BOOKS . . . PAST, PRESENT & FUTURE READING LISTS

I recently finished two books, WISE BLOOD by Flannery O'Connor and NO TIME TO DIE (A Mali Anderson Mystery) by Grace F. Edwards.

The latter, a mystery, was something new and out of the norm for me. I purchased NO TIME TO DIE at a Friends of the Library book sale while still living in Memphis. Actually, I acquire a lot of my books that way--library book sales, bookstore discount tables, etc. The cover on this one--a pensive looking African American woman wearing a hat slanted over her brow and with the "world famous" Apollo signboard in the background--drew me in. The inside flap's description of a Black female sleuth's search for a serial killer in Harlem further intrigued me. Even so, the book, like so many others, sat unread on my shelves for years. My thirst for something different is what recently led me back to the title. I'm not a big fan of mysteries, but, all in all, it was a nice diversion as well as a fascinating and truly horrific look into the life of an African American serial killer.

WISE BLOOD is a book I first read several years ago. As much as I enjoy Flannery O'Connor's short stories, her novel just didn't do a heck of a lot for me. Although I found the book rather disturbing, I didn't outright hate it. I think more than anything, I just didn't understand it. Funny how the passage of time can alter one's perspective. I'm still not in love with the novel, but I do understand it a bit better. Perhaps maturity, patience and a small portion of wisdom are to thank for my new level of enlightenment. To be honest though, the only reason I decided to re-read the text was because it appeared on a local book club's list. If nothing else, it's the type of book that makes for an interesting discussion.

The book I'm currently reading is, ALL AUNT HAGAR'S CHILDREN, a collection of short stories written by Edward P. Jones. This is the first time I've read any of Jones' work and already I'm a fan. As I stated on black girl lost in a book's blog, I feel like I really do know these characters . . . I've met them somewhere . . . if not in this life, then perhaps in some other. The first story in the collection, "In The Blink Of God's Eye" read like one of my grandmother's tales of Johnson Sub (the 40 plus acres in Memphis, TN my daddy's people once owned and called home). This book is, for me, truly a treat and I find myself re-reading sentences, paragraphs and passages if only to savor their sweetness once again. In Jones' work I am able to experience a bit of what drives me to read and write in the first place--the indescribable joy (and music) of a story well-told. I also feel in Jones' work an appreciation of the Black Southern Experience that sadly, far too many "colored folks" (yeah, I said it . . . meant it too) from NY, LA and the Midwest appear to lack.

The books I'm probably gonna read next include, among others, another Edward P. Jones title for sure. I'm thinking his first short story collection, LOST IN THE CITY, will probably be my choice. I've heard lots of positive comments about the collection and since when given a choice between a short collection and a novel, I generally opt for the stories, it's pretty much a done deal.

I'm also interested in taking a look at REDBONE:Money, Malice and Murder in Atlanta by Ron Stodghill. Initially, I was kind of turned off by the title. Just to give you some background, a guy I knew during my college years tagged me with the nick-name "Dirty Red." So, as you might imagine, something about the term conjures quite a bit of negative imagery for me (LOL). Anyway, I stumbled upon an excerpt one day, that changed my mind about reading the book. Based on the writing alone, I'm willing to give the book a try, even though the Amazon reviews I skimmed appeared to lean toward the negative.

The other title on my list of "future" reads is a book I started last year, but never read beyond a couple of pages, WHAT I KNOW FOR SURE by Tavis Smiley. I didn't put the book down for lack of interest, I just got busy and sidetracked by other things. I'm still very much interested in knowing more about the "makings" of Mr. Smiley and since my old book club in Cleveland is taking on the book, I figured I'd buckled down and join them.

So, what are you all reading? What have you read that you'd recommend? What's still sitting unopened on your nightstand, on your bookshelf or at your local bookstore that you'd like to read? Also, any comments on my reading lists are welcome.

CHITLINS, RIBS AND PORKCHOPS FOR DAYS . . . OR JUST A BIG BUNCH OF HOG WASH?

Okay, I'm sure by now you've heard about the 11 year old kid who killed the 1,051 lbs and 9 ft long wild hog somewhere deep in the Alabama woods, right? Well, I'm sorry, but it sounds like a whole bunch of BULL to me (LOL).

My own dear hubby insists its true, if only because he heard it reported on NPR. Oh, Please. That story has HOAX stamped all over it and that photo looks about as real as Lil Kim's, Michael Jackson's and Joan Rivers' faces spliced together.

But okay, for the sake of arguement, let's say the story is true. So, is this GIANT HOG some kind of random freak of nature, or does he have a big ole swoll pack of brothers, sisters and play cousins stomping around in those woods somewhere? And if the latter is true, how come we're just now learning of their existence? If nothing else, wouldn't we have at least SMELLED those jokers by now?

My other questions are about the kid and his proud papa. Who in the world goes hunting in the woods with a .50-caliber revolver? I'm saying, if that doesn't put the capital "B" in 'Bama, I don't know what does (LOL). I read one report that said the kid attended school at some Christian Academy. Well, good for him. But I'm pretty sure chasing a giant wild hog, who hasn't done zip-dang-squat to you, for three hours through the doggone woods and then busting a cap in said hog, umpteen some times, isn't something you'd necessarily want to file under 'Things Jesus Would Do.'

Of course, I could be wrong. But just in case, I'm filing this one under "Stupid Stuff" and "Ignorant Mess."

AN ART FESTIVAL JONES . . . THE ONE HABIT I'M NOT TRYING TO KICK . . .

A couple of days ago, when I discovered I'd be in Atlanta this summer in time to catch the Atlanta Black Arts Festival, I all but jumped out of my seat and cheered. Not only do I LOVE art festivals, I've been wanting to attend the Atlanta Black Arts Fest for years now . . really, ever since I learned of its existence.

Yes, I have an arts festival JONES that won't quit. My house is full things (prints, jewelry, mirrors, purses, african drums and other such hand carved items) I've purchased at various festivals from around the country. But the truth is, I attend them even when I'm broke and have absolutely no plans of buying anything. My guess is the creatively rich environment that makes up an art festivals helps feed the ravenous cravings of my own muse.

A combination of things go into the making of a good arts festival, I think. Location and parking are two inter-related items that place pretty high on my list. While a center-city or downtown locale always adds a bit of flavor to the event, parking that is free (or relatively inexpensive), nearby and plentiful makes attendance all the more inviting.

Being a fan of fresh air and sunshine, I prefer an outdoor festival. But an in-door event can have its merits. One of the highlights (and believe me, there weren't many) of the four long years I spent in the Cleveland area was an indoor festival called Sankofa / Cleveland Fine Art Expo which was typically held at Tri-C's (Cuyahoga Community College) eastern campus.

I always wondered why the event organizers never used the suburban campus' nicely manicured and enormous grounds for the festival. But in Cleveland, its always about the weather . . . rain, wind or snow is typically always lurking somewhere in the forecast. So, if not precipitation, mud may have been an issue. What I enjoyed must about Sankofa was the mix of arts--fine, folk, film literary, etc. There was a bit of something to whet every artistic appetite.

The presence of food, the kind you eat, also helps make a festival fun. At the most recent fest (The Art and Soul of The South End) I attended here in Charlotte, I actually managed to limit myself to a single bratwrust and a cherry-flavored Italian ice.

