Bliss (episode 4: MC Shadow)

As they walked, her mind again raced. She knew which flow she was going to spit, but she went over it repeatedly to make sure she “had it”. She went through a litany of thoughts: 1. “What am I gon’ do with my advance money?” 2.”What kind of car am I gon’ get?” 3. “Speaking of cars, where the hell did Tae get that Riviera from?”

Her mental vacation stopped as they entered the third door on the right. The room was like nothing she’d ever seen before. The furniture was so contemporary that it didn’t even look like furniture. Each piece looked like it was designed for astronauts. Polygon shaped couches were scattered on top of the pillow soft carpet. The walls were adorned with gold and platinum records- and other memorabilia from past successful studio sessions. The room was filled to capacity. There were at least 20 people sitting around, drinking, smoking and bullshitting. There was one white dude sitting at the mixing board. He was the only person who was actually working. He appeared to be doing surgery, carefully twisting knobs and pressing buttons- while the beat blasted in the background. Through the smoke, Charmayne could see Shadow sitting in a rolling chair bobbing his head to the beat. The scene was a lot different than she had pictured it. She expected to smell incense and hear people talking about the plight of Black folks world wide. Instead, there were niggas shooting craps. There was the odor of cheap weed. There were (unless her eyes deceived her) what appeared to be groupies- quite a few of them.

“What up Shadow, this is Tae. He said he got a broad that can spit some hot shit,” said some random cat with gold teeth.

“What up, Brotha,” Shadow greeted Tae as if they’d known each other for years. “You got something for me to hear?”

The entire room seemed to be hanging on his every word, as all activity stopped when he started talking. Charmayne slowly stepped into the forefront. Her pulse was like an 808 at this point. The room was so quiet that the thought crossed her mind, “What if they can hear my heart pounding?”.

“Shadow, this is Charmayne. Charmayne, MC Shadow,” Tae’s voice was calm- with a tinge of excitement sprinkled on his vowels.

“Charmayne, pleased to meet you. Can you spit as good as this nigga say you can spit?” Shadow questioned, as his eyes scanned her barely legal body.

“Probably better,” Charmayne’s rebuttal caused the entire room to let out a collective chuckle.

“Fuck! Cracker, throw on a beat. Let me hear this girl bust! Her mouthpiece is ridiculous. I’m a little bit scared,” Shadow’s condescending sarcasm was a bit charming to Charmayne, but she stayed focused. As the beat dropped, she closed her eyes and let loose…

When she was done, she heard a couple of “God Damn’s” from the folks who were standing around. She saw some of them smiling uncontrollably, or trying to give her dap. None of that mattered. All she cared about was how Shadow responded. The tough thing about that was the fact that Shadow had a poker face that Kenny Rogers would be proud of. He looked straight ahead, with a blank stare. He said nothing.

Tae broke the awkward silence.

“So what do you think,” he blurted.

Shadow’s face now looked pensive, almost perplexed. He was rubbing his chin. His right leg bounced rhythmically. It was like he was still hearing a beat- but the entire room was silent.

“Everybody out, except her and Cracker,” he demanded.

The “stand-around” folks grumbled as they made their way out of the studio, and into the waiting room. Tae stood still.

“You too, dog. No offense,” Shadow’s voice sounded like he meant business.

Tae’s smart ass mouth was about to click into gear, when Charmayne caught his eye with a “nigga, get your ass out of here, I can handle myself” type of look.

Tae took a deep breath.

“A’ight, I’ll be right out in the hallway,” he replied as he exited.

So now it was really on. MC frickin’ Shadow just asked her to spit, and then cleared out the room to talk to her. What did this mean? Her heart was damn near jumping out of her chest. Her throat felt like it would burst into flames if she tried to utter a word. Her hands were like blocks of ice. What the fuck was about to happen? Without warning, her mouth opened, and leaked a sentence.

“Hey, I’m sorry about that. Tae is just really protective,” she was sincerely apologetic- as she didn’t want Tae’s retarded-ness to mess up her only shot at superstardom.

“It’s cool. I was like that with my first little girlfriend too,” Shadow responded.

“HE AIN’T MY BOYFRIEND!” Charmayne couldn’t help sounding like a fifth grader who just heard the word “coodies”. She may have even said “ewwww gross” under her breath.

Shadow chuckled at Charmayne’s brief moment of immaturity. “So you’re single,” he asked as he licked his lips in a borderline creepy manner.

“Basically,” she innocently replied.

