gender roles in latin america turn into discussions about how the government shouldn't take taxes? Teachers don't give the libetarian grades because, quite frankly, they don't exist.

4) 21 Questions

This is the one who asks 1 billion questions every class because they think that it boosts their grade. What starts out as honestly seeking guidance becomes attention grubbing. If the teacher says "This started in Florida." You shouldn't need to ask "Do you mean the state south of Georgia?" (Shouts to all the negroes who got confused when I said Georgia. Y'know, the state with Atlanta. Remember, Atlanta is not a state, simple negroes)

5) Mr/s Outside Research

Y'know the one that reads the optional readings in class. Looks shit up and comes in acting like they are the most prepared every class...Well, they are, but still, do you really need to look up the etymology of a key word for every class? Also, is all you do class? Aren't you missing out on a good part of college life? Go outside, meet some people, put the book down, let me come up and get a better grade, you selfish bastard.

Those are my 5. Got any others to add to the list?

Gonna Be a Lovely Day

2010-02-16T08:05:00.000-08:00

So, I've been down a lot lately, and I think, in certain aspects, 4thursday has been reflecting that. So, let's have an upbeat day!

No real post today. Too much paper, not enough time. But I hope everyone has a great day and we'll get 4thursday crackin a little later on in the week. Listen to this song and make the day great.

As WU-Slam would normallly say: "Get money, Get squids"

10

2010-02-15T09:07:00.001-08:00

Author's Note: Been on my heart for awhile. Might as well put up draft 3.

Yo, that is the baddest chick I've seen in a minute!
Like, on some celebrity status type bad,
They damn sure don't make'em like they used to.
Naw, dog, she's a 7 at best.
A 7? Naw, that's her friend. She's a 9 or 10,
Man, you just think she's bad because she's surrounded
By those beasts around her. Her friends are all 2's,
So of course she looks better.
Aight, you right, you right…

We needed a system,
Hierarchy, ranking
To quantify quality
Something to make things easier,

It's hard to describe you.
You should know your rank.

1- Someone so hideous that it should have ended up in the carpet. Or the happy towel.
2- Lil Wayne
3- Someone who's probably got a redeeming skill or a good personality, but is still pretty tough to look at. Probably shouldn't speak until spoken to. Just sayin
4- Slightly below average, they're trying, just falling short of normalcy.
5- Average Joe. We can be friends in public without me being embarrassed. Good job
6- Someone worth dating…temporarily
7- Someone worth dating,…permanently.
8- You can be a complete asshole, but I'll put up with your bullshit. You could actually make it on TV. Or a magazine. Or as a singer. With no talent.
9- You have the right to remain gorgeous. You don't even need to talk, you're so flippin amazing already. In fact, don't talk, you might lower your rating
10- Alicia Keys.

It make things easier.
It's just math,
Calculations,
It saves words like (fine/cute/gorgeous/attractive)
It makes it easier to remember,
We needed this
A simple game of numbers.
It's just math

1's and 2's are compatible, no one cares about them
She has low self-esteem,
She could be so much cuter if she didn't talk,
Damn threes, always sticking their heads
where they don't belong,
He's a 5, he's always shooting for 9's,
What a joke, he needs to know his role,
He's fat,
She's fat,
He/she's a 3,
So hideous that they should know
When to shut the hell up,
How did Jill Scott get famous,
Fat-ass,
Fantasia sings like a 9 but looks like a 2
Hideous
Know your role
She's a 9,
I don't know her name,
But I know she's a 9,
She'll probably only look for other 9's
And hang around 7s or above,
She needs to settle sometimes,
I don't know her name, though,

We don't need to waste words
Like smart/funny/thoughtful
Like cute/stunning/dedicated
It used to be a 2 number system,
You were either 1 or 0
Hot or not
Now, you have worth,
You have downward mobility,
There's no harm,
Nothing can go wrong
Be grateful,
Would you rather be a 0?

She told me that I was a 3,
Dammit, I’m a 3,
I need to learn my place
I want to bag her,
I want to multiply,
I don't care if she cheats, I don't want to know,
She's an 8, I may never get this chance again,
And how does he do it, he's a 4
And no one talks about 4s
But he keeps talking to 7s,
Like he matters,
It's bad math,
What the hell is her name,
Wait, I don't need to know her name,
She's a 10,
That's all I need to know,
Yo,
I'd do some terrible things to her, son.
Yo,
I'd beat the brakes of her son,
Yo,
I'd fuck the shit out of her son
She's a 2 that lives like a 2 son
She's a 10 that feels like a 2 son,
I don't want to be a 2 son
I don't want to be a number
I don't want you to be a number

We sat in a café,
Laughing,
As we figured out who was
Worth talking about,
Leaving 5,
Then eliminated anyone
With a trivial flaw,
Leaving 3
And reduced it
To 1
Worth
Anything.

I don't need you,
Never did,
We never needed you,
We never needed your name,
Or you,
Just your rank

This system is easy
I hope you can suck a good dick, 1
This system leaves no stone unturned
You're almost there, 4, just don't speak
This system is efficient
I only fucks with 7s or above
This system makes sense
I wish I was a 10

This system is flawed

I propose a new one:

1- I found a way to rank you based on your looks
2- Because as long as you're a number
3- We can continue to know our roles
4- Even if they're wrong
5- I'm sorry
6- For being too afraid to know you
7- And I want to erase these numbers
8- And replace them with compliments, qualities and conversations
9- I need to go back to the drawing board

Firework Phrases: Shit No Man Wants to Hear

2010-02-14T21:50:00.000-08:00

Happy V-Day, you happy, coupled up, content people…to all the people rocking all black, Happy Single’s Awareness Day! To everyone who was depressed today…I hope the oxycoton tastes good for you.

(4Thursday does NOT endorse the use of drugs for cathartic purposes…unless you’re a 2…then do whatever it takes to get by)

So, this is me just putting up some phrases that I hear on the regular that bother me.

1) You betta get dat shit!”

Every time I hear this at a party, I wanna cut someone. It’s really obnoxious when you’re dancing with some chick (especially if you’re someone like me and you’re, by default, self-conscious) and some asshat with a polo and too much alcohol in their blood comes clapping over your head saying that mess. What does that even mean…really? I don’t want her shit. That’s disgusting…in fact, if some chick said that during intercourse, I’m liable to go limp.

2) “Look, I bought it, so it’s MY hair.”

I’m very sure that slave masters used that same logic when they beat slaves. “I bought this nigger, so it’s MY nigger.” That hair wasn’t there yesterday…then it grew 7 inches and you expect me to believe that? C’mon, it’s usually the wrong texture, it usually looks tacky, you’re neck looks strained and it gives melanin-deprived folk more reason to laugh at us. Stop it. Just stop.

3) “We’ve been dating for awhile and…wow, you’re such a good friend.”

...

…Just die, ho....

4) “Man, we’re young. Make your mistakes now."

Oh Golly Gee, I’ve been wanting to sleep with the girl who I’m 99.9999999% sure has ghonorrea-syphalAIDS for SOOOO long, I might as well do it while I’m young. I can ALWAYS wash the shame off of me.

5) “I’ve never done this before…”

…you mean with me, right? My boy hit and said you did this quite often. In fact, for someone who has never done this before, you sure do know a lot of tricks….

6) “Can I introduce you to my friend, ______? She’s really nice”

Two things wrong here. One, I’m not trying to talk to your friend, I’m trying to talk to you. Don’t give me the silver when I’m trying to get the gold, ma’am. Two…when women define someone by how nice they are, how outgoing they are or how talented they are at something…the person they are describing is busted. It’s ALWAYS true.

7) “You want to meet my *insert greek letter here* father?”

Do I want to eat spicy cyanide popsicles?

Here’s my list. Fellas, what things do you hear that make your skin crawl?