But what truly endears a festival to me are the people. When I lived in Memphis, one of the great joys of attending the yearly Africa in April celebration was running into people I'd lost touch with or no longer saw on a regular basis. It was always a fun surprise to bump into friends, relatives and/or see co-workers who I'd least expect to see at a crowded, downtown "artsy event."

Equally enjoyable is the opportunity to meet and greet some of the artists and vendors. Again, whenever I hung-out in Africa in April's "market place" I'd always look for my friend and fellow writer, A.J., who hawked goods on behalf of the business she and her hubby owned. While living in Cleveland, I generally looked for an artist by the name of Shedrick, whose thin, long-legged characters I've come to love. On two different occasions, I purchased some of her work at a Cleveland area art festival called Art In the Village.

I'm already looking forward to September when one of the artist I met at Charlotte's Art and Soul of South End will return with her eye-catching array of shadow boxes, mirrors and clocks (Jordan's Treasures). Yup, I plan on adding more of her work to my collection too (smile).

Obviously, I was meant to live in Charlotte, if only because the nice weather makes it ideal for out-door activities year round. Festival junkie that I am, last year I celebrated my first full week here by going out to an area of Charlotte known as NoDA (North Davidson) and attending what was billed as Charlotte's First Literary Festival. Not only am I looking forward to trekking out to the Charlotte Literary Festival again this August, but I already have my sights set on next year's event when, if all goes well and the creek don't rise, I'll be one of the many author participants. Say a prayer and keep your fingers crossed. I'll keep you posted.

If you have a favorite festival or you know one that just might tickle my fancy, give me the scoop. I'm always on the look-out for new ones to try.

POLE DANCING MUSIC . . . AN OLD SCHOOL MIX TOP TEN LIST

Really, I hadn't intended for this to be my next post. But my funny-bone was so tickled by the article on "pole dancing" I ran across in Friday's Charlotte Observer, I couldn't resist.

According to the piece, "pole dancing" long a past-time of the exotic dancer and stripper set, is the newest exercise craze. One of the instructors at a fitness club called "B-Risque" claims many of the women who come to her for instruction in "pole-ercise" are housewives and teachers. She also said a lot of church folk show up wanting to learn how to work the pole (LOL).

After I stopped laughing, I shared the article with the hubby only to have him say, "Girl, we need to think about getting us one of those poles . . . " I said, "Yeah right, that's all we need, one of us getting up in the middle of the night, walking straight into some doggone pole and knocking ourselves out. How'd we explain that one to the paramedics, much less our folks?"

Anyway, alongside the article ran a sidebar containing a list of the Top 10 Pole Dancing Songs. On the list were the following: 1) Erotica: Madonna; (2) Hollaback Girl: Gwen Stafani; (3) Temperature: Sean Paul; (4) Ain't No Other Man: Christina Aguilera; (5) Check On It: Beyonce; (6) I'm N Luv (Wit A Stripper) T-Pain; (7) Promiscuous: Nelly Furtado; (8) SexyBack: Justin Timberlake; (9) London Bridge: Fergie; (10) Buttons: Pussycat Dolls

I'm sure it goes without saying that even if I were trying to work a pole (uh, don't worry Mom, I'm not) I wouldn't be trying to do it to any of that whack mess. Of course, then I started wondering what an "old school" list of music to work a pole by would look like and I came up with the following:

The Old School Mix Top 10 Pole Dancing Tunes

1) Push It (Salt N Pepa)

2) Da Butt (E.U.)

3) Nasty Girl (Vanity Six)

4) Lady Marmalade (Labelle)

5) Love To Love You Baby (Donna Summers)

6) Giving Him Something He Can Feel (Aretha Franklin)

7)Do Me Baby (Prince)

8) Cold-Blooded (Rick James)

9) Housecall (Your Body Can't Lie To Me) (Maxi Priest & Shabba Ranks)

10) The Over Weight Lover's In The House (Heavy D & Da Boys)

Hey, now that's a list beffiting of an ole girl who's still got enough fire left in her to wanna work a pole . . . and no Mom, in case you're wondering, that would NOT be me (LOL)!

If you'd like to make an addition or two to the list, hit me up in the comments section.

COINCIDENCE . . . OR DIVINE INTERVENTION? PT I (A Few Odd Happenings On The Road to Publication)

Have you ever experienced one of those moments in life that made you wonder if what just took place was truly a coincidence or if the hand of GOD had actually come into play? Well, I've had things of that nature happen to me so many times over the years, I've stopped counting them. Still, I'm always momentarily taken aback when they arise.

I'm not talking about those random or odd happenings that sometimes occur when folks with similar interests or like backgrounds collide or meet up in the same place. Just last week, I experienced one of those. While blog-hopping one night, I stumbled upon a funny comment from an artist I'd actually met, barely a couple of weeks before, and whose work I'd admired enough to purchase at a local art festival.

Yes, those isolated "small world" moments are neat, but that's not what I'm talking about. What I mean are those All Up In Your Face moments that force you to nod, if not outright bow to the Higher Power (or unseen forces, if you prefer) working behind the scenes.

Case in point, years ago, when I lived in Memphis and still drove a hoopty, it up and stalled on me a couple of times. Both times the car quit and wouldn't start again were at night and in one of those instances, in a part of the city that could best be described as less than desirable. In the latter instance, it just so happened I was with friends and within walking distance of a well-lit gas station that had a working phone. (This was, of course, in the days before cell phones became all the rage). I called up a cousin, who lived nearby and who, to my surprised and good fortune, just so happened to be at home, instead out making his drug rounds to his usual customers . . . oh yeah, true story.

Anyway, the other time my hoopty died, I was alone and I'd just left a REALLY BAD area, one where I could have been easly hit by a car if not shot, stabbed and kilt dead (ebonics 101 y'all) in the very process of trying to find a working phone. On that particular occasion, as fate would have it, my car screeched to a halt at a corner . . . a corner that was only a 3 minute walk from my favorite aunt and uncle's house.

A couple of odd and random coincidences? No baby, that was some sho' nuff divine intervention because in Memphis if your car dies at night and you don't have ready access to a phone, you'd best start praying the worse the thugs decide to do is take your money, jewelry, rims and what have you . . .

So why am I bringing any of this up? And what, if anything, does it have to do with my book deal? Well, recently a series of odd things happened to me with regards to the pending publication of my novel, AFTER THE DANCE and I felt like sharing . . .

But before I do, I'd like to invite any of you who've experienced similarly odd happenings to share a bit of what transpired in your particular situation.

AKON . . . PRINCE . . . AND THE CONCEPT OF RESPONSIBILITY . . .

I caught an interview with Prince on BETJ last week. At one point, the interviewer told Prince how much he enjoyed the song, "Dirty Mind." He asked if Prince would be performing the song in his up coming tour or any of the other risque material for which he's known.

Prince smiled and asked the interviewer what he thought Prince should do. The guy said, in so many words, "Hey, go for it." Prince said, "Well what should I do about the 14 year old who's sitting in the front row?

The interviewer said, "Well, you never thought about the 14 year old back in the 80's . . ." To which Prince responded, "No, back then, there were no 14 year olds seated in the front row. Besides, I'd like to think that I've grown and I'm more responsible than I was back then . . ."

Responsibility? Wow, what an interesting coincidence. Not only did my last post on "The Death Of Hip Hop" address the topic of artistic and collective responsibility, the post was written in the hours prior to my viewing of the Prince interview.