After a very uncomfortable 45 seconds of silence, Shadow swiveled his chair around so that he was facing Cracker.

“What’d you think of her shit?”

“Oh, I thought she had dynamic wordplay. Her lyrics had vivid imagery made her sound almost like a Nas/MC Lyte/ Big Daddy Kane concoction. She’s definitely bad ass.

“Bad ass??” Shadow damn near fell out of his chair laughing. Charmayne was cheesing on the inside. Once he regained his composure, Shadow swiveled back around to Charmayne.

“Well, I agree. I definitely like what I heard,” his words were music to her ears. “..And what I see". (cue the sound of a record scratching) "This game is full of a bunch of ugly, half dyke looking hoes who can barely spit. To find something as fine as you, so young. That shit is rare.”

A couple of questions popped into her head. 1: “Why does he keep talking about how fine I am? He ain’t said shit about my rap skills.” 2: “Why does this white boy let them call him Cracker?” 3: “Did MC Shadow just refer to women as ‘hoes’?”

Nevermind.

“Thank you. I just try to put my all in every line, every word,” with that sentence- she officially felt like a star, so much so that she hadn’t paid attention to how close Shadow was to her. Their noses were damn near touching. She could smell Newports, weed, and Heineken on his breath.

“I’m gon’ make you rich,” Shadow whispered, in his pseudo-mack daddy voice. It hit her ears and literally sounded like a demon’s call from hell. Charmayne jumped back quick as fuck.

“I-I-I gotta go,” she quickly stammered.

“Why?” Shadow was still whispering demon words. He sounded like a possessed Barry White. “What about the business? We need to talk about getting this dough,” Charmayne had never met a pedophile in real life, but she was quite sure that this is what a pedophile sounds like.

“You need to talk to Tae, then,” she blurted as she pushed him away.

“Fuck Tae!” Shadow’s voice was getting more hostile. “That cat ain’t gon get you nowhere. You need to get down with the movement.”

“What movement?” she was giving Shadow one last chance.

“This movement..,” he started making obscene gestures with his hand and cheek, insinuating oral sex. He made himself crack up laughing.

“Fuck you, you bitch ass nigga! I thought you were gon’ be about something. You’re just another washed up ass weed head with a dingy coofi,” Charmayne let loose on him, as she stormed toward the door.

“Yeah, but I get money,” Shadow was as smug as ever. “So, I’m missing the point of this conversation- are we fucking or what?”

Charmayne burst through the door, into the hallway. Her eyes were on fire. Her hands felt like blocks of cement. She was too angry to see faces, she just saw a bunch of shapes meandering against the wall.

“Come on Tae,” she yelled- to no one in particular.

Tae was in the middle of a dice game, but came trotting quickly behind her. Soon he was stepping stride for stride with her, at a break-neck pace.

“What’d he say? Charmayne, why the fuck are we walking so fast?”

Charmayne ignored him, and never slowed her stride. She was fuming. She could feel flames coming out of her eyes and nostrils. As they walked past the crowd of on-lookers, one girl rudely asked, “Did he make you rich?” Four other girls started cracking up laughing. It was apparent from their laughter that they too were once bright eyed aspiring “what-evers” who eventually fell into Shadow’s sick web of perversion. The motive behind their laughter was not mockery. Instead there was an underlying air of “been there done that”, which just happened to manifest itself in the form of the most embarrassing moment in Charmayne’s life.

Shadow was a complete and total asshole who cared about nothing more than busting a nut. But if everyone knew that, then why in the hell were they so eager to sit around and basically ride his jock for hours upon hours on end? Her furious thoughts were interrupted by the Barry White voice again.

“See you at the Grammy’s, my sister,” he stated in a pseudo-“conscious” tone.

Charmayne glanced back, only to see him with his fist raised (mimicking the Black Power symbol), which made all of his jock-riders laugh heartily, and added kerosene to the already raging inferno in her chest.

After what seemed to be 5 hours of walking down the hallway, Tae and Charmayne were finally outside.

“Charmayne!” Tae was now grabbing her by the shoulders so that they were stopped, and standing face to face. “What the fuck happened?”

After a few moments of trying to hold back tears, Charmayne responded.

“He liked how I rapped, but he wanted me to go down on him.”

“Go down where with him?” Tae was genuinely confused.

She attempted to spell it out for him- word for word. “He—wanted—me—to..,” the words became trapped somewhere between her vocal chords and teeth, forming a lump in her throat. “Tae, I don’t wanna talk about it, I just wanna go home.”