An Overdue Response

2010-02-13T09:06:00.000-08:00

So, tomorrow's the day of love...named after the patron saint of happy marriages, strong couples, bee keepers, plague and epileptics...? Not much is known about Good ol' St. Valentine except for that he was a missional minister who tried to convert an emperor and was stoned, clubbed and beheaded. In fact, we don't even know if there was only one Valentine...

I digress.

(I must forewarn you, this post may be dripping with sarcasm.)

Yesterday was our wonderful Black love and relationship panel discussion, featuring some pretty fine individuals from the Berkeley area and a recently graduated student. There was a good turn out, and why not? People always have an opinion when it comes to black love.

We've had these discussions before. What does a black relationship look like? Why can't black men and women get along? What ever happened to courting? Why would you let a good one go? Why don't our shit stink and yours smell SO bad? yadayadayadaya

So, as I began to space out from a discussion focusing on marriage (which is something I'm just not interested in at the present moment) I started thinking back to our last gender discussion. We're in a camp, two sides facing each other, eyes narrow, like a showdown. It's early in the year but bad feelings from years past have fluttered into this room. There's three moderators...but in this case, we'll call them referees...or the UN Peacekeepers. Yea, it's about to be a war.

The discussion begins with frustrations: "Why don't you like us?" "Why don't you respect us?" "Where are the good one's at?" "Why do you run to other schools?"

It turned into confessionals: "I've been hurt by..." "I don't believe in you all because..."

And a statement was thrown out that still rings into my ears today:

"Maybe you men should look inside yourselves and ask...'Am I Worthy?' of being with a black woman at Washington Universty?"

So, I sat on that. Contemplated. "looked inside myself."

*sigh*

This statement implies two things:

1) That the men at WashU don't know their worth

2) That the women at WashU not only know their worth, but are allowed to use their (probably flawed) concept of self-worth as a projection of eligibility to the WashU men

And what is this "worth?" Is it some mythical-metaphysical bullshit measurement of qualities and thought processes that can be made tangible? Is it some nice post-depressed-ice-cream-eating-binge phrase used in closed door conversations to make the dumped not seem so defeated? Is it something any of us ACTUALLY ever think of outside of our attempts to degrade people we're supposed to be uplifting while synonymously calling it "honesty?" How is someone to know that their worthy? How do I know if I'm not overqualified to be with you? What separates me from you? How do you know that you're not over assessing your worth? How do you know that you're not downplaying someone else's worth?

How do we know that the entire statement wasn't just to make oneself look better while simultaneously making every guy in that room look worse.

Under the right amount of pressure, carbon can take the form of Diamond or Graphite. How many lumps of Graphite have you helped create?

A lot of people have been hurt by a minority. That's legit...but it's a minority. A small part. And the good majority have to pay for them. We are made to feel worthless because you've been hurt. We are forced to make other's feel worthless to gain our worth back. And the cycle continues. The chicken and the egg, really.

I'm tired of paying for my brother's crimes. Yes, a few dudes at this university have messed up, have played women, have hurt them...but why should I have to continually pay for them? If this concept of worth holds any water, then I'm worth more than that. The VAST majority of the men are worth more than that. I know it's easier to let such a small part define the whole, but maybe it's time to grow up a little bit, stop elevating yourselves at our expense and make an effort to grow with us, not apart from us.

And if you want to stand by this divisive and foolish notion of "worthy," then examine your own self worth. See how many people you've hurt. See how many times you've done the same things that we're accused of. See if you're really as close to being a diamond as you claim to be.

The iGoogle World

2010-02-11T08:24:00.000-08:00

So, two days ago, Google released "Google Buzz," Google's (insecure) response to basically every social networking site. It basically removes all reason to leave Gmail. I don't know if I like it yet, but as with every social networking site, eventually, it'll be my thang-thang (That sounded sexual).

So, lets be real: What HASN'T Google taken over? They run the e-mail game, they run the online file-sharing game, they run the online collaboration game, Picasa is quickly taking over the photo-sharing game, its search engine was so popular that it never needed advertising until THIS YEARS SUPERBOWL (I'll write about that depressing commercial and why I don't fucks with Google's search engine anymore late. One word: Marriage.) Google runs most of the technological world now...

...except for the spaces run by Apple.

When I'm not online, I'm listening to my iPod. Everybody beats me over the head with their Macbooks and their iMacs and shit. iTunes is closer to having a fully functional browser integrated into its programming, iPod has replaced the term "mp3" player, now there's the damned iPad. Oh, even though Andriod is like, the shit, the iPhone still runs phones. (If only Att could win an Advertising war, huh?)

Between Apple and Google, most bases are covered...but there are places in the future that they can battle it out over:

1) GoogleBlock: Have someone who keeps contacting you through, well, anything? Google has a API for that. First, it searches all information on the person you need to block. Then it blocks their internet access and when they walk outside to stalk you, they run into a "Verizon-posse" type group that keeps them away from you. Where my Stalked people at? (I could have used this before I started getting messages about people picturing my fuckin children...*shudder*)

2) iForgot: Forgot the song you were looking for? Want your computer program to act as lost as you so you don't feel so bad about it? iForgot has your back. You'll punch in the 2 words or hum the off-key version you think is right and it responds just like your friends: Vaguely. "Yo, you remember that song that went...er..."don't hurt...yea?" "Oh, you mean that one song?" "Yea, that song, what's it called." "Dawg, I really don't remember, but it's a dope track." "Word. Ugh, it's on the tip of my tongue." "Why not google the lyrics?"

3) GoogleSoul: So, you're in a chatroom...wait, who the hell uses chatrooms? Okay, you're on facebook, chatting with that one MF you REALLY don't like. They say something that, although isn't wrong, incites an undue wrath...or they put up a picture that looks like five platypuses making eggs on shoulders. You wanna be ignorant, but you don't know if it's okay. Ask GoogleSoul. It can either council you out of your decision...or do the roasting for you. (I could really use this)

4) iHoe: Sometimes, you need to cheat. Badly. Let's be real, you'll get tired of the same vagina or same dick if you see it every flippin day. We need variety...and our significant others are too selfish to understand this. (Silly, right?) That's what the iHoe is for. By subscribing to Apple's iHoe, you create the iHoe of your dreams, have them delivered, and get to beatin. When finished, it plays soothing music to put you to sleep. Don't worry, it doesn't talk )for you fellas who crave efficiency.) I know, what if my girl walks in? Well, show her the Apple Logo and the catchy theme music that plays when you stroke her clickwheel. (Random: Can you imagine a touchscreen clitoris?) Have your significant other join in. It's not nasty! It's Apple!

(I think the iHoe is already out. I know a few.)

Now, seeing as how I'm marketingly challenged, I can only think of 4 things. What's everyone else got? What does an iGoogle world look like to you?

Suck Wall vol. 1

2010-01-15T07:18:00.000-08:00

So, a few months ago, Naia and I went in on a #yousuck topic. I was thinking back on that today and decided that I would make a "Suck Wall." This will be a list of things that frustrate the hell out of me.

Remember, I am a self-confessed asshole. If you're sensitive...you may want to turn around now.

Things that belong on the suck wall:

1) Greeks who spells shit with their greek letters. I understand that you have to have pride for your PHrAternity, but do you reAlly need to KApAtAlize every letter And replAce every phoneticAlly similar KhArActer to make me believe that you are part of your group? The stuff looks stupid, it's hard to read...and it took me 7 minutes to type that last sentence. Get out of here and stick to steppin.

2) Lord of the Rings fans. Yea, I said it. I can't stand those long, boring movies and books. They just never end. The movie is hard to follow and boring. The book is just filled with unnecessary details that distracts from the story...which is still hard to follow and boring. The fans, however, will call you stupid if you don't like it. Just because you read each book 5 times to understand it doesn't mean you're smart, jackass.

3) Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson. You put out that boo-boo Before I Self Destruct and Curtis. Why? Why do you hate your fans so much? No, I will not support your beefs. No, I will not keep ranting about how you were dope when Get Rich or Die Trying came out. You've lost your hip-hop edge. Congrats on the businesses...but maybe you should drop the title of rapper.