So what does any of this have to do with the singer Akon? Well, there is that picture of him and the alleged 14 year old girl currently making the internet rounds. You know, the one with him on stage on his back and babygirl sitting atop his thighs? Yeah, even if you haven't seen it, you get the picture, I'm sure.

Anyway, I've heard all of the excuses. How was he supposed to know how old she was? Her little fast tail didn't have any business there in the first place. Did you see how she was dressed? And where were her parents?

Spare me, please. After all is said and done, she's still 14 years old (allegedly) and at age 34 (I believe) Akon is still a grown azz man. Perhaps one good place to start would be not pulling anyone up on stage for the purpose of simulating sex. Since when is strip club behavior appropriate for a concert? I guess around about the time we all decided any and everything goes, huh? I'm pretty sure, at this rate and given the direction things are going, actual sex on stage will be next. And after that, what? Publicly relieving oneself on folks' children? Oh, I'm sorry I guess R. Kelley already did that . . . allegedly (smile).

Prince, His Royal Badness personified, is right. Back in the 80's, I had the pleasure of attending a couple of his concerts and I can personally vouch for what he said about 14 year olds not sitting up front row center of his shows. They weren't. They shouldn't be at Akon's either--not front row center (under the circumstances) and most certainly not up stage straddling his 34 year old thighs. If we were all committed to being responsible, they wouldn't be.

But if we truly want this kind of foolishness to end, we can't just stop at blaming the parents, much less the child. And at age 14, I don't care how she's dressed, she's still a child. It takes a village y'all. So stop co-signing this mess and act like you know.

CLINTON, LEADERSHIP, ADORATION & BLACK FOLKS (A Few Reflections via Randall Robinson)

Bill Clinton He purchased our affection with gestures . . ."our support should not be so easily obtainable." (Randall Robinson)

Randall Robinson is somone whose work I've been intending to read for years now. I remember watching an interview with him on some cable network, shortly after his book, THE RECKONING: WHAT BLACK FOLKS OWE EACH OTHER (2002) was released. Quite a few of his thoughts and relections made me stop, think and go, "Hmmm."

Recently, while cleaning out a folder, I ran across a scrap of paper on which I'd scribbled a few of the sentiments Robinson had expressed on that particular program. Robinson's comment about Clinton (see above) struck me, not only because it was a view I shared, but also because I hadn't heard any other African American liberal or moderate, worthy of respect, express such. My notes on the Robinson interveiw also included the following two gems:

Leadership "Leaders are assigned for the convenience of people who dominate you."

Adoration "The school teacher we don't respect like we used to--the wealthy bandit, we adore."

Robinson's view on adoration is one that has serious implications, I think, not only in the world of politics, but also, increasingly, in the field of entertainment. But then again, I guess that really should come as no surprise. Historicially and across the board Americans appear to have a warped fascination with outlaws, gangsters and thugs.

From yesteryears' large than life Jesse James, Billy the Kid, Bonnie and Clyde and Al Capone to today's John Gotti, and his fiction-drawn cronies, Tony Montana (Scarface) and Tony Soprano we do seem to love us some ruthless, money-grubbing bad boys and gals. And don't let me forget all of the pimps and drug-dealers, the rouge preachers and politicians and the thieving CEO's who've taken up the mantle and become the real American Idols. Yeah, there's some thug-love out there, for real y'all . . .

But anyway, the following are a couple of other books by Randall Robinson that I hope to read one day and may, perhaps, be of some interest to some of you:

THE DEBT: WHAT AMERICA OWES TO BLACKS (2001) and

QUITTING AMERICA: THE DEPARTURE OF A BLACK MAN FROM HIS NATIVE LAND (Reprint 2004).

If you've read any of Mr. Robinson's books, feel free to express your opinion (whether good or bad) about what you read in the OSM's comment section. Also if you agree or disagree with his reflections about Clintion, leadership and/or adoration, please don't hesitate to share your views.

CHARLES BURNETT . . . KILLER OF SHEEP

Charles Burnett is an extraordinary filmmaker. I was first introduced to his work via, "To Sleep With Anger" which is one of my all-time favorite flicks. I've also had the pleasure of viewing Burnett's critically acclaimed and award-winning "Killer of Sheep." As a matter of fact, if I might be permitted to brag, I personally helped bring that movie to Memphis in the early 90's . . . but more on that in a moment (smile).

"Killer of Sheep" was Burnett's graduate student thesis film at UCLA. The film, which casts a harsh spotlight on life in Watts during the early 70's, has been deemed a national treasure by the Library of Congress and the National Society of Film Critcs called it one of the 100 essential films of all time.

Unfortunately, due to legal problems with music rights and the film's poor print quality, "Killer of Sheep" was never seen by a wide audience. But all of that is about to change, thanks in part to Milestone Film & Video. Not only is the movie being released in theaters, but it will soon be availabe on DVD.

My personal connection? Back in the early 90's, I was asked to help organize a Black film festival for the Memphis & Shelby County Public Library System as part of the library's programming for Black History month. The festival was free and the movies were screened on a one-night only basis at the Circuit Playhouse. I am proud to say that Charles Burnett's "The Killer of Sheep" (1977) was the feature film I selected for the event and the turn-out exceeded expectations. The other two short films were "Illusions" (1983) by Julie Dash and "Hair Piece: A Film For Nappy-Headed People" (1985) by Ayoka Chenzira.

In case you're wondering, that last film "Hair Piece" is an animated flick and one that a lot of folks, Imus among them, could probably benefit from seeing right about now (LOL). Seriously though, I'm loving forward to seeing Burnett's "Killer of Sheep" again and I can only hope that the DVD will include commentary from the filmmaker.

If you're interested in seeing if "Killer of Sheep" is scheduled to appear at a theatre in your city (or one near you), this site contains a list of dates for screening locations and other information about the movie and its maker.

THE DEATH OF HIP HOP . . . PART IV (A Few Graveside Remarks)

Just the other day, the Hip Hop Summit Action Network, led by Russell Simmons and Benjamin Chavis came out and urged the industry to ban the use of "nigga, bitch and ho" from all so-called clean versions of rap songs . . .

"Our discussions are about the corporate responsibility of the industry to voluntarily show respect to African Americans and other people of color, African American women and to all women in lyrics and images."

Ah . . . yeah . . . right . . .

I'm sort of inclined to agree with Joan Morgan, the author of "When Chickenheads Come Home To Roost." She said the recommendations were, "shortsighted at best and disingenuous at worst." Really, it does still sound very much like yet another royal passing of the buck. Cha-ching! I guess some of us still don't want to own up to being complicit in our own degradation . . . "Can I get a, What?! What?!" (smile) Yeah, I said it. Meant it too.

Even though Simmons and Chavis merely SUGGESTED that the industry VOLUNTARILY show a bit of respect toward the folks they ritualistically and habitually demean and malign and with such zeal, a lot of folks are outraged. They look at the REQUEST as a giant step toward CENSORSHIP and a violation of FREE-SPEECH. "If you don't like it, don't listen to it," they say. "If you don't want your children to hear it, turn off the radio. Do a better job of monitoring what your children buy and watch on TV." Yup, that's what they say, all right.