“What about..,”

“Tae. Please. Can we go?” tears poured down her face.

Tae instantly understood. He held her arm as they slowly walked to the car. The shittiest part of the night was yet to come, because as they got to the spot where they parked the car, they realized the car was gone.

Bliss (episode 3: Showtime)

11:17 pm

Charmayne knew Tae was going to be late. He was always late. This is the same guy who showed up so late for a Math test once that he had exactly enough time to write his name on the paper and hand it in. This is the same young man who took a girl to the movies and showed up so late that by the time they got there, Caine was already about to get shot by Ilena’s cousin (that was a Menace II Society reference). Needless to say, Charmayne expected Tae’s “eleven o’clock” to look more like 11:45 or midnight. As a matter of fact, she never even asked how they were getting to the meeting, seeing as to how neither one of them had a car. Yet and still, here she was- dressed in black, form fitting pants and a black and white spaghetti strapped shirt. Her hair was let down and straightened for the first time since her Uncle Clifford’s funeral. As she adjusted her boobs in the mirror, she heard a knock on the door. Her heart raced. She said a quick silent prayer as she walked to open it.

“Lord, grant me the strength to let my words come out clearly, and the courage to accept whatever reaction they evoke from whoever hears them. Thank you for your gifts. I am eternally grateful. Amen” It was showtime.

“Who the fuck is it?” she playfully yelled, in a pseudo-gangsta rap voice.

“Your Daddy, bitch.” Tae responded in an even more ridiculous gangsta voice.

(By the way, Tae called Charmayne “bitch” as a term of endearment. The same endearment that was present when Charmayne called him “faggot”, or “hoe ass nigga”, or “faggot ass hoe ass nigga”. It was meaningless banter between best friends, not the least bit derogatory. So, to all the “b” word referees who are reading this and waiting for the writer to degrade women so that he can be dismissed as another Hip Hop heathen, hell bent on destroying the Black race- I (the aforementioned writer) politely invite you to go to hell.)

Anyway..

“Your daddy, bitch,” he responded in an even more ridiculous gangsta voice.

She undid the four locks and the chain, and opened the door to see Tae standing there, freshly groomed- neatly dressed- and smelling like one of the dudes who comes over to try to court her momma. He didn’t even look like Tae.

“Oh shit, Devontae Jefferson- look at you,” she was genuinely impressed.

“You look alright too, Charmayne Alexander,” is what his mouth said. His heart said, “Daaaamn!” as every ounce of his blood rushed to his pelvic region. Luckily for him, his brand new Pelle Pelle jacket was long enough to disguise the bulge in his freshly ironed Karl Kani slacks.

He saw Charmayne in a whole new light. Her hair was perfect. Her skin was radiant, without a trace of make-up. Her body was bangin’. It was like doves were circling her with harps playing “Ribbon in the Sky”- and…

“Nigga stop looking at my titties,” Charmayne’s sharp voice was accompanied by an even sharper punch to Tae’s shoulder.

“Ain’t nobody lookin’ at your shriveled up, California raisin ass titties!” Tae responded, half lying- trying to laugh it off. “You ready or what?”

“Yeah, let’s dip.”

With that, they left. Ms. Alexander heard the door slam. Why hadn’t Charmayne said goodbye? She could’ve at least yelled up the stairs and said “Momma, I’m gone.” They bonded earlier. For the first time in years, they had a genuine mother/daughter “moment”. Why the cold shoulder now? All of her questions were answered when her mental CNN gave her a quick newsflash:

“..This just in.. Your daughter revealed her life’s passion to you, and basically opened up to you for the first time in 18 years, and you said nothing. That’s right, you looked at her as if she were an alien- and then walked away from her without uttering a word. No “good job” or “I’m proud”. Right now she’s probably seeking comfort in the arms of some saggy pants rapper who’s gonna beat her and get her addicted to drugs. Great parenting…”

The front of her brain felt like there was a war going on right behind her eyes. Throbbing. The worst feeling imaginable is knowing that you didn’t say what you should’ve said, and then realizing that you will never get the opportunity to say it again. Throbbing. No matter how much time went past, in Charmayne’s eyes this night will forever be the night she rapped for her mother and her mother shitted on her dreams. Ms. Alexander suddenly began to remember what that night was like for her when she was growing up. She vividly recalled her mother telling her to stop singing “ the devil’s music”. She could still remember the taste of rejection. The metallic dryness in her mouth as she sat at her piano and saw her mother sitting in the back of the nightclub- disdain on her face. No amount of applause from strangers could compare to the lack of support from the woman that gave her life, so she quit. She stopped singing the “devil’s music”, and did the things her mother thought she should do. As she tried to wrestle these memories from her mind, the throbbing in her head turned into a paralyzing pain that ushered a single tear down her cheek.