4) Pat Robertson and Rush Limbaugh. For obvious reasons.

5) Atheists who look for reasons to bash God. Y'all like to list ways that the church has ostracized people and ish but then bash God in the same manner. That's kind of hypocritical. I don't really care if you don't want to believe. Just don't bash my God to make yourself feel better.

6) Black women with hairy lips. Before the dogs come loose: I don't like white women with hairy lips either. The difference is that I can see them from a distance while with a black chick, you gotta be right up on them to see the multitude of straggly hairs accumulating around their mouth. That's deceptive. I will gasp and point at it.

7) Conspiracy Theorist. Sometimes y'all say some thought provoking mess...then mess it up with Satan and aliens.

8) Stores that should ALWAYS have something but always run out. St. Louis Bread Co., I'm talking to you. You are a BREAD CO. You should never run out of bagels or anything bread related. C'monson!

9) The Bold Ugly Friend. We all know these people. Someone's cute but they got the velociraptor with them. They, because of people like Oprah and Tyra telling them so, wholeheartedly believe they deserve attention like their much cuter friends. They will hate on any dude that talks to the friends and try to steal the spot light. I carry a tranquilizer gun for these creatures. Real talk.

10) Twitter Thugs and Twitter Hoes. Fellas, if you are on Twitter braggin about your stroke game, you have know stroke game. If you are talkin about all the people you bodied, you have never been in a fight. Women, all of you can't be models. Half of y'all look like Geodude from Pokemon. Stop it. Also, you are not a barbie. You'll need much more than 140 characters to make me believe otherwise.

That's my list for today. What's on your list?

I'm not _______-ist!

2010-01-14T11:05:00.001-08:00

So, it's the November Poetry Slam. I'm preparing to fight for my spot in the Grand Slam. Someone I consider a friend does a poem during the open mic. It's called "Let Me Tap That Ass." He says some pretty sexist things in the poem.$ I won't say otherwise, lol. He also brings up an interesting point. He's a worker in the DUC, spends hours cleaning up after us. He's 22-23 and a student at a neighboring school. He noticed that his status at the school automatically disqualifies him from talking to women at WUSTL, who he finds attractive.

In the wake of the poem, a girl retorts against his sexual language and uses her age as the signifier of his deviant advances. (She's 17, which is the Age of Consent here.) The women of WUSTL all stand and applaud the piece...which was kind of...bad... while uniting against the guy who did the initial piece.

Yes, the language he used was aggressive, was sexist, yadayadayadayadaya. Like I said, i won't argue that. I completely agree with complaints against his poem on that turf. I also think his poem showcased a big issue with the general community at WUSTL that will be overlooked because of the other things he said.

So I'll say them.

Classism is very prevalent in our environment. It comes from this sense of entitlement that a lot of the students have. Y'know, the "I worked my ass off in school (even if I didn't), So I deserve a man/woman who is this-that-theother and will make X amount of money and do X amount of things for me!" This sense of entitlement isn't necessarily a bad thing. Classes are a necessary evil. As people accomplish more, their standards should rise. The problem is then those standards lead to 1)a negative assumption about someone who is not in your same class and 2)the belief that higher class equals higher value.

The negative assumptions about the initial poet were that he was an older, uneducated, lecherous man. Although the third quality is contested because of the piece, the first two were far from true. As a worker, people at WUSTL look at him and assume that he automatically has certain qualities about him. Most of the people who had negative experiences with him cited the way he looks at them...all the while dating someone who attends our school who looks at them the exact same way. In fact, looking at the males in our school, I'm surprised that more women don't go for workers. At least they cherish the women more. We hold certain qualities against workers (even when they haven't exhibited them) but not against fellow students.

But hey, they're students. They have more room for improvement.

Now, we would be mad if someone treats us different based on skin tone. Why do we do it off something as trivial as occupation?

What I find just as interesting is the rebuttal argument: "I'm not classist! I always make sure I make friends who work at my school."
If you intentionally seek out certain people to make friends based on their class, you're doing it as a form of charity work. That uses the same assumptions as someone who treats them negatively. They both also have the added bonus of making you feel better about yourself.

Well, that's my two-cents.

(I know that my last few entries have been poorly written and all that...but this is a blog. A lot of these thoughts are incomplete. I just write what I feel and move on with my life.)

Delimma

2010-01-11T07:33:00.000-08:00

Last week, I went to Legacy Books open mic with my dude, Justin McCain aka 4Real. I didn't feel like performing, but he did and I wanted to be there for support since he hasn't performed in a few months. The scene was dope. A lot of older folk who have some real stories and some younger folk who don't adhere to some of the poet stereotypes. The only stereotype that really stood out is the whole "Poet Name" thing...Why does every urban poet have to have "Poetic" in their name? It's played out, people.

Anyway, on the way back, my boy and I were talking about relationships and the problem with time. We're both two very busy people with a busier life coming up, so how do you find time to work a relationship in there? The biggest fear that came up was that you may be able to work someone into your life only to find out that they were a complete waste of time. Like most people, both of us have been burned a few times, which was okay in HS, but now, getting played doesn't only affect you emotionally, there's a practical side also. Time spent developing a relationship with someone could have been productive to other areas that needed the attention. For example, I run a non-profit. The operation of this non-profit in it's 2nd year takes a toll on my free time. For me to make time for a relationship, I have to cut down on the time I spend on the non-profit. Now, let's say I'm in this relationship for a year or two and find out the nasty heffa cheats or something like that (Listen, bitter chicks, I already know men cheat. We ain't talking about us, tho. That's not part of this discussion, go back to your hole and wait for areal opportunity to be angry.) There a significant emotional shock that occurs, which is natural. There is also the reduced efficiency of the non-profit that was incurred when i reduced time to work on it to make time for a relationship.

This can be applied to art, work, hustlin, whatever you're doing.

Now, I normally think it's justified to turn away from the compromise needed for a relationship if too many other facets of your life are going to suffer because of it. On that same token, I don't want to block blessings, and the person I turn away because of other responsibilities could be the one who is "the one." (I HATE that term, just so you know.)

My question is: Do you ever find yourself avoiding relationships based on other responsibilities?

ALBUM REVIEW- Bryant Stewart's "A Perfect Change"

2009-12-20T09:35:00.001-08:00

On a completely unrelated note, it's so nice to be able to sleep in again. School can be hell.

Being a fan of Stl hip-hop can be hard, especially when everyone expects you to sound like Nelly. All these other cities hear 314 and expect someone to turn a nursery rhyme into a song and say "hurre" and shit. I know that Country Grammar was a hit, but can we please move on?

So, what does a new 314 artist do? Does he simply allow the stereotype to ring true? Does he market himself as something separate from St. Louis? Does he take shots at everyone the stereotypes affect? Does he just give up?

"A Perfect Change" seems to be Bryant Stewart's answer. From a man who has been already been cosigned by hip-hop heavyweight bloggers 2dopeboys.com, Stewart attempts to introduce himself as someone to look out for while still showing his city love every chance he gets. The question now becomes: Was the introduction a good one?

Before I jump in, let me apologize. I know this is supposed to be an ALBUM REVIEW and this is technically a mixtape. I'm sorry if you felt misled. I'm also sorry that you're so much of a lame that you actually cared that It's not technically an album. Kick rocks.

Now that we got that out of the way...

Before getting into the actual canon of "A Perfect Change," Stewart gives us a taste of his eclectic style on Wake Up Call, mixing his rapping prowess with his ability to hold a note. He opens with the hardest verse he would spit on the mixtape, the rest being much more laid back. The energy sparked by this track is never lost, just transformed as you begin to know Bryant Stewart and his relationship with St. Louis and this newfound recognition he's gaining. After his energetic opening, the real project begins with Homemade, a brilliant ode to his hometown while being the strongest introspective track on the mixtape. The smooth beat blends well with his vocals during the chorus, which is one of the stronger instances of his singing voice that I've heard from Stewart yet.