Hmm . . . Well, couldn't that very same logic have been applied to Imus? Or Richards? Or any other nutcase or fool who opens his mouth and barfs up hate? How come it's okay to wanna shut up and shut down folks, that aren't too many of US listening to anyway, but it's somehow NOT OKAY to ask the brother from around the way, the one who looks like you or who could very well be your son, sibling, uncle, nephew, cousin or spouse . . . how come it's not okay to POLITELY ask that brother to refrain from the constant use of the very same words?

How come we really think it's okay for us to wanna have it both ways? Hate speech is hate speech, isn't it? Or is SOME hate really more excusable . . . permissible . . . or perhaps, simply more lucrative than some other?

I think it's ironic, if not incredibly revealing how so many of the folks, who in the aftermath of Michael Richard's public moment of insanity were all too willing and eager to place a universal ban on the use of the word, "nigger" (and all of its colorful variations) are now suddenly incensed at the thought of not being able to hear or spew--when, where and however they might please--a constant barrage of bitches and ho's.

I bet Dave Chappelle could put together one heck of a funny skit behind that particular brand of madness. Can't you picture it? Some blinged out, platinum grilled rapper, who's got two scantily clad women on choke-collars and dog leashes, crawling around at his feet. And the rapper, let's call him, MC Ignant Azz, is crying, rubbing his eyes and pleading, JB-style to some faceless, cigar-smoking fat cat figure who's sitting behind a desk, "Please, please, please Mr. Big Man, Suh, I done already give you my boy, 'Nigga.' Why you wanna go and take my gals, 'Bitch and Ho?' Oh, Lawd, Mr. Big Man, Suh, please just let me have, 'Bitch and Ho!" How else is I suppose to make my bens and my ends meet?!" Hmm . . . it's kinda got a nice antebellum-like ring to it, don'tcha think? (LOL)

For the record, I don't believe in censorship. Snatching books out of schools, pulling records/cds off shelves and setting bonfires to material deemed offensive, all seem kind of Nazi-like to me. I would never advocate an outright ban on the use of any word . . . not nigga, not bitch, not ho. Should we ban the word, "Fire" just because some idiot thinks it's funny to scream it in a movie theatre? But then again, if some idiot does scream "fire" in a theatre where there is none, I don't mind at all in assisting in putting his behind out.

As I've stated elsewhere, for some of us, the issue was never about censorship, it was and is about RESPECT. Yeah, remember that song, and the line, "R.e.s.p.e.c.t. find out what it means to me," that Aretha made famous, way back when? Yes, as much as some of y'all ain't trying to hear it, along with the freedom of expression comes something called responsibility . . . responsibility towards one's self and one's community.

Anyway, back to our skit . . .

"Respect and responsibility? Oh, Lawd, No, Mr. Big Man, Suh, what is I'm ever gone find to rhyme with that?"

Finally, Mr. Big Man, Suh stands and speaks, "Well, MC Ignant Azz, I guess we both gone have to find us something else to exploit."

The two of them, Mr. Big Man, Suh and MC Ignant Azz bump fists and pat each other on the back before walking off side-by-side into the sunset.

THE DEATH OF HIP HOP . . . PART III (Notes & Comments On The Hearse Ride To The Cemetery)

SIGH . . . The other night, I watched the 2nd half of Oprah's "After Imus: Now What?" town hall discussion. All I can do is shake my head. It truly saddens me to see & hear so many smart & talented Blk men speak & act as if they were in complete denial about a phenomenon that adversely affects so many of us.

For the most part, these men, all of whom are in positions of leadership, came across as a bunch of belligerent, whiney, 3 year-olds. Okay, here's a clue. When a grown azz Blk woman says, "Listening to rap artists call me and folks who look like me (be they nappy-headed or not) all kinds of bitches and ho's 24/7 is both insulting and demeaning," the proper response from a grown azz Blk man ought not be, "Uh-uh! No, it ain't! You're not the boss of me!" Sheeesh . . .

Russell Simmons. I don't know brother. I think you are a brilliant business man. I love what you're doing with Def Poetry. But the statement you made about Hip Hop doing more for race relations than the entire civil rights movement is A BIG, FAT LIE, plain and simple. If you actually believe that mess you are either sadly deluded, incredibly mis-educated or a mad man. Yeah, I said it. Meant it too.

Something tells me both Mr. Simmons and Kevin Liles, the entertainment executive who appeared on the show, have both bought into their own hype and now want us all to drink the Kool-Aid. Mr. Liles went into what can only be described as the Black male version of the neck-swerve when Stanley Crouch used the word "clown" in reference to the folks reponsible for the distribution and perpetuation of this demeaning garbage. The brother's near hysterics would have been comical were the situation not so sad.

No, Mr. Liles you're not a clown . . . you, sir, are the freaking RING-MASTER if you are sitting up behind a desk somewhere ALLOWING this crap to go on, as the one sister said, ON YOUR WATCH. And your little speech about going from intern to executive, I mean really, what is that? Another tired version of the "don't hate the player, hate the game" type of ignorance? Just so you know, for what it's worth, that's like telling folks you went from being a two-bit street corner pimp to running a brothel. And hey, that just might impress some of the simple-minded folk you obvioulsy run with, I don't know.

Common, I ain't mad at you bro. Matter of fact, I'm jamming "The Food" from your cd "Be" as I type this. I understand and appreciate your desire to elevate the "game" and represent another side of the discussion. Like I've stated before, censorship isn't a bandwagon I'm fixing to jump on for NOBODY. I appreciate both the beauty and power of words. And within the proper context, I don't object to the use of even the most vile of them. Now, when they're repeated hurled as weapons and they're used to hurt, malign and defame, that's another story.

So, Common, all I ask is that if you're going to continue to ride with those other clowns and fools, try to steer them away from the gutter and the drainage ditches. And for heaven's sake, if you see that those jokers are about to ride off a cliff or down some other street of no return, step off and tell 'em "later." Keep in mind, "thug solidarity" is what killed Tupac. Ain't no need of you going out like that. And oh, for the record, a lot of sisters, elders and quite a few brothers too have been trying to critique y'all in a spirit of love, but the knuckle-heads and puppet-masters in your crew ain't been trying to hear it. So, now we got to go summon up the ghosts of John Henry, Harriet Tubman and 'Nem and come back at 'em with the Hammer.

So, if nothing else, try to stay true to your own verses Common. Like you say in Chi-City" ... "it's a war going on . . . you can't fake being a soldier" and what's that you and Kanye say in "The Food" . . . "I know I . . . I could make it right, if I could just swallow my pride . . ." That's right C, keep "writing FREEDOM songs for the Real People."

Ben Chavis. I'm disappointed. But then again, maybe I ought not be. Didn't he get run out of the NAACP for improprieties with women? I'd hate to think this was yet another case of the Blind, trying to lead the Blind. But when you KNOW BETTER, aren't you supposed to DO BETTER? Yeah, I guess that's just another one of those things I learned back in the day that folks obvioulsy don't believe in any more.

Henry Louis Gates? Wait, wasn't he one of the chief defenders of the misogynistic filth being spewed by the likes of 2 Live Crew back in the early 90's? Please. With all due respect, he's a part of the problem. An academic hustle, is a hustle, none-the-less.

The only brother who really represented and came correct on Oprah's show yesterday was the attorney, Londell McMillan, the young man who said he'd represented a lot of the rap artists from Lil Kim to Kanye West and all those folks in-between. Big Ups to this brother for his poise, his leadership and his clarity.