Meanwhile...

Charmayne’s voice was a bit scratchy from freestyling the entire way from E.79^th and Kinsman to E.40^th and Payne -where the studio was. Tae turned off the car and the instrumental to Jr. Mafia’s “Get Money” ceased abruptly. They sat quietly for a brief moment. Both of their bodies sat heavy in the bucket seats of the Buick Riviera that they rode in. There was a sense of nervousness in the car, but also an air of “we ‘bout to get it”-ness.

Tae broke the silence, “You ready?”. It almost sounded cliché.

Charmayne simply nodded her head and opened the door. As they walked to the door of the studio, their interaction was no different than when they’d walk up to the door of East Tech High School.

“Hey, if they made a play about you running around topless on a beach, what would it be called?” Tae quipped.

“What?” Charmayne asked, already chuckling.

“Raisins in the Sun.”

They both cracked up. Tae always had a way of breaking tension with his humor. Charmayne caught a quick flashback to when Bobby Cook was pissed off because Tae was talking to his girlfriend in shop class. The entire school was waiting in the parking lot to see Tae and Bobby fight. Tae (knowing that Bobby would’ve beat the brakes off him) showed up to the fight wearing an 80’s Adidas sweat suit. He walked right up to Bobby and started breakdancing. He was a HORRIBLE dancer. It was so damn funny, that the entire crowd (including Bobby Cook) forgot that he was supposed to be catching an ass whoopin’.

Charmayne’s trip down memory lane stopped when she heard the studio’s intercom say “May I help you?”

Tae cleared his throat and put on his business voice.

“Ah, yes. We have a meeting with Shadow.”

“What time is your meeting?”

“Eleven o’clock ma’am,” Tae was on his grind.

“It’s 11:52, sir,” the intercom voice was sarcastic- almost asshole-ish.

“No offense ma’am, but we’re stars. Stars never show up on time,” Tae’s mouthpiece was a double edged sword- extremely uncontrollable at times. All that good shit Charmayne just recalled about his “sense of humor” went out the window, as she now pictured security escorting them away from the studio. “Damn Tae! Sometimes I feel like….” The door buzzed, and the intercom voice said “Third door on the right, sir.”

“God Bless Tae’s smart ass mouth”

TO BE CONTINUED... NEXT MONDAY MORNING

Renovation

How are they helping us by renovating the slums,

When most of us become homeless when the renovation comes?

When there were rats and roaches, we were allowed to raise our kids there

But they did some landscaping- now we can't afford to live there?

Shit yeah I'm pissed, the corner store my Moms shopped at-

Is now a Starbucks where they won't hire her to mop at.

{Stop that}

They thought Black folks were content

With dusty ass vents

And subsidized rent.

Then they realized the ghetto was a gold mine

So they unleashed the 'Po-Po' and made it a ghost town in no time.

And what becomes of the 'hood where you used to live?

There's a bunch of yuppies walking their dogs, raising their kids.

And it's amazing their kids don't see the same shit that we do-

'Cuz as soon as we moved, they passed a bill to fix up the school.

Now, don't get me wrong- the ghetto's messed up- and I'm all for fixing it-

Don't go twisting it,

Thinking I'm talking ignorant based on fictitious incidents-

We're moving further and further from Downtown- it's no coincidence.

The ghetto has been shitty forever, but they choose

To fix it up and make it 'pretty' AFTER they make us move.

So you decide you want to keep your home on your own--

Good luck trying to get accepted for a loan!

And they wonder why I condone revolutionary tones-

There's nothing wrong with people in BRICK houses throwing stones...

"Mr. Anderson's Opus", coming this fall.

"Still Got Skills"

So, another of the many projects I'm working on is a compilation of writings called "Bits and Pieces". It is exactly what the title implies, a collection of Comedy bits and Spoken Word pieces. For most of the content, I simply turned on my timer, set it for 5 minutes and wrote until the buzzer sounded. Needless to say there is some random shit in "Bits and Pieces". Want an example?? Well here goes.... I wrote this in 5 minutes. It's a lot funnier when I perform it in the context of a stand up routine (note to reader, come to one of my gigs).. But read it anyway (and kind of imagine me on stage at a comedy club- with a microphone and a glass of water, and a stool)..