Tip-top Flow focuses on Stewart's lyricism, but lacks the direction that most of the other tracks have. The good thing about this track is that it still manages to entertain, as his lyrics are strong enough to make someone not care that the track isn't particularly moving. We move from here to Flashing Lights, a track I love/hate. I love the subject matter and Bryant's execution. He truly gives Drake a run for his money, mixing his singing and his lyricism nearly flawlessly. This track, reminiscent of Dahlak Braithwaite's Flashing Lights, manages to take a tired concept and make it alive again. My issue is with the beat...which is strong for most of it until the chorus comes on and this annoying slayer comes on. That one instrument is extremely distracting. But overall, the song is strong.

I Never Say Nothing does a good job of feeding off the mood of the previous track, giving us a few frustrations from the new emcee. Not necessarily the best track ever made, but fits in well in this album. The chorus definitely steals the show on this track. Next, we have an interlude (I am Only Human) that I wish was a full-length song. (just sayin, the interlude was dope.) After that, the energy of the album is given a jump start with the only track to have a feature. Surprisingly, Bryant doesn't sing, and has his feature handle the vocals this time around on Blame it on the Game. DJ Corbett holds his own on the chorus while Bryant snaps on the verses, rivaling (but not equaling) his opening track in sheer attitude. If you're not a fan of the chill nature of the mixtape, this track will be the track that wins you over.

When it Rains is probably the weakest track on the mixtape, which is saying a lot because it's still enjoyable. The sample does the majority of the work for Bryant, who spits some inspirational yet playful verses in his chill style. The mixtape ends on Appreciation, a wonderful ending that pays homage to all the influences and support Bryant has received. It ends the album on a good note, leaving his newfound fans wanting more from him, especially with this lyrical showcase he puts on in the second and last verses.

Overall: St. Louis hasn't had a lot of reasons to be proud this year when it comes to Hip Hop. Aside from showcase before the Lupe concert (featuring Black Spade, Tef Poe,Rockwell Knuckles and Corey Black) and Nite Owl's last album (which was a slight disappointment), the 314 is in need of some newer music. Bryant Stewart gives notice that there is still talent in this city, and he does it in a sound that isn't traditional St. Louis hip-hop. In a year where J. Cole drops his heat, Wale drops "Back to the Feature" and Drake drops "So Far Gone," this mixtape could fly under the radar and not get the attention it deserves. That's a problem, as this mixtape is very well done and shows that Bryant Stewart is serious about his music.

To people in St. Louis: quit complaining about there not being any good music when you have an artist like this in your own backyard. Support this man as he grows into the musician he's meant to be. He just gave you the best mixtape that your city has produced in the past year. Hands down.

Want "A Perfect Change?"
Download the Mixtape here

YO!

2009-12-20T09:15:00.000-08:00

Sorry for the lack of posts lately. Been on some tough school stuff, so I haven't been able to focus lately. But I'm back in full gear, with more poetry, more opinions, some actual album reviews and some other ish.

Untitled 3

2009-08-04T11:52:00.000-07:00

We aren't the same.

You are another one
who wears her heart on her kneecaps
and squeezes it to her chest
when lonely.
Taught that you are a queen by birthright
and that your kingdom has yet to be established
they told you black was beautiful
but rarely said you were, too.
Your told to trade sports for success
and wear that as your tiara,
accessorize and prioritize,
let them fight for you,
you're worth it...

And sometimes, you wonder
what scale that worth is measured on.
You wonder if the rain washed away
the accessories or even that
night-kissed skin,
would that birthright be washed
away as well.
You learned to smile through doubts,
to believe that no one feels like you feel,
to hope that there's someone out there
who make your birth feel right.

and me,
well,

Sometimes, I wonder if boys are born
with papercuts on their hearts.
A lifetime knowing they're there,
a lifetime feeling that burn,
and a lifetime searching for the right bandage.
We pound our chests to say we fear no pain,
but we don't know what to do when it bursts
and drips all over our egos.
We're told to love last and race first,
to always fight,
and when pushed against a wall,
push back,
but we're never told what to do
when everything's calm.

When thirsty, we're told to swallow our tears
and spit the salts to the ground,
to never take the same step twice
and to see your birthright, not you.
We're not supposed to love you,
we're supposed to want you.
We love it when you're graceful,
when every step is just right.
It make it prettier
when you trip
and fall right into love,
or at least us.

We aren't the same
We're two entities,
one's waiting to grow into their birthright
and the other wants their heart to heal
or at least scab over.

Stupid ish

2009-08-04T11:13:00.000-07:00

A-yo, people! We have a special opinion today...part one in my "stupid ish" chronicles. Anytime I see or read something stupid, I'll talk about it in one of these.

Today's stupid ish is about the whole "I'm a nice guy/girl" argument. I'll be real, I'm sick of hearing it. I recently sat through a note someone wrote on facebook talking about how hard it is to be a nice girl. I couldn't help but laugh the entire way. A note that started out with an honest beginning and some good points instantly became corrupt. It failed on two levels:
1) It assumed that every girl is a nice girl at heart
2) It assumed that every guy only says they want a nice girl as a cop out.

While I won't try and say that there isn't a shred of truth to the second point, what had hopes of being an honest note quickly became another "Diary of a Mad Black Woman" entry.

Okay, I'll admit, there are a lot of ain't-shit dudes out there. Just like there are a lot of ain't-shit women out there. That's simple. If everyone was good, then there would be no thrill to the search. But to say that all guys or all girls is one thing defeats the purpose of you being what you are in hopes that you'll get something different. If you wait your entire life for someone to prove you wrong, then you'll die right.

Also, why is it easy to say that "just because I feel bad means I'm still nice..." That argument holds no water. If you live your life hurting others, that's what you are. You can't try to rationalize your way out of a reality. That's like saying "I know I killed someone...but I feel bad about it...so I'm not a murderer..." getthufuckouttahurr

Peaces
AD

Are Men and Women Equal?

2009-08-03T07:35:00.000-07:00

Before I begin...I have a slight crush on Angela Yee. Don't judge me, lol

So, I really like Ghost as an artist. I've bumped his work on the regular. Also, on a certain level, I can see what he's talking about. I'm just a little disturbed that we're thinking that this line of thinking is okay. I understand that there's a double standard that has existed for hundreds of years. I just think that progress is about breaking down those standards, not adhering to them.

What Ghostface did was define a woman's role by a broken system. Even when confronted with the holes in that broken system, he continued to stand by that ineffective process. Although I admire his tenacity, there comes a point where you have to accept that fact that times are changing, and part of being wise is adapting to those changing times and changing ideals. In a way, I'm disappointed in Ghostface, but I'm even more disappointed by the environment that fosters these kinds of ideals.

I would get more into this...but I'm at work...one more week for free printing, ya'll. lol

I do wanna know, however: What do you think? Are men and women equal? If no, do you think it is possible to level the playing field? Do you think inequality is necessary? Let me know!

Peaces
~AD

Hot or Not?

2009-07-31T08:06:00.000-07:00

What do you all think? Hot or not?

Untitled 2

2009-07-30T10:24:00.001-07:00

"It only hurts when I lean back"

She wears that defense closer than her bruises,
Clad in purple shirts
Because that color got her the first compliment
She would receive in years.
Her hands shake,
Probably because they're used
to pushing his chest away
As he closes in,
But they steady when caressing
The hair of her kids.
She baby-sits, and treats
Each one as if it were her own,
So when money runs out,
They drink Kool-aid while
she swallows her spit,
And pretends it's red,
And she carries my knife
Because she says
"It's too rough for your grip."

She loves everyone and adores few,
And hates when that love is returned
Because every hand that fed her
Has scratched her
And she wears those scars
As plaques,
Celebrating the gain of knowledge.
They are her diplomas,
And she knows they're worth more
Than the school she attended.
She hopes for little
And when she stares at the stars,
Their light burns too bright for her eyes.
She's always one laugh away from tears.