Mr. McMillan said there were a lot of responsible parties who needed to be called to the table and held accountable for the misogyny and demeaning imagery in Hip Hop, among them the rappers themselves, producers, label heads, artistic development folks, consumers and radio stations. He dismissed this "oh, but they're poverty stricken and don't know any better" line of bull Simmons and Liles were trying to pitch. Like we don't know some of the worst of these fools come from middle class backgrounds . . .

Anyway, Mr. McMillan mentioned how some artists feel boxed in, obliged and are often aggressively encouraged to go the whole, "nigga, bitch, ho" route in their music. What's that I hear? The resounding echo of a "Whoop, There It Is!" Tell 'em 'bout it LM. In the Good Old USA, money is always the bottom-line. ain't it? The entertainment industry heads have latched onto this whack-azz formula and as long as it's fattening their wallets, they're not about to let it go without a fight.

Mr. Simmons, Mr. Liles and Mr. Chavis . . . it's not about hating Hip Hop. A lot of us love Hip Hop, we're just ready for all the blood-letting, name-calling, half-naked boot-shaking, stripper club behavior, pimping and thuggery to be over and done with. We're just tired of all the lame azz excuses and historically incorrect rationales for why it's okay for Blk men to call Blk women out of their names.

We're just tired of mourning what really and truly could have been a beautiful thing had not a bunch of greedy, opportunistic hustlers been allowed to muck it up. HELL, We're Just Tired . . . SIGH . . .

THE DEATH OF HIP HOP . . . PART II (Musical Selections) . . .

For Part I (The Eulogy) see previous post

Before any final, closing remarks, I have several musical selections I'd like to propose for The OSM's Hip Hop Home-Going. I mean really, what's a funeral without music, right?

Anyway, for the opening selection I suggest a duet, let's say, Pete Rock and C.L. Smooth's "They Reminisce Over You."

Perhaps we could follow that with a solo by India Aire. Oh yeah, you know it's got to be "I Am Not My Hair."

Then perhaps we ought to throw in something by the heavily sampled Godfather of Soul. I'm thinking JB's, "Say It Loud (I'm Black and I'm Proud)."

Well, before the last viewing of the body, how 'bout we turn the party out with some of Heavy D & The Boyz' "Nuttin' But Love."

Then to end on a proper note, I'm think we oughta totally flip the script and do something more traditional. I'd dare say, The Wynton Marsalis' Septet's "Recessional" (from "In This House, On This Morning") would be most approriate for our final hymn.

Would do you think? I mean, beside the fact that I'm tripping (smile). Do you like my choices or would you have opted for something different? Feel free to share your suggestions and comments . . . just remember to keep them brief because we've got to hurry up and bury this bad boy.

THE DEATH OF HIP-HOP . . . PART I (The Eulogy)

The ball park is not my favorite place to spend a Sunday afternoon. But thanks to my son's interest in baseball, that's exactly where I found myself several Sundays ago. The unseasonable nip in the air had me sitting in the car with the Sunday paper rather than somewhere out on a bleacher feigning interest in the action on the field. Of course, had it been something other than a practice, I would have most certainly been out there shivering and cheering alongside all of the other little league parents. . .

So, I'm seated in the my car with the two front passenger windows barely open an inch when I hear it . . . the loud, repeative thump of a hip hop beat. Make no mistake, as an African American woman who attended an historically Black college in a predominately Black city during the 80's, I've loved hip-hop and rap since it first hit the scene with folks like Curtis Blow, Grand Master Flash and the Furious Five and broke into the 9o's with the likes of Doug E. Fresh, Brand Nubian, Big Daddy Kane, Eric. B and Rakim, MC Lyte, Queen Latifah, De La Soul, A Tribe Called Quest. . . you know, all the folks now considered "old school."

But this song, the loud, repeatively thumping one I hear while I'm seated in my car, in the park, on a Sunday afternoon with my windows rolled durn near all the way up ain't nothing like the fun-loving, playful, braggadocious or even the socically-conscious and politically-infused music I bumped, jammed and used to hear coming from La-dee, Da-dee and some of everybody's boom box back in the day. No, this particular song apparently has only one lyric and that's the socially unredemptive "mother-f$%&er . . . mother-f$%&er . . . mother-f$%&er."

Okay. So, I sit there with my teeth rattling from the mind-numbing bass as the loud music draws closer and I think to myself, "Surely, there isn't really a song out there called 'mother-f$%&er?' is there? And if so, why on earth would anybody in their right mind want to listen to it THAT LOUD . . . much less ride up in a park and treat everybody else to it on a Sunday afternoon?

I watch from my rear-view mirror as the car with the over-powering bass and the offensive music finally pulls to a stop and four laughing, loud-talking African American youths spill out. They look like young men in their late teens or possibly their early twenties. For a moment, I think perhaps they've come to the park, like my own young son, in order to spend some time working on their swing and their ball-handling skills. I think perhaps, in a moment they will turn off the music and restore the peace of the ballpark that on that Sunday afternoon is filled primarily with women, children, young families and older couples.

But no, after changing out of their long, over-sized t-shirts and into other long, over-sized t's in the middle of the parking lot, these young brothers show off dance steps, laugh and rough-house and all while engaging in a conversation loud enough to be heard over the delightful sounds of the tune, 'mother-f$%&er' which is still thumping away in the background . . . a conversation loud enough to be heard several yards away and in a car with the windows barely cracked . . . a conversation riddled with the same word that got Michael Richards in so much trouble not so long ago. Really, I kid you not, every other word is, "nigga this, nigga that . . . nigga, nigga, nigga." Matter of fact, as loud as they're speaking, "nigga" is the only word clearly distinguishable in their entire conversation.

Unlike some, I don't believe in banning words or censoring music. As one who loves art and appreciates the freedom of self-expression, that's hardly a bandwagon I'm about to jump on. But nor do I believe it's necessary to disrupt the peace and quiet of a park filled with women and children and old folks on a Sunday afternoon or any other afternoon for that matter with a loud litany of "niggas" and a trifling chorus of "mother-f$%&ers." Come on . . . has it really come to that? Do we really not know or want to do any better?

According to Nas, "Hip-Hop Is Dead." According to some others, the rappers from the Dirty South should be held responsible for having killed it. Please. If in fact, Hip-Hop is dead, the primary thing that killed it is/was that always potentially lethal, and all-too American combination of ignorance and greed . . . a combination in which for far too long many us have either collectively reveled, or else have avoided openly critiquing.

"Hip Hop is Dead?" Wow, what a stunning revelation. It ain't like hip hop hasn't been stinking to high heaven and spinning in it's own rot for years now. Had we any real respect for ourselves, much less the dead, we would have closed the casket and buried the corpse a long time ago.

MEMPHIS & MARTIN . . . & THE INHERITANCE OF A DREAM

The Lorraine Motel

Memphis, 2004

from

Lori's Pic Collection

"Whenever you are engaged in work that serves humanity it has dignity and it has worth.