"Ladies and gentleman, this dude is very funny- he comes from Cleveland, Ohio- y'all give a warm welcome to Anderson Scott.." crowd goes wild, then I step on stage and say:

My life's motto is "DON'T SLEEP ON PEOPLE'S SKILLS". It's a general rule of thumb that if someone knew how to do something at some point in time, then they probably can still do that thing (at least a little bit). Example: I used to be able to play basketball. I wasn't great, but I could hold my own. Then I spent ten years drinking like a fish and smoking like a Marley. Needless to say, I'm not as good as I was- but if a nigga put a gun to my head and said "Dribble through your legs, or I'm gon' kill you!" or "Make a lay up or die?"- I'd probably live to laugh about that shit later.

My point being- let's stop acting like people can't do the shit they used to do. Crackheads, for instance.. they look fucked up. Sometimes they stank. They're good for a hearty chuckle when seen on YouTube. But we need to utilize their power. Think about it-- most male crackheads know how to fix shit. Cars, A/C units, roofs- you name it, Roosevelt the crackhead can fix it. Seriously, crack has enslaved us. It killed our families. It destroyed our neighborhoods. Crack owes us. Getting my brakes fixed, tires changed and radiator flushed for $20 and a pack of Newports is my reparations. I know you're thinking- "You gon' let a crackhead fix your car? The same car you risk your life in everyday?" My answer..."Muthafucka, that crackhead was a certified mechanic JUST LAST WEEK. Do you know how many cokehead stockbrokers make people filthy rich on a daily basis. Shit, truth be told- when I lived in the projects, I saw DOCTORS coming to buy crack, weed, and powder- IN THEIR SCRUBS! (real talk)... So if Chad can operate on my heart while he's geeked up, I think Roosevelt can handle fixing my serpentine belt after he blazes a stone.

And what about female crackheads?? Ohhhhh, "she used to be the prom queen- then she got on drugs!" Or "she used to be the most popular girl at school, all the boys wanted her- then she got on drugs!" Or "she was the best singer in the world- she had a beautiful voice- then she got on drugs!"...My response?? "I bet she can still suck a mean d*%k. And her standards are probably a lot lower now. I didn't have a chance then. But now that she's a crackhead...." Sweet reparations.

(The writer of this blog does not condone sex with drug addicts)

"Bliss" (Episode 2: More Than a Faze)

7:28 pm

Charmayne paced her room. Her rap notebooks were scattered all over the floor, as she had gone through each one page by page- reciting every lyric. Her older writings always evoked emotions in her. She could remember the exact moment she wrote each verse. She could recall what she was thinking at that moment, and the thoughts that provoked her to write what she had written. Today, for some reason- none of these lyrics seemed to be “the right one”.

“Too hardcore,” she thought after the 14^th bar of “Treachery”.

“Too sexy,” was her response after she recited the first line of “Diva”. It just didn’t seem appropriate to spit a rhyme that began “..my ass so mean, I make niggas cook and clean..” to a hip hop legend. This was MC Shadow for God’s sake. This was the man that said “..it don’t matter if you run for office or slang rocks/ when the game stops/ the king and the pawn end up in the same box..” This was the man that showed up at the Grammy’s wearing a shirt with the picture of Elderidge Cleaver on it. She had to come correct. She was officially frustrated. The thought of calling Tae and telling him to forget the whole thing crossed her mind several times. How much easier would this night be if she could just chill at the house and watch a couple reruns of “Martin”, maybe talk to her boyfriend Kurt on the phone, write some raps—a normal night. Granted she would have the guilt of knowing that she could’ve rapped for the most famous rapper in the world, but at least she wouldn’t have to deal with the anxiety of actually rapping for the most famous rapper in the world. The thought of bailing out sounded like music to her ears, music that was accompanied by the percussion of her mother knocking at her bedroom door.

“Come in,” Charmayne cleared the frustration and uneasiness from her throat and attempted to sound like nothing was up.

Her mother opened the door very slowly, as if the amount of floor clutter made her fear for her safety. “What the hell happened in here?” was the only logical thing for her to say as she entered what appeared to be notebook Armageddon. “What are you doing?”

“Practicing.”

“Practicing for what? The world’s sloppiest room contest?” she chuckled at her own corny joke, but abruptly stopped when she realized Charmayne was dead serious. “I mean, what’s going on?”