I swear,
Every time I see her bruises
And count her scars, I wonder
How things would be for her
If I could carry her across that bridge
And show her life behind the red brick
Walls of this university.
I wonder how it would look
To see her trade that knife
For a text book
And those scars for paper cuts
And I wonder if I would have
The courage to tell her
Everything if it was
Here instead of there.

Dear Carina,

I'm sorry that I can't love you.
I'm sorry that my hands are stained
With graphite and that my mind
Paints pictures in black and white.
And that I play with words
But don't toy with hearts
Because I'm afraid to not know.
I can't heal your wounds,
I can't dry your eyes
And make life more than
Today for you.

All I can do is listen,
And not just to your stories.
I'll listen to every movement
Of your eyes and follow your interests,
I'll listen to your body and know
How to embrace you
Without remind you of him,
I'll listen to the shakes of your hands,
Convert them to a Richter scale
And figure out the epicenter,
I'll listen to every word you say
And use the letters to draw a path
Away from your home
And into your next dream.

I can't love you,
But I can't abandon you.
This is me, bandaging the scars,
And having the faith
To know that the same girl
Who loves those kids
Can love herself
Enough to let herself
Heal.

Love,
Gerald

The King

2009-07-30T10:22:00.002-07:00

Normally, I can count on my students
to be late
and to come wearing their smiles
under their caps.
These are the kids rejected by St. Louis,
who learn to turn their eyes
from pavement to parchment,
to write their stories in sound waves
and send them to their handcuffs.
All they want is a chance
to write at top volume,
screaming from the bottom
of their lead-tipped pencils.

Today,
their smiles were left at home,
consoling their mothers
who mourn the King of Pop.
We all sit there, silent,
me a teacher, with no prompt
and wandering thoughts
of canceling class.

One of them asks:
"Gerald, what did you think of MJ?"
I smile:
"He was the best there ever was."
Another looks at me:
"Wasn't he born in Gary?"
I cock my eyebrow:
"Yea, why do you ask?"
His eyes slide from me to his desk:
"You wouldn't know by looking at him."
I chuckle:
"I guess you're right. Can't judge a book
by its cover."

A girl named Candice,
usually quite with fingers
that pick locks and pat
her little sister on the back
before school daily,
raises her hand for the first time
this summer.

"Isn't Gary mostly Black?"
I smile:
"Yea, it's pretty Black."
Her voice softens:
"Wasn't he Black?"
I can't resist:
"It was contested.
But he's definitely Black."
She turns towards the window,
staring at the setting sun,
dying us all amber:
"I only knew Michael Jackson
as that guy that was supposed
to touch children. The guy
with the messed up hair
who couldn't decide what sex
he was or what race
he would be that day,
but when I see my mother
crying for him,
I wonder what it must have been like
to see Thriller when it first came out."

I take a deep breath,
her words heavy in my lungs:
"When you're the best,
they will beat you down."
Their eyes widen.
I continue:
"This is what it looks like.
When you're down,
this world will try
to keep you down.
It's fingers will grip your ankles,
and every time you take a step
up, it will pull you back.
Everyday,
we fight to escape gravity
and float with stars,
to never look back at the Earth
that never smiled back."

Their completely silent.
I'm completely silent.

Candace raises her hand,
damp with sweat.
"What made him different, then?"

I walk to her desk,
her eyes avoid mine:

"He made it,
but instead of trying to abandon
this world,
he tried to heal it,
so that others
from Gary,
to Detroit,
to Moscow,
to London
and to this very classroom
can make that same journey."

The sun set fully,
but I can still see amber
in their irises.

"How do we make that journey?"

I laugh:
"That's a good question.
How do you think?"
Another student begins to raise his hand.
My hand beats his:
"Don't tell me, tell your notebooks."

40 minutes pass,
their hands searching their
pages for answers,
the stars becoming visible.
and a video playing on the projector
of Michael,
dancing with his white sparkling glove.
I watch the video
but I can hear them mumbling to each other
the culmination of their poems:

"My path was paved by my family,
and I'll walk it with you on my headphones..."
"I'm tired of looking at the man in the mirror,
but I have a lot to work on..."
"My friends play my instrumentals..."
"Our paths aren't the same,
none of ours are,
but you said that 'we are not alone...'"
"Thank you for showing me that I can live
off the wall..."

and in that moment,
on the screen,
Micheal's gloved hand
stopped before his face,
twinkling
like the jewels of his crown.

Touche

2009-07-30T10:22:00.001-07:00

We're at a barbecue.

She just turned 20, I'm a little more seasoned,
it's our first time meeting
and we're awkwardly eyeballing the ketchup,
laughing uneasily.
She's laughing because i look puzzled.
I'm laughing because she says "Catsup."

She says "It's weird when you call it 'Ketchup.'"
I say "It's kind of a 'Tomato-Tomato' type thing."
She giggles and takes the ketchup,
we look away,
she staring at her toes
and I am staring at what i want to say next.

So i stare.

and I stare.

She stares.
I glance at her.
She stares.

and I puzzle piece her in elegance,
ballrooms and I was an accessory,
augmenting but never outshining,
diamonds wrapped gold
around her fingers

and she says
"I know this sounds random,
but rings are like tiny handcuffs."
and I say,
"I know this sounds random,
but there's no keyhole for rings."

She nods,
I cock my eyebrow,
she says
"Maybe because we're never
supposed to take them off,
even if it turns our fingers
purple."

And I'm awkward,
"You look good in purple."
And she's awkward,
"I'm wearing blue."

And I wonder where I saw
her in purple before
and she wonders the same
and I wonder if this is what it's like
to dream about someone when you're awake,

And we talk about Lupe Fiasco,
because i want to see if talking about daydreams
makes me act like I'm in the present,
but instead we talk about coolness,
because our food got cold and she's a little bitter,

And she asks,
"Do you want to take a walk?"
And I ask,
"Where to?"
And she says,
"Somewhere."

And we walk,
and I realize that I'm not comfortable
following and that she walks really fast
and I remember where we are,
that these sidewalks were rain-washed
of grass clippings and blood
and that a lot of these brick walls were
reinforced with bullets
and that this is where she's from,
and she walks like there are shackles on her feet
and every step breaks those rings
and I feel guilty that I was just thinking
that her legs were so nice

She looks over he shoulder.
"Are you tired?"
"No, but a little lost."
"How can you be lost when
you're following me?"
"Touche."

And we walk, further into her neighborhood,
to a park, and she sits at a bench,
and I stand next to her
and she looks at me like she has something to say
and she says it.

"I say really awkward things."
She's correct.
"I like awkward things."
She laughs.
"We have a lot in common."

And I have to be the more awkward one.
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
"No, I have a problem."
"Which is?"
"That i can't love someone I trust."

And I see her,
fatherless,
mother who hates men,
and she, a woman hurt before
she knew what love was.
Who never knew
that you can be in pain and pleasure
at the same time,
Who thinks that men are afraid
to let their fingers turn purple,
and

and

she stands up and kisses me on the cheek.
I look at her confused.
She says,
"I don't really trust you just yet."
I smirk,
"Touche."

And we walk back to the barbecue,
she says
"It was fun getting to know you."
and I say,
"Are we done or something?"
and she says
"What, you think we'll see each other again?"
and she laughs
so hard that tears fall
from her closed eyes.

Settling

2009-07-30T10:21:00.000-07:00

Settling

How do you write
With an empty pen,
something that refuses
To leave it's mark on a page
And draws upon your blood to smear lines
If you press hard enough,
You can still see it

This is the poem I swore I'd never write.

Last year, I learned,
When I drove back from Kansas City
And left my future in a college dorm,
That I would never have the ink
To tell you how I feel.

I would freestyle every word,
And hope you wouldn't proofread it,
I would hope that your eyes
Would face that space between the stars
And know that gravity would pull
The arc of that angle back down to me
And vice versa,
We interspersed between our vices
And swore our atonement on phone calls,
You were the last person I texted at night.