From MLK's speech at Mason Temple in Memphis, TN,

March 18,1968

While I was much too young (preschool age) to remember most of the details surrounding the event, I was living in Memphis during the Sanitation Workers' Strike of 1968. I want to say I remember hearing the now famous "Mountaintop Speech" on the radio the night before King was gunned down. For years, I've been able to conjure an all too vivid of image of myself as a little girl, listening to the rise and fall of that distinctive voice as I stared up at the ceiling in the darkened back bedroom of my grandparents' North Memphis home . . . Though, I must admit, the memory could very well be a false one that willed itself into creation over time.

But there is one thing I do remember with regards to that sad and brutal event--a memory equal in intensity only to the one I've held since I was three and the middle finger of my right hand was accidentally crushed in the unexpected slam of a car door.

On the day of MLK's funeral, rather than make herself comfortable on any of the available den furniture or even the floor, my mother choose to squeeze herself into my little red rocking chair. Positioned there, in front of our 16-inch black and white TV set, she sat and rocked with tears streaming down her face as she watched the slain civil rights leader's home-going. Barring the onset of Alzheimers, that image of my weeping mother is one I will surely carry with me to my own grave. As an adult, the image permits me to not only look back and see "the big picture" but feel it on a more emotional and personal level as well.

"If you bend your back, people can ride it. But if stand up straight, people can't ride your back. And that's what we did. We stood up straight."

Taylor Rodgers, an organizer with Local 1733 AFSCME & a participant in the Sanitation Workers' Stike of 1968

Due to my father's military career, most of my early years were spent moving in and out of Memphis. Shortly upon my return to the city in the early 80's, a friend I'd met at college (LeMoyne-Owen) drove me by the Lorraine Motel late one night. This was in the days just prior to the motel's subsequent resurrection as The National Civil Rights Museum, when it still looked like the run-down and abandoned building that it was . . . a place more befitting the likes of pimps and their two-bit hookers than a King and his humble entourage. Anyway, my friend talked about his memories of the '68 strike, when, if I'm not mistaken, he couldn't have been more than 9 or 10 years old. He said he'd never forget the sight of tanks rolling past his house. To him, it looked like something out of a movie. He talked about the confusion and outrage he felt at the city father's decision to send armored vehicles into his peaceful, working-class Black neighborhood in the hours/days after King's death.

My friend YN (who teaches at the small liberal arts college in Atlanta I mentioned in a previous post), was also living in Memphis during the Sanitation Workers' Strike of 1968. She was a preteen when she stumbled upon the "I AM A MAN" sign her father, a self-employed landscaper, had tucked away in a closet. I can still remember the sense of pride and awe I felt, as a 20-some year old, when my friend introduced me to her father and afforded me the opportunity to shake his hand.

It's all right to talk bout the new Jerusalem, but one day God's preacher must talk about the "new' New York, the "new" Atlanta, the "new" Philiadelphia, the "new" Los Angeles, the "new Memphis, Tennessee. This is what we have to do."

from MLK's "Mountaintop" Speech

at Mason Temple, in Memphis, TN

April 3, 1968

Not too long ago, a writer, whose work I admire, wrote a piece that implied Memphis harbors some sort of "collective guilt" over the death of MLK. As one born and nurtured in the Bluff City, not only do I respectfully disagree, but I must add, that even to suggest such is to exhibit an unfamilarity with either the old or the prevailing Black Memphis "mindset" (LOL). We simply aren't those kind of people. So, don't let the masks or the Hollywood distortions (via Craig Brewer's twisted lens or 3-6 Mafia's ignorant madness) fool you.

The truth is, we harbor about as much "collective guilt" over Martin's death as the African American residents of New Orleans do over the breeching of the levies. And why should we? The tragedy that occured in Memphis on April 4, 1968 was not of our making and could have just as easily happened in any other dark, neglected, impoverished corner of these United States.

The truth is, like so many others, I am but one generation removed from Black folks who farmed, slaughtered hogs, picked cotton, worked in the mills, toiled on the river . . . Southern born men and women of color, who after years of contributing to the wealth of this nation with their hands and their backs, like their mothers and fathers before them, stood their ground and said, "Not me boss. I ain't running . . . not North or nowhere else. I earned this here piece of the Delta. Done paid for it ten times over already with my blood and my sweat and my tears, same as all the kin who come before me . . ."

And while we certainly do salute Martin for coming to Memphis and sacrificing his life in the Struggle, I'm sorry, but guilt over his death is not even something we ought to feel. Righteous indignation, perhaps. But never guilt.

Recently, I heard a truly gifted poet/spoken word artist from New Orleans, a woman by the name of Sunni Patterson. Oh, this sister is fierce! Near the end of her piece, "We Made It" (check out the clip) she spins a bit of truth about how some of us have come to view death.

" . . . Death don't come in vain

Not for us to remain in enslaved

Or our spirits to remain in cages

It comes so we might be courageous

To fulfill our obligations to our God and all creation

And stand here in determination

Able to look Death in the face and say

We made it . . . We made it . . . We made it . . ."

from "We Made It" by Sunni Patterson New Orleans poet/spoken word artist

LINKS . . . & A FEW OTHER INTERESTING/ODD TIDBITS

A WRITING WORKSHOP: My agent passed along this link to the Hurston/Wright Writers' Workshop. (Thanks J.) I, personally, know 4 people who have attended the week-long workshop and they all rave about the experience. The deadline is April 20, 2007. Only serious writers need apply. A few scholarships are available.

POETRY: Did you know April was "National Poetry Month?" The folks at Knopf do. In honor of the occasion, they will send you a free poem (and other extras, like audio clips and info about your favorite Knopf poets) every day through the month of April if you visit their site and register.

CLASSICAL MUSIC: My friend MR sent me a link to a site that showcases and explores African American heritage via the world of classical music. The site--http://www.africlassical.com contains audio links and other informative tidbits.

A NEW PUBLISHER: Have you heard? Tina McElroy (author of The Hand I Fan With, Ugly Ways, & You Know Better ) has launched a new publishing company. DownSouth Press won't start accepting submissions until July 1, 2007. Check the site for details.

A NEW LITERARY FORUM: Mat Johnson (author of The Great Negro Plot, Hunting in Harlem and Drop) has launched a new literary discussion board. Niggerati Manor Forum is the name of the spot.

ARETHA FRANKLIN: Currently, I'm working on a novel that incorporates the title of one of my favorite Aretha Franklin song's "A Natural Woman." In the course of my research about the Queen of Soul, I stumbled across this brilliant piece by "the literary thug" that delves into Aretha, her music and her demons. "The Portrait of An Artist As A Young Woman" is essential reading for any serious R & B and/or Aretha fan.

THINGS THAT MAKE YOU GO, "Hmm . . .": I wish I could remember where I saw this comment about the whole Michael Richards and the "N" word incident, so I could provide the link. But essentially, someone pointed out that we, as African Americans, appear more upset with Richard's repeated use of the word nigger than we are by the fact that he also openly suggested his African American hecklers be sodomized with a fork and lynched. And all I can add to that is, "Hmmm . . . "

ABC'S "OCTOBER ROAD" . . . & MY SUMMER ROAD TRIP . . .

October Road is an ABC television series about a writer who, after a 10 yr absence, returns home and finds employment at a local college. I've watched the show a couple of times--if only because it follows Grey's Anatomy on Thursday night. I told the hubby, were I 10-15 years younger, I'd probably really enjoy the show . . . But anyway, the last time I watched I can distinctly remember wondering where the series might have been filmed.