Charmayne paused with indecision. On one hand, she really needed to vent her confusion and anxiety about tonight’s meeting. But on the other hand, the last thing she needed was one of her mother’s anti- hip hop speeches. She could totally picture her mother going off about how “her music” was so much more positive. About how Marvin and Curtis and Stevie wrote songs for the betterment of The People, not for the sake of running around with saggy pants and funny hair styles. But then again, this was her mother. Who else could she seek inspiration from? This was do or die time. Charmayne took a deep breath.

“Do you know who MC Shadow is?” she reluctantly asked.

“No, but judging by his name, I can guess he’s a saggy pants rapper of some sort,” she replied- half joking.

“Forget it Ma”

“Okay, okay! Lighten up. MC Shadow, yes. What’s going on with MC Shadow?”

“I have a meeting with him at eleven. He’s gon listen to me spit”

Ms. Alexander looked confused.

“I’m going to rap for him. If he likes it, I may get a contract,” just saying that out loud gave Charmayne goose bumps.

“Wow,” Ms. Alexander was too shocked for words.

Charmayne went on to explain: “That’s why I been going through my books. I’m trying to figure out what to spit, um, recite for him.”

Ms. Alexander’s eyes slowly scanned the room. There were at least 15 notebooks spread out on the floor. Each of them full of what appeared to be well calculated chicken scratch. There were cassette tapes and CD’s everywhere. Numerous posters of rappers and dancers were on the walls. It suddenly became clear to her that this was not a faze her daughter was going through. This was worlds away from Charmayne’s short lived “Cabbage Patch Kids” fascination. This was much more substantial than her brief “I wanna help injured animals” endeavor. This was real. It was always real. This moment was the first moment Ms. Alexander realized it.

“You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?” she unknowingly squinted her eyes as she asked.

“About what?” Charmayne was as intrigued by her mother’s interest as her mother was by her daughter’s passion.

“This rapping thing. All of these books are filled with raps?”

“Mostly”

“I thought.. um.. I just figured..” Ms. Alexander usually stammered when she felt as though she was dead wrong.

“You thought what? That this was just some kind of faze I was going through?” the teenage angst began to leak from Charmayne’s lips.

“Not a faze.. I just feel a bit dumb because I didn’t know you had something in your life that you did this much. Let me hear something.”

“Ma, you’re buggin’.” Charmayne laughed off her mother’s request.

“Is buggin’ good or bad?”

“That means get out of my room,” at this point Charmayne was cracking up laughing at her mother’s ridiculousness.

“Come on. Spit for me. Act like I’m MC Shadow,” Ms. Alexander was now moving her hands in a manner mimicking a rapper.

“You’re not gon’ like it,” Charmayne couldn’t believe her mother was actually asking to hear her rap. What was more unbelievable than that was the fact that she was genuinely nervous to grant her request.

“Boooooo! Bring out the next girl. This girl is obviously scared. She ain’t got the juice. She’s buggin’,” Ms. Alexander was doing a horrible hip hop impersonation, which was doing a great job of getting under Charmayne’s skin.

“A’ight. I’m gon’ spit. Never mind the cuss words though,” Charmayne’s blood was boiling.

“I’m MC Shadow right now. I’m not your mother.”

Charmayne threw on the instrumental to “I Got Five On It”. And let loose...

Ms. Alexander was astonished. After nine months of pregnancy, 8 hours of labor and almost 18 years of nurturing- she was still clueless that her daughter was a prolific (if not ingenious) writer. She had no idea that the voice she created had the ability to captivate the imagination and stimulate thought. An uncontrollable tear dropped down her cheek. Her mind quickly raced as she imagined that this must be what it feels like to watch your son win the Super Bowl- except in this case the son is a daughter and the “Super Bowl” is an absolute mastery of the English language. Wow.

“So how was it?” Charmayne asked in a way as if she was waiting to get scolded.

Ms. Alexander slowly stood up and walked over to her and kissed her on the forehead. She stared into her daughter’s eyes and attempted to say “Words cannot express how proud I am of you. This is the happiest day of my life,” Instead her lips would not move. It was always simple for her to yell “Wash these damn dishes”, or “Stay away from these nappy head boys”, or “Get a job!”, but now her tongue was stiffer than the drinks at an after hour joint. She stared at Charmayne for a few moments, then walked away and said nothing.

To be continued.... Monday July, 26

A Soldier's Story..