We argued every day about love poems
Because you said I couldn't write one,
And I agreed
And you were angry because I didn't fight back
And I knew that my pen didn't have the ink
And that every time I said your name
Stanza burst from my tongue,
I couldn't eat spicy food anymore.
I love spicy food.
And of course, we fought
Over how important you were
Compared to habanera sauce
And how you both would
Cause my heart to burn.

We would argue about your ex
And how past-tense it all was
And why I was afraid of the night
Because it meant that day was coming
And how you were afraid of the day
Because sometimes the sun hurts
And we rested on each other's shoulders
More than our pillows
From across a state,
Distance is nothing but a longer glance.

This is the poem I swore I'd never write

You live in St. Louis,
Local, and every guy on the metro
Tries to holla at you
And you laugh it off,
They don't get you like
You do.

Neither do I,
Which is why I listen when you speak
And admire the class that passes
Through accented lips
You carry yourself like Athena
In a warzone speaking
With Poseidon's tongue
And I rode those waves
Because it's the closest I may ever be
To a beach.

You taught me how to deserve.

You taught me that St. Louis
Is an idea and that poetry
Is born in rivers and lakes
And that I would never find love
In a person, but I could find it
In their notebooks. You taught me
To be tough and fight with every
Word I have and never be afraid
To lose a battle
But to hobble my way home

This is the poem I swore I'd never write

Not because I'm afraid,
But because I'm tired of writing about women
Who don't exist
And fueling stomachs of players
Who use love poems as lust songs,
My stanzas are not dog food.
I swore that I would never write
About love because it sits above
My pen and drips onto my fingers
And I don't know how to wash it off.
It's a part of me I can't erase,
The ink,
That misstep,
That awkward laugh,
That dropped book
That deep sigh,
That late night conversation,
My heart speaking Morse code,
And its inability to simple say "Yes."

I swore I'd never write a love poem
Until I fell in love
Instead, I settled with the day that
Love stopped falling and I decided
To play catch-up.

Tied

2009-07-30T10:14:00.000-07:00

"I saw the way you were looking at me..."

There was no blood between us.
Just two people with different blood
pumping through different bodies,
pushing themselves towards different
hearts and yet, we were the same.
Our love was the same.

You were my best friend.
My sister, buddy, confidant...whatever.

We would spend hours on the phone,
neither wanting to hang up, pressing
the number pad buttons to trick
the other into conversational submission.
We would talk about boys and girls
and why we were still single
and say why we would always
be there for each other and laugh
for being so corny.

"You know you want this..."

Your call came at 12:46am Friday.
There were no phony hang-ups,
no talk about being single
no crazy girls or heartbroken boys,
I couldn't hear your smile.

I heard your breath stagger
with the rise and fall
of your chest, heavy heart
beat off-rhythm and pushing
sobs, One of your tears rested
on the 3 button of your phone.

"Why me? What did I do to deserve this?"

You told me about parties
and alcohol
and his smile, small, defined,
how it turned into sharp eyes,
snarls, grunts,
how the fabric tore

and about cuts
trailing up your thighs
opposite the blood running
down your leg and about
bruises circling your eyes
and spreading to your hair
and about the hand
on your throat, his sweat,
his hands trailing your stomach
your fists struggling to set you fee
and about his thrusts
and your screams
and how he goes back to smiling.
And that kiss on your forehead.

"I never even had sex..."

I never drove that fast,
crossing the plains of central Missouri,
telling you I'm on my way.
The world speeding by,
all i can see is your tear on the 3 button.

Where was I? Where was I
when you needed me? Where
was I when he blew smoke in your face
and smirked? Where was I when
the alcohol poured into your red cup?
What was I doing as his hands curled
through your hair and clenched,
drawing pleas of "Please STOP!"

Where was I when he forced himself into you?

WHERE THE FUCK WAS I?
What was I doing as thoughts of dates
and boyfriends became thoughts of predators
and prosecution and pregnancy,
when cries of "no" became null
and as you lost the last bit
of childhood you had?

Three hours away, wondering what time
I would go to sleep.

"He told me he loved me..."

I arrived at your house at 3:36 AM Friday.
We didn't talk about him.
We talked about popcorn and movies
and about sign language
and about math class, and fear of ourselves
and about church and about each other
and about the cost of gas and how there's
nothing between Kansas City and St. Louis
and how Lee's Summit isn't hard.

Everything but him. Everything.

There were tears in your eyes, barely
contained by bruised lids.
You said don't look away.
I wanted those tears to vanish.
I tied my eyes shut, wanting
to make your tears die
with the absence of light.
When I opened my eyes,
the tears had dried.
She said

That didn't help
I'm sorry
Don't be.
Why?
Just don't.
Are you okay?
I don't know.
Then I'll stay here.
Why?
To be sure.
Thank you for being.
Here?
No, just being.

Every bruise will fade.
She'll smile again.
I'll make sure of it.
Our love is the same.

Dr. Shipman

2009-07-30T10:13:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile since our last check up, hasn't it?

I see you're recovering finely from the last ailments,
My medicines are having positive effects on you,
Aren't they?
Are you following my instructions?

With the crack of sunrise, ingesting
My prescription will keep you sane.
Stained sheets are your medication,
Take once whenever you're feeling
Down, twice if the feeling is that
Overwhelming.

Above that, calming exercises
Are necessary, being addicted to success
Is easily counterbalanced by greater success,
Because eventually,
all you thirst is more.
Your attributes are not yours.
They're all side-effects
And I am the doctor
And pharmacist.

Take each dose the way I prescribe,
Chewing the tablets and swallowing
Broken dates, missed phone calls
And facebook messages.
Sip the nyquil and dream
"I'm sorry, Mom, I can't come
Home for my birthday."
Don't regurgitate, for all that
Will come is
"What do you mean, I've changed?"
And you will slip back,
Relapse,
The state I defend you from.

Take my injections,
I'll vaccinate you from her smile,
Draw a blood sample
With her words dancing with
Red cells
And draw out the plasma,
Polio was cured,
And so can lovesickness.
Let me numb your arms
So you can't feel when you
Hold…

Yea, that's right

Hold her.
Caress,
Give her a slight tickle with your breath
And remind her
That she is not to be there
When the sun rises.

And don't fight the drugs,
Remember how high felt like
What it was like to be that man
That the pills made you out to be.
Remember where I pulled you
From, where I put that tube
Down your throat and pumped
Rejections letters and failing grades
Into your lungs, allowing it to flow
Through your bloodstream.

My procedures are tattooed
To the inside of your flesh.
You said you didn't smoke,
So I gave you vapors.
You said you didn't drink,
So I gave you shotguns
And told you to put the glass
To your lips,
Your heart is a series of
Chambers, and I hold the keys.

I am your own Dr. Harold Shipman,
Engraving my name on your chest
Like dogtags so that everyone
Who sees my title can come to me
And receive the same treatment.
I'll pump their stomachs
Of accomplishment so they
Can remember what empty feels like.

And eventually, you'll reach the real world,
Outside of my red-brick hospital.
Don't worry, as long as you pay
My bills, I'll continue to treat you.
I have the perfect pills for that.

Ahriyana's Song

2009-07-30T10:07:00.000-07:00

Ahriyana always admired
The fingers of Alicia Keys
But couldn't forget Rihanna's songs.
I watched as
She would press between black keys
And hope to see the stems
Of techno-pop anthems spring
From the strings of the baby grand.
Alicia would tell her to be a superwoman
And my cousin kept her head up,
Even when Rihanna told her
Rehab was okay
My cousin would grow the hands
Of Alicia Keys and the head
Of Ri-Ri.

Ahriyana met Stanley when
When the good girl went bad,
2007
Rihanna's song stopped in 2009.

My cousin won't tell us how often
Stanley hit her. We don't know
When the techniques of BF Skinner
Were used on her, Conditioning,
where his palm
Kept her silent and his fist
Kept her obedient,
where his knuckles
Suppressed her opinion
And where his eyes swallowed
Her indecision.
17 and impressionable,
Carrying the head of a Barbadian
Goddess with no Kingdom,
My cousin walked away from
Her piano and became a drum.