Well, turns out it's filmed on the college campus where my good friend YN teaches. When I spoke to her this past weekend, she said, "Hey, have you ever watched that show, 'October Road?' Guess where it's filmed?" She also told me Tyler Perry had been on campus filming a movie, not more than a couple of weeks ago.

After a bit of online research, I discovered that some of the other movies filmed at Agnes Scott College include: A Man Called Peter; Scream 2 and the higly acclaimed tv series, I'l Fly Away.

Even though I'm not much of a celebrity buff, a visit to a scenic college campus can't help but appeal to my inner nerd. And as far as the hubby is concerned, believe me, he's no better. All I have to do is whisper, "gothic architecture" and ole boy's eyes light up and he starts reminiscing about the days (and no doubt, some of the nights) he spent on the University of Notre Dame's campus.

So, looks like, we'll be adding a tour of my home girl's campus to the list of things we plan to do when we roll into the ATL this summer. Between that and the list of things, Professor BlackWoman (see the comments section of the March 19th "Road Trip" post) was kind enough to share, I'm sure we'll have a great ole time. If anyone else would like to volunteer additonal suggestions, (for places to visit and things to do in Atlanta, Jackson, Miss or New Orleans) I'm still taking them. Drop me a line in this post's section for comments or email me at after.dance@hotmail.com .

If you're interested in learning more about Agnes Scott College and its involvement in the movie biz, this article is a good place to start.

UNFINISHED BUSINESS . . . Books You Want To Read (Or You've Tried To Read) But Can't Seem To Finish . . .

I'm sure I'm not the only one who has a large pile, bookshelf full or hidden stash of unread books. The majority of those books are probably titles you fully intend to read, but just haven't found time for yet. You probably also have quite a few that are just for "show" or reference, if you will--books you look at or flip through, every now and again, but don't feel the need to read from cover to cover. And then there are always those books that you honestly don't know how in the heck found their way into your possession and that you wouldn't read unless your life depended on it.

But how many of you are willing to 'fess up to owning books that you want to read, that you've tried to read and that your know durn well you oughta read, but for whatever reason, you've failed everytime you've attempted to do so?

Well, what follows, I'm NOT proud to say, are the top 3 on my List of Unfinished Books.

1) Great Expectations (Charles Dickens)

As I mentioned over at the BookSeller Chic's blog, I've been trying to read this book since I was a kid. Seriously, the first attempt was like in the 9th or 10th grade. The second attempt was probably 3 0r 4 years later, when my brother was assigned the book in school. I've even tried watching the doggone movie . . . hmm, never made it through that either. As much as I truly do enjoy the way this book begins, I'm not sure why I can't seem to make it more than halfway through the story before I toss it aside. Must be some sort of weird, psychological block. Or could be, it's just too doggone long.

2) The Invisible Man (Ralph Ellison)

Yes, I know this is a truly shameful confession. What self-respecting, supposedly well-read, Black woman, writer-wanna-be, over the age of 35 hasn't read THE INVISIBLE MAN? Ahh . . . me. Yes, I do understand the beauty, the depth and the significance of the work. Believe me, I've tried to make myself finish it and will, no doubt, try again one day. But there's something about the story that just won't grab and hold my attention. I'm not sure, but ADD is a good possibility . . .

3) The Salt Eaters (Toni Cade Bambara)

Once again, y'all . . . I am so ashamed. As much as I adore GORILLA, MY LOVE, you'd think THE SALT EATERS would be an easy read for me to tackle. Not so. Every 7 years or so, I pick up this book and vow to read my way to the end, only to give up somewhere in the middle. I think the problem is, I just don't "get it." Okay, this last time ( 2 years ago or so) I came a little closer to understanding it than in previous years, but apparently not enough to wanna keep plowing through. Other than THE SALT EATERS, the only other book I've ever felt compelled to slam against a wall is Flannery O'Connor's WISE BLOOD. But even the latter I managed to finish and without wanting to choke somebody.

So, those are my 3. Anyone else feel like 'fessing up?

THE SUMMER ROAD TRIP . . . ATLANTA, JACKSON (MS) AND NEW ORLEANS . . . ANY USEFUL TIPS, SUGGESTIONS AND/ OR WARNINGS?

We'll be on the road this summer and headed due South, as might be expected (smile). Our first over-night stop will probably be Atlanta. I have a friend who teaches at a small liberal arts college in the area and I hope to spend at least a day, hanging out with her.

Perhaps those of your familiar with the ATL could give me a suggestion or two, as far as what "family-oriented" things we might want to see or do while we're there. Keep in mind, I'm only planning on spending ONE full day there. What bookstores might I want to visit? What restaurants might we want to try? Which civil right stops/landmarks are must-sees? I'm even open to considering those things you've heard from others. Even though my friend has been begging me to visit her for years, I've only stopped in the ATL once and that was for a brief over-night stay this past Christmas. I didn't really get to see or do anything, even though the hubby insisted we stay downtown, high atop The Peachtree, if only for the spectacular view. It was nice . . . except for the roach that greeted us upon entry into our room (LOL). In any case, since we now live so close to Atlanta, we do plan to vist more often.

After dropping the young'un off with relatives in Memphis, the hubby and I are heading for Jackson, Mississippi. Yeah, I know some of you are scratching your head and wondering: Why in the world would she wanna go there? But I bet those of you who know me well or else are familiar with Jackson, already know why. Eudora Welty, of course.

If you don't know who Eudora Welty is, well, you need to ask somebody. Better yet, Google her and then go ready her story, "Why I live at the P.O." A stranger who'd read some of my work once, told me my style kind of reminded her of Welty's. Of course, another acquaintance (an English professor) told me my style reminded her of Raymond Carver's. Yeah, go figure. Anyway, I'm going to Jackson in order to stop by Miss Welty's house and tour the gardens she tended and loved so well when she was alive. If possible, I also plan to tour the house. I'd love to see where she did her writing.

As many times as I've visited and driven through Mississippi, I've never stayed overnight. But this time, I just might. Anybody know what else there is to do in Jackson, Mississippi? Any tips on where a sister might grab a bite to eat?

After Jackson, we're headed for New Orleans. I've been to New Orleans once, but it was years ago and work related. This time I want to really see/experience New Orleans . . . or at least what's left of it post Katrina. We'll probably stay 3-4 days in the Big Easy. I love checking out historically Black college campuses, so I am planning to visit Xavier University while I'm there. But else should I do? Where should I go? What should I see?

Yeah, I know, I've got to hit The French Quarter and the Garden District, but give me some specifics, if you will. Where do I go to hear some decent jazz? Where can I get a bowl of gumbo or sample some of those pralines and beignets I always hear folks raving over? What other sites would you suggest I try and/or see? Museums? Bookstores? Haunted Houses? Cemeteries? I'm not a big fan of swamps or plantations (sorry, but a sister ain't trying to have nightmares about Mammy, Da Master and Miss Prissy and 'Nem), but for this trip, I won't completely rule them out (smile).

PUT ON SOME MARVIN (for Zora Neale, bell and me) . . . by Lori D. Johnson . . .

"Come and get me," is what the note read. Before I could get the question out of my mouth, my son Terrance pulled his face out of his bowl of cereal and supplied me with a ready answer. "Aunt Gina. She called about an hour ago." He took the note from me and flipped it over. "This is her address on the back here."