Verse One:

So, I'm walking across campus at my overpriced school,

I'm in a 'not so right' mood

Even though I'm a nice dude-

My attitude on this day could be attributed

to the fact I got left out when the loans got distributed-

My Psych book costs the same price as my Nikes, shook

I'm patting my pockets... "this is not a nice look"-

I'm from the land of the trap boys,

Fraternizing with Frat' boys who got parents with dough,

Apparantly so-

'Cause when it's time for Holidays they can pick up and go,

And with the money my Mama made- we spent Christmas' po'-

And so, I'm feeling shitty as I'm kicking up snow-

Then I hear a voice behind me say : "Excuse me but, yo.."

He said "I don't mean to be a pest, but you look kinda stressed,

Let me guess, your money's fucked up?" I said "More or less"-

He said "Check out this brochure,

Homie I'm so sure

Your life will change drastically if you go on tour."-

I said "What, are you a producer"-

He said "No, I'm a recruiter,

A-K shooter

Over seas looter-

Screaming out 'Hoo-ah' doing dirt for my ruler

I'm a student too, I major in computers,-

The only difference is my tuition is free,

You too can say the same if you come and kick it with me-

I ship out in two days, get back at me soon,"

With that I took the little leaflet back to my room.

Hook- (2x)

I'm the dude Uncle Sam pointed to on the posters,

Now I've got assault weapons strapped to my shoulders.... I'm a soldier.

This goes for anybody who is 18 or over,

With any amount of luck you too can be a soldier... I'm a soldier.

Verse Two

So I'm flipping through the pamphlet

Like, "Dog I gotta hand it to these government assholes, they've got this shit BRANDED",

Now I understand that alot of them are bandits

But it says right here that most soldiers don't ever need a bandage-

So I call up the recruiter dude.... "Homie, what's good?"

"Help me help my family move their homes out of the hood,"

He set me up with an appointment- I ain't even tell my Moms, 'cause my Dad was in the War

So she heard the shit before-

On that day he swore that in four years flat,

He'd come back and 'Voila' everything would be on track-

I tried to relax as they passed me the forms

My hands were shaken, clutching the Papermate pen- I was torn-

There was a dude standing over me, his uniform was worn

With a deep crease- and with a deeper voice he warned:

"Fighting for your country is a sign of your power,

And not doing so is a sign you're a coward"-

I couldn't make up my mind

Then he told me the part about the post-war benefits... I said "Where do I sign?"

I was doing fine until he told me the master plan:

"How does this sound... a nice trip to sunny Pakistan?"

----Nothing came out of my voice-

Then he said: "I'm only kidding, son.... YOU DON'T HAVE A CHOICE"

"Pack up your shit, because it's time to deploy,

Now go and get my money, little Duffle Bag Boy."

Hook (2x)

I'm the dude Uncle Sam pointed to on the posters,

Now I've got assault weapons strapped to my shoulder.... I'm a soldier.

And this goes for anybody who is 18 or over,

With any amount of luck, you too can be a soldier... I'm a soldier.

Verse Three

Now it's 120 degrees,

I'm wearing fatigues,

Fighting for some shit with which I don't agree-

Americans need gas in their SUVs

So "eff" with me, I'll turn your whole village to refugees-

I'm a soldier boy up in this shit,

My sergeant made me switch my pitch-

Now watch me crank that Rumsfeld and Kosovo this bitch-

I've got grenades, blades, land mines and rifles

No kevlar, my only protection is my Bible-

I spot one of my rivals,

He opened his jacket up like Michael-

Then BOOOOM! The medics checking my vitals-

No chance of my survival- and to make the shit sad...

All they gave my Mama was a folded up flag.

I'm a soldier.

"A Soldier's Story" taken from the LP "MR ANDERSON'S OPUS"

Available this fall

Bliss (episode 1: The Opportunity)

What's up readers, followers and fans of the blog.. I would like to introduce you all to one of the characters who lives in the crazy place known as my brain. Her name is Charmayne Alexander. I've been writing a story about her for the last couple of years. Writing about her is difficult, because - well- she's a she. Often times I write about experiences from MY life. It is a real challenge to write about the thoughts, ideas, and inner workings (giggedy) of a woman. I will be presenting the AFOREMENTIONED (lol, somebody said "aforementioned" is my favorite word.... ) story to you in episodic chunks... Every Monday Morning at 8:00 am.

I hope you enjoy... the story is called "Bliss".