Sometimes, I wonder how hard
It was for her to push those piano keys.
I wonder how much weight she
Pressed down every time a d-flat
Rang from the hammers striking
The strings, How hard was it to
Keep her head above the
Keys, to not drown at the pedals,
to see the notes she grew up
Knowing.

How hard was it to remember
The A-sharp that started her name.
How hard it was to know the tempo
Of a heartbeat
How hard it was to remember
What fingertips felt like
I wondered when I would get the strength
To tell her
"That your voice was not created to be wasted,
That your body was not created to be a tool
But as a vessel,
That when a man speaks to you,
He'll me speaking his future,
Even when he's stuck in the past
That you are more than sum of your parts
You are a math that can only be
Explained in the form of hearts and treble clefs…"

I wondered
until Ahriyana found her
Hands again.
Her hands, which molded melodies
And brought chords together
As families, held men and hugged
Women
She found those hands that
Couldn't break bones but
Could scratch skin and tear
The flesh of any animal
Willing to harm her,
Those hands that made songs violent
And made lullabies sweet,
Those hands that demanded respect
Even when she's falling
In and out of love.
Ahriyana found the fingers
That didn't press keys,
But became them,
Which would one day hold a child
And which would hold the hand
Of the partner who wished to help,
Once again, her hands crafted
Masterpieces, and I hope
They show him
That the cracks in her palms
Do not harbor hate,
But are the proof that she
Is still alive,
That the strength in her fingers
Are the not the sign of a man
But the beauty of a lady
I hope that Yani's Hands
Remind Stanley what
a woman's worth really is.
Her hands move men to curl
Their hands around pens
And rewrite their own albums:
Apologies
In A-Minor.

Yani is not Alicia Keys.
She wrote her own song,
No longer listening to the drones
Of SOS, no longer needing a replay,
She needed her own hands,
Her own keys.

I am not defending Stanley.
I am merely remarking upon the
Wonder of watching a woman
Rewrite the melody of her
Own song.

Warzone

2009-07-30T10:05:00.000-07:00

You and I met on a battlefield
You were not a nurse,
I was not a technician
You and I were soldiers,
Two people with guns pointed at opposite sides,
Our governments
Were two kids who loved to play
Capture the flag,
And we were the guardians,
We were the team on the wet fields
Knees soaked with our brothers
And sisters left lifeless by conflict
I was not a killer, I was a defender,
One last stop between patriotism
And nationalism
And my nation was myself
And you were not my country
And I was not your hero,
I was a grenade throwing
Rocket launching
occupant
Of your lands,
Breaching this contract for a taste
Of your grass

And every time I bit my tongue,
I tasted you,
Your scalp was in my crosshairs
As your beam centered on my heart
And if unlocking this part of me
Would set you free from the
Fingers of your idealism,
Then pull the trigger
It won't hurt,
No weapon formed against us
Shall prosper but each others,
I held the gun and you held the rockets
And when we closed our eyes,
I swear we saw bombs
The trenches close,
The ground was flat
And the only war was
Between us and father time
To see who would last longer

And we promised
to hold our hands
like the grips of our weapons
Never light stepping around our duty,
Because you were loyal to me
And I was loyal to you,
And we were loyal to our countries

And in the presence of our
Of platoons,
We would stand back to back,
Ready for a quick draw
But at least I could feel your
Fingertips against mine
And with every step away from
Each other, you remembered
Our invasion,
I remembered your rejections
You would say you hate me
I would say I hate you
And we would turn
With our weapons raised
And scream each others names
Louder than our muzzles could
And shoot each others
Bullets out the air

Until all that stood was us,
Chest to chest, taking
In each others breath like
Narcotics, calm, our first laugh
Since the battlefield erupted
With your comrades and my
Friends at the top the of the hill
And our weapons embracing
We'll raise our guns
And declare war on everything
Because we were a nation
We were nationals,
I am your patriot
And you are my Jefferson,
And all that matters
Is that our last breath
Belongs to us,
We were our Coup D'état,
And as the bullet struck my stomach
And one caught your shoulder
We became our own flags.

***

You are one of the cool girls
I was one of the nerds
You weapon was a cell phone,
Mine was a Game Boy
And your friends could
Not take my friends
And our weapons
Were aimed at each other
Until we realized there
Was no flag to capture,
And when the bullet struck my stomach
And one caught your shoulder
They found out.

Sprouts

2009-07-30T10:04:00.000-07:00

Sprouts

I am an ambassador from another dimension
I come bearing a problem I wish to discuss
That problem pertains to the Salad

That's right.

The Salad.

Not the salad you are used to, for in my dimension,
the Salads are men
and women with dressing pumping through their veins
and a lack of chains tying them to the earth.

They walk, they talk, they breath carbon.

The Salads walk through their fields as kings, wearing
crowns of weeds decorated with precious stones,
keeping earthworms as pets and allowing them to
swim to the dirt and peek their heads up to their masters.

As with any good group, this clan met their own problems,
coming by way of meat. Meat, which boasted it's carnivorous
tendencies, shooting spices and locking the Salads together in
vines, bundling them, wrapping them, sealing them and sending
them to the meat packaging plants
Where they imprinted a simple message in their stems
and their minds, saying
"You are nothing more than a side dish! Meat tastes better!"

They stripped them of their identities, renaming them “sprouts.”
That's right, sprouts. Sprouts would be beaten, have eggs
splashed on them, be raped only to produce veggie patties.
They became used to the name Sprouts, started to act like sprouts
until a few select Salads helped fuel the fight to free Salads
from their dish.

Salads were freed but they didn't know what to do
with their title of Sprouts, which was always hung over their
head along with sides and toppings. Some grew so attached
to their identity as Sprouts that they continued to call themselves
by the name their Meaty oppressors handed down to them

Sprouts became a culture, Sprouts became the definition
of ignorance, with Sprouts being blamed for rising
produce costs, blamed for farmer's job security,
blamed for the destruction of the salad bar.

Sprouts also became popular. Meats became lean,
they covered themselves in sprouts, being leafy was a
compliment, an honor.
Meats would see
each other, away from Salads and say “What's good,
my sprout?
What's hood, my sprout?
Sprout, please!”

Sprouts would drip from the prejudice lips
Of the teacher to the student from the teacher
To CNN (Culinary News Network)
Where Meats would see the story and say
"Why can't wee say it? They say it all the time."
Then flip the channel up and see
An eloquent salad running for office and say
Wow, he speaks so well!
Then flip the channel once more and see
The story of a multi-platinum artist
Releasing his new CD, S.P.R.O.U.T.S.
Which was renamed Untitled to appeal
To the sensitive ears,
but we all know what the real title was.

I know what you're thinking: What kind of world is this?

Well, as your ambassador from another dimension
I can say
That Your world is not that much different from mine.
The only difference between your dimension and mine
is that in yours, Sprouts actually own the record labels.

Masks

2009-07-30T09:59:00.000-07:00

I
We walk the cobblestone streets barefoot
with black masks tied from temple to temple
with smiles carved to connect our cheeks
with lips filled in blue.

II
We dance through the prison
and celebrate this expensive captivity
by replacing dollars with points
and allowing it to inflate.

III
We learn to ask questions
and to answer questions with questions
and to explore the context of those questions
and to never question the absolute absence of answers

IV
We like the sounds of our own voice.
We record it, remaster and resample the original
add a basseline and redefine ourselves
by the number of downloads compared to the original.

V
Each mask has a different marking.
That marking puts you into a group of similar markings
who hate other markings because they aren't like theirs
even though they don't like their own markings

VI
It seems smart to say "I don't know."
We've worn the masks so long that we don't know
who made them, who placed them on our faces
all we know is the scratch marks on our temples

VII
Some scars are deeper than others

VIII
How many tears have dried up
behind the masks? What if each had a story,
one that could teach us something
or at least allow us to see more than a blue smile.