While Terrance got up to replenish his bowl, I sat down at the kitchen table with a sigh and kicked off my shoes. The last time I had seen my sister had been nearly four years ago; she had been in a night-club performing a medley of Billie Holiday and Sarah Vaughan tunes, and I had been a member of her listening audience. She'd gotten a standing ovation that night. And even though I had stood and applauded with the rest, it had really hurt me to hear the slur in Gina's voice, to see the sleepy slant of her eyes, the lazy nod of her head, and realize that not only was the girl trying to sing like a jazz and blues diva of old, but she was trying to live like one too.

Yes, she was my sister, my baby sister, and I had always wanted the best in the world for her. But no, I didn't try to stop her, even when word got back to me that she was out on the corner selling dope and her ass to support her habit. I had always known better than to think that I could make Gina do anything. If jumping off on the deep end is what the girl had made up her mind to do, that's all there was to it, and there would be no stopping her. The only thing I could do was sit back and wait for the call. And that's exactly what I had been doing for the past four years.

Yes, I had been expecting a call, but not the one carrying the good news that my sister had finally come to her senses and was ready to straighten up and fly right; and not the one with Gina's happy-go-lucky voice on the other end telling me to put on some Marvin Gaye and a pot of coffee, because she was coming over; and most certainly not the one I actually got, demanding that I come and get her. No, the call I had been expecting was the one that nearly always comes in the early hours of the morning bearing the bad news that somone you love has died.

I looked over at Terrance and thought about scolding him for eating all that cereal before dinner, but instead I asked about the phone call. "She say anything else?"

He let out a loud belch and excused himself before attempting a response. "Who? Aunt Gina? Un-uh. All she said was 'tell Gail to come and get me.' Those were her exact words. Then she gave me the address and hung up."

* * *

I pushed open the door to Gina's apartment and was almost knocked down by what I knew to be the stench of dreams gone bad.

"Whoo-we!" Terrance said as he stepped around me and clamped a hand over his nose and mouth. "Excuse my French y'all, but it smells like shit, damn and hell in here."

My son Terrance, always the comedian. I cuffed him on the back of the head and silently blamed both his tact and tasteless sense of humor on being fifteen and his father's son.

I spotted Gina seated on the bare floor between a couple of battered suitcases, and beneath a cloud of cigarette smoke. Her eyes were closed, but she nodded a greeting at us and stretched her mouth into what I suppose was an attempt at a smile. For a moment all I could do was stand and stare. The girl looked bad. Her lips were cracked and peeling. Her hair was a tangled, matted mess. And the corners of her eyes were so thick with crust, I didn't think she'd be able to open them.

When was the last time your ass saw some water is what I was tempted to scream at her. But instead I voiced a simple and calm observation of the obvious: "You look terrible."

"Yeah," she said as she took a final puff of her cigarette before snubbing it out. "Well, you'll be happy to know, I feel even worse." With a groan and a vile-sounding cough, she rose to her feet and jerked open her eyes. The gaze she shot me was hot and hazy, but the words that subsequently slid off her tongue were cool and unwavering. "So, do me a favor and spare me the lecture this time around Gail. Just take me home. Okay?"

# # #

What you just read ("Put On Some Marvin") is an excerpt from a story of mine that appeared in the Emrys Journal in the Spring of 1994. Yeah, so do I have a fascination with Marvin Gaye or what? (smile)

As always, when I review old material I see things that I would now do differently. Even so, this remains my favorite of all the stories I've written thus far. I think one of the reasons I like it so much is because I can see so much of myself in all of the characters.

I can remember reading this at the workshop I frequented in Memphis and receiving less than stellar reviews from my fellow scribblers and scribes, both the righteous and the wanna-be's. But something in my gut told me to leave the piece as it was and not tweak it too much. Sure enough, less than three weeks after I read the story, the folks from Emrys called and told me they wanted to publish it. Sometimes you've just got to step to the left of the nitpickers and the naysayers and go with what you know . . .

BRAVING THE EDGE . . . THE OSM'S SUNDAY BEST . . .

The following is one of several versions of a quote by the poet, writer, and art critic Guillaume Apollinaire (1880-1918). Apollinaire is also widely credited with coming up with the term "surrealism."

He said, "Come to the Edge."

They said, "We can't We're afraid.

He said, "Come to the Edge."

They said, "We can't. We'll fall!

He said, "Come to the Edge.

And they came.

And He pushed them.

And they flew.

Guillaume Apollinaire (1880-1918)

NAACP & BONO . . . PROOF THAT IMAGE IS EVERYTHING . . .

I'm not a fan of award shows. Nor am I much of a celebrity buff. So, sitting down in front of the tube for 2-3 hours and watching a bunch of over-paid entertainers preen, gush and compliment one another, just doesn't do a heck of a lot for me.

The main reason I watched this year's NAACP IMAGE AWARDS was for the slim possibility that my friend, DWIGHT FRYER might win in the DEBUT AUTHOR category. Of course, unless I looked away and missed it, the LITERARY AWARDS weren't even mentioned in the live telecast. Of course, an ALREADY ESTABLISHED entertainer, an ACTOR by the the name of HILL HARPER (CSI) ended up winning the LITERARY AWARD FOR DEBUT AUTHOR. Of course.

I'm not even gonna ask or attempt to explore why these two "authors" were in the same category. I will say that even my 10-year-old realizes that fiction and non-fiction are two totally different beasts and that in our star-blinded society, a vitrual unknown stands little chance against a celebrity. Though to be fair, I've heard nothing but positive things about Mr. Harper and his book.

But getting back to the show, as it drew to a close, CHRIS TUCKER took the podium and started talking about BONO'S humanitarian efforts in Africa. I know who BONO is, but I can't say I'm all that familiar with his music. I'd dare say, I couldn't name one song he's written, performed or won an award for, if my life depended on it. As admirable as I think BONO'S work in Africa is, I almost changed the channel during his segment. I'm glad I didn't.

BONO'S acceptance speech was the show's highlight and elevated my respect for him as a fellow human being and a humanitarian. He talked about how ideas, like Martin L. King's commitment to "non-violence" travel and how impressed he was as youth living in Ireland with the sacrifices made by the participants of the Civil Rights movement in the United States.

Like a good, humble award recipient, BONO thanked the NAACP and gave the organization its props for the work it did back in the day . . . and then he shucked the formalities and straight PREACHED. The following are some of the more thought-provoking lines from his speech:

"True religion will not let us fall asleep in the comfort of our freedom."

"Love thy neighbor is not a piece of advice, it's a command."

"Where you live should not decide whether you live or whether you die."

"The poor are where God lives . . . God is with us if we are with them."

In keeping with the spirit of what BONO had to say, I think it might behoove the organizers of the NAACP IMAGE AWARDS to wake up and at some point revamp their show in order to include the outstanding deeds and accomplishments of some lesser known folks. I'm not saying, step away from the celebrity spotlight altogether, because certainly, folks like BONO, SOLEDAD O'BRIEN (CNN) and HILL HARPER deserve their due.

But can't some of that love be spread around and doled out to the little guy and gal every now and then? Or am I the only who who thinks the NAACP is in desperate need of an IMAGE MAKE-OVER? Of course, not that it really matters in the larger scheme of things.

The truth is, next year I probably won't even watch the IMAGE AWARDS. But what I do expect to do in the coming weeks is go out and add some BONO to my music collection.