Oh, by the way... my blog has no "theme". Sometimes it consists of reviews, sometimes poetry, sometimes stories- hell I might post my grocery list..It's truly a reflection of the random-ness that I call my mind.. (Sorry, Francine... *kanye shrug, minus the questionable haircut*)...

Anyway, thanks for reading.... here is BLISS.

Episode 1 (July 12, 2010)

Of all the chores required of a teenager (homework, taking out the trash, cleaning the bathroom, etc.), washing the dishes was hands down the most mundane for Charmayne. Even though there were only two people in the house, it seemed like there was always an army’s worth of dirty dishes in the sink.

“Why the hell can’t we just wash the dishes as we use them,” she always thought as she scrubbed, rinsed and dried. The only good thing about the task was that it allowed her to listen to the radio, and freestyle without being interrupted by anyone. Dish washing time became prime time rhyme time for her, as she pictured a microphone hanging down from the cabinet above the sink. Her sudsy hands would splash water on the walls and floor as she waved her arms about- mimicking her favorite rappers’ movements. On this particular afternoon, she had just finished blessing Soul II Soul’s “Back to Life”, when a commercial came on the radio:

“..Toniiight. MC Shadow, live at the Paladium. Thaaaat’s right! MC Shadow, live at the Paladium! This is a once in a lifetime event. Come and witness the undisputed heavyweight champ of hip hop perform aaaallll of his hits, including the Grammy nominated single “Baby I love You”! Tickets are only $42.50, so get yours now! You don’t wanna miss MC Shaaadow!! Live at the Paladium. See you theeeere.”

Charmayne’s excitement could not be masked. The hip hop fan in her wanted to be in the front row, reciting every lyric, but the realistic side of her realized she couldn’t afford $42.50 (which by the way would increase to about $100 after she bought an outfit to wear). As that sobering thought set in, it was interrupted by the phone ringing. She quickly dried her hands on her jeans, and grabbed the wall mounted phone.

“Yo”, she answered. Her mother hated when she used this greeting to answer the phone. She said it was “un-lady like”.

“What up,” Tae’s voice greeted her back, with the urgency of a man who had some serious shit to say. “You sittin’ down?” he asked.

“Yeah nigga, why?”

“You ain’t sittin’ down.”

“I’m ‘bout to be hanging up. What the fuck do you want?” she was growing impatient.

“You not gon’ believe this shit. Why is my cousin gon’ be at the studio with MC Shadow tonight after his show? He said we can come through so you can spit!” he paused as if anticipating an overjoyed response from Charmayne. Instead he heard nothing, because she couldn’t muster any words.

“Hello?” he had to make sure she was still there.

“Yeah, I hear you,” she was trying to sound unfazed.

“I’m gon’ pick you up at eleven. Wear something nice, and come with your A-game.”

“You know I’m gon’ do that,” she got a quick shot of adrenaline, as she pictured impressing Shadow so much that she’d have a recording contract by 8 am tomorrow- which would mean an advance check by noon- which would mean this would be the last time she EVER washed dishes.

“You ain’t nervous are you?” her naive fantasy was aborted by Tae’s punk ass voice. She hadn’t even thought of being nervous until he mentioned it. Now her whole body was overcome by a massive stomach cramp. Her mouth had a metallic taste and her armpits began to itch violently.

“Naw, I ain’t nervous. I just gotta figure out what I’m gon’ spit.”

“Well, you got five hours. Be ready,”

“A’aight. It’s on,” as she hung up the phone.

“It’s On” was the way most young people said good bye where she was from. In this instance it was eerily relevant, because “it” was truly “on”. All of the practicing, writing, ciphering, battling and hoping has come down to one moment. Eleven o’clock. Five hours and 18 minutes away. What would she wear? What would her mother say? Then, there was the biggest question: What would she spit? She knew Shadow had a reputation for being a phenomenal lyricist. His song “Baby, I love You” was a heart warming soliloquy about the loves of his life- his mother, his daughter, and his wife. On the track he opened up about how he lives his life through them, and does everything for them. That song was just the tip of the iceberg. His entire album was laced with social commentary, witty wordplay, and flat out undeniable charm. For some reason, these facts gave Charmayne extreme confidence that her abilities would impress him. She always saw herself as an intelligent person, so she liked to group herself with intelligent people. Who’s more intelligent than the #1 lyricist in all of hip hop. Her nervousness turned into anticipation. Excitement. The countdown began.

(to be continued- next Monday at 8:00 am)