IX
What will happen when the ties that
bind these contraptions to our faces finally
break? What will we see?
How afraid of our own faces will we be?

X
I want to break every fucking mask I see.

Untitled 1

2009-07-30T09:57:00.002-07:00

Hey Kid,

How has things been for you?

I brought a gift this time, hoping to sooth my mind,
since last time I brought something, it withered;
without warning, the gift wept it petals away,
slipping to the ground like the words I want to say.

Since, I've made work from wordplay.
I've made money off sound, beats blast the ground
and every time that bass pounds, I get rounds
even though it's so understandable that

every dollar feels like another inch sold
to the highest bidder, centered around a
quest to the stars that can't be achieved
but is promoted by everyone who believes

in me.

Heh

Funny, isn't it?

The art of being second best has always been
my mastery, my pallet, my brush and canvas.
Stanzas may be my speakers, but
lines will never make base

Breaks will never be the treble, but they make
me tremble. I keep stumbling on words that
I should know, making up lines and words as
I go. (Misunderestimated.)

Somehow, people believe in me,
invest in the second best like it will overtake
the best and make haste to a finish line
and cross the ribbon at the last possible time

Yea, right.

Things aren't the same

It's not like when we were kids,
poppin off at the jaws whenever anything
went wrong, swinging fists and crying
over the people we missed

Until our eyes burned from being so dry
that we'd feel more pain by being unable to cry
all we knew how to do was live
but it was only a matter of time

before some of us learned how to die.

Now, we wear reminders of the fine
soldiers with no war, but refuse to
acknowledge that fighting opened
the door for us to be slaughtered.

Now, it's just us.

Best friends.

Holding onto memories that connect
and heal the worst wounds from the
hand to the chest and back to
the knee and the back.

I know you can't speak back,
but you can hear me.
Probably saying that I should
stop tripping off the little shit

and focus on the big fish.
Get the big hits,
fight the good fight and forget
the last wish

of anyone who wanted me to carry
the burden. Yea, I'm hurting, but
pain is short lived (ironic, huh?)
and eventually, it'll pass

Wounds heal. The scars on my body
may remain, but only as a way to mark
the lessons I've learned on my frame,
not as a way to mark pain.

Yea, we're not the same.

I'm still one step behind.

I'm still here, you're not.

How am I supposed to pass you if you're not...

Oh...

I get it...

I'M still here.

You're not.

*sigh*

Thank you.

(next time, I'll bring red flowers, Elysia would like that! Keep watching, I have a lot left to do)

I Don't Feel So Good

2009-07-30T09:57:00.001-07:00

I don't feel so good...

like the moment before combustion
so much gathers within every vein
that blood refuses to flow.

Every vessel, capillary, artery
is filled with some feeling that turns
this skin cold and forces my blood
to settle within my feet.

My chest tightens

these words that swim through me grip
my heart and clog the veins
until my body cannot stand it...

So instead of standing, I fall to my knees

Attempt to throw up every word,
every feeling, every fear
every reservation

I have faith in this body,
believing it can dispel every shortcoming
since prayer made the words stronger.

That which does not kill me can only
make me stronger.
But if that is the case, then
say a good reason for the fact
that this symptom which refuses to kill
me makes me weaker!

Tears well up, not a single tear of
sadness but thousands of
frustrations (DAMMIT!)
which bond to water to form
some heated solution which burns
streaks down my cheeks
as they race to the ground

Another Wretch

Cough

Sputter

Wretch again, hoping that these
feelings will be released, but instead,
I get nothing.

Nothing but some spit and the realization
that my body has failed me.

With blood of malice feelings and
a face with tear-soaked burns,
I realize that every hurtful feeling
has saturated my stomach acids and
burns every inch that it touches.

A victim to the human virus,
trying my hardest to release this,
trying to live again or at least
become so numb that I can fake

like I'm feeling better

Your Son

2009-07-30T09:55:00.000-07:00

Your Son
by: Gerald Jackson
Written & Performed 4/15/08 in Ursas's Stageside.

"Do you think about me now and then?"

Plays in my headphones as I look at the only photo I have of you.

All it does is remind me of growing up without seeing your face

Sprouting without knowing who you really were
Caring about something that never held me
Fed me, never led me through my first fall,
First scrape on the skin that you shaded
That faded by being inside my father’s house

Now, I’m not saying I don’t love my father,
But me and my brother would have liked to
Have been nursed by you, raised by the breast
That never nourished us. I would love to
Play football on your yard, in your soil,

With my feet, not plowing with my shoulders
Wearing my father’s pads. I was raised to
Reject you because you were never around.
You were always some fictitious character that
Was cloaked in the hides of animals

Walking through the fields of grass
Searching for something to eat. You were always
An animal, unreal, unsure of what love
Was, is, or could be
You were a beast

Father tamed you and brought me here.
Through years of tears, blood and fear,
I transformed into my Father’s son,
Wearing his reds, his blues, his whites,
Fighting for his house, even if it defiled yours.

Then I saw this picture of you.

Wearing clothing of greens, blacks,
Browns, swirling around your black skin,
Staring at the distant oceans, waiting for
Rain to fall so that more of your children
Could sprout from your arms.

I see your skin, all the lacerations
Caused by those who wanted your
Being within them, all the people who raped
You, beat you, used you, abused you
My father included.

I see the scars around your neck
From where they snatched the diamonds
Off the platinum chain. I see the names
Of all your children killed on your legs
So that every time you fall to your knees to pray

They return to the earth.

I see the gold burned into your hands
From the bangles you wore, the handcuffs
Those men held you by. I see the bugs they
Said you ate, the animals they said you were
The societies they hid from me

I see your coasts, your real diamonds sparkling
Amongst the horizon. I see your lush hair,
The forests, the giver of breath and life to
Those who deserve it and those who don’t,
I see your nails, used to fight, the children who sharpen them

I see the mouth that cannot speak
I see the mind that cannot teach
I see you, I see everything about you
I see you in the desert, staring at me
With your hair covered, your face hidden

And only your eyes remain
Eyes so brown, skies so blue, that
Stare back at the land you are
And show the beauty, the tragedy
And the celebration of every life born

In your arms…

Here I am.
Wearing the chain with the gold
Ripped from your wrists. Rocking the
Diamonds snatched from your neck
Inside the skin you faded

Looking into our eyes that
Allow one trail of blood to fall from
Face to the chest to the leg to the
Ground, splattering the map of your
Home in my fathers house.

Our blood.

I love my father and rejected you.
Even though our blood is the same.
I can never have your name, instead
Of something that represents your beauty,
My name will be Jackson.

But that’s no excuse.

With my headphones still on, I flip the
Picture, which is a postcard, and write

Dear Mom…

I’m coming home again.

Maybe we can start again.

Love,

The distant child of Africa raised by America.

Your Son

Purpose

2009-07-30T09:38:00.000-07:00

What's hood, everybody?

I'm Gerald "AD the Hero" Jackson. Don't ask what AD means...I won't tell you. You have to REALLY know me to know the true origins of that name.

I'm a Junior at Washington University in St. Louis, living in the same city I was born and raised in, and doing all I can to make it a respectable city once again. I am an avid hip-hop head, a rapper, producer and a writer. Lately, I've really found my niche in poetry, which is what this blog is dedicated to.

Fourth Thursday is actually my first solo blog, so bear with me. (Hopefully I find someone to pretty this place up...designers, holla at me.) It's meant to be a place where I can share what's on my mind without worrying about type-limits and such. I'll probably post any poetry I have here, along with rants and songs that I make.

The name, "Fourth Thursday," comes from several important people in my life who both passed away of the fourth Thursday of the month. They helped shape who I am and taught me many valuable lessons about life and death, and I decided that I'll immortalize them in writing.

This blog will be broken up into sections:
1) Poetry
2) Opinions
3) Funny Ish
4) Random Ish
5) Purpose

There should only be one purpose post (this one) unless I decide to turn this into a real project.

So, let's get this crackin!

~AD