The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga

Dear Tiger

2009-12-02T13:10:00.000-08:00

Dear Tiger,

Like many kids in this country, when I was a boy I was always reminded not to waste food because “There are starving children in Africa who would love to have that good food.” And that brings me to you, your accident and your philanderin’ ways.

What were you thinking, man?! You made it. You didn’t just go out and get yourself a White woman. You went out and got a blonde White woman. You went out and got a beautiful, blonde White woman. I would think you could appreciate that. What else does a Black man want out of life?

I know. I know. You’re not Black. You’re Cablinasian: Caucasian, Black, Indian and Asian. But given your apparent affinity for women of the “Ca” persuasion – I ain’t seein’ no “Bl,” “In,” nor “Asian” in yo’ mix. – I think we can all agree that you’re definitely exhibiting characteristics of a Black man.

I mean, look, anybody can fall in love with anybody else, regardless of race. I respect that. No judgements.

But until a Cathy shows up (Somebody recently pointed out that a lot of Asian women are named Cathy. Thought about it. It’s true.), until a Vernita shows up (Vernita could potentially cover Black AND Indian as we know that if there’s anything Black women enjoy as much as Black men enjoy White women, it’s claimin’ they got some Indian in ‘em.), until somebody with some melanin – or, at the very least, a history of oppression - shows up in this story, I’m gonna run with the “Tiger likee da White girls” angle.

That’s okay (with me, at least), Tiger. If Jerry Springer has taught us nothing else, it is that Black men LOVE themselves some White women. And brothers ain’t all pullin’ Elin-level White women. Brothers are out here makin’ do with fat White women. Brothers are out here makin’ do with ugly White women. Brothers are latchin’ on to any kind of White woman they can get.

I think we all remember the disgrace that was Flava Flav chasing Brigitte Nielsen around on VH1. He let a White woman slap his face on the off chance that he might get to fuck her. And we ain’t talkin’ about Elin. We are talkin’ about Brigitte Nielsen. Man, I wouldn’t fuck Brigitte Nielsen with Brigitte Nielsen’s dick!

Don’t you see, Tiger?! This is what brothers are going through out here to get themselves a White woman, any White woman.

Tiger... Don’t you know there are starvin’ niggas out here who would love to have that good White woman?!

How dare you take that White woman for granted. Seriously. You just want to hog up all the White women: your wife, the one who’s covering for you, the one who sold you out on the sexting. (Aside: I was glad you went with “I will wear you out…” No sense adding the humiliation of some Prince Charles-style “I want to be your tampon”-type shit. But I digress.)

Don’t you know there are starvin’ niggas out here who would love to have that good White woman?!

I don’t think Elin and that 9-iron caused you to crash. I believe that the ghost of Emmitt Till stepped in and said, “Muthafucka, I died so you could have that good White woman!” SLAM! BAM! (Tree then hydrant…? Lynchings then hosings…? Can’t slip that shit past me.)

Don’t you know there are starvin’ niggas out here who would love to have that good White woman?!

That stupid fine they gave you was bullshit. Points on your license? A fucking joke. If I had my way, I would throw you in a cell with OJ and let you unappreciative bastards think about what you’ve done! Y’all get your hands on perfectly good White women and don’t know how to act.

So, as you dial the number for Kobe’s jeweler, I want you to remember the brothers out here who don’t have it nearly as good as you do. Before you take Elin for granted again, remember the brothers who ignore loose screws and plastic shoes. Before you show off what you can do with your driver, remember the brothers who endure overbites and cellulite. Before you whip out another wood, Mr. Woods, remember Brigitte Nielsen's dick!

Tiger, before you drain your ball in another hole, remember there are starving brothers in America who would love to have that good White woman.

XOXO,
NMN

Dear Michael

2009-07-07T11:20:00.000-07:00

Dear Michael,

I write to you directly because no one else is making any sense. Folk are hysterical in the wake of your death. People who have experienced the same media coverage are equally upset: on one side that you have been unduly exalted, on the other that you have been unfairly maligned. You spent your adult years building and enjoying a zoo and a carnival. Now, appropriately, they’ve turned your memorial service into a circus.

I think that’s too bad, Mike. I think that if we could really talk about you, your life, your death… I think we’d be a better nation, a better world for it.

Mike… how do I say this…? I’ll just say it.

Your face is an American tragedy. There, I said it. At first, it seemed like a matter of racial pride. You wouldn’t be the first American to get at the ol’ schnoz in an attempt to get closer to America’s idea of beauty. Nappy hair, wide nose, full lips… these were not the ideal when you were born in 1958. A lot of people over the years have been hurt by society’s collective verdict of, “You’re ugly.” But you, Michael Jackson, could do something about it. You could afford the surgeries. You could afford to lighten your skin. (Shit, man, you could afford the Elephant Man’s bones. What the fuck would some hospital bill mean to you?) But the sad part about that is that you were never forced to the next step: acceptance. Because you never ran into a limit, you never learned that making yourself beautiful is fleeting whereas seeing your own beauty is real. Some people grin from ear to ear. Dude, my nose is so wide I breathe from ear to ear. But, that’s cool. That’s MY nose. I had to learn to live with it. You never did.

And that leads me to what I find saddest about your life and the inevitable tragedy of your death. You never had any real limits. You could sing any song. You could dance any dance. And so you could do ANYthing. It seems no one could regulate you. In short, you never had any boys.

See, your boys can be critically important, Mike. They can help you not to color so far outside the lines that the portrait of your life becomes a chaotic mess.

Your boys might have been able to save your life. “Dip—Dipr-- Nigga, you don’t need no doctor. Hit this blunt and go the fuck to sleep.” (Now, you don’t want to be dependent on any substance to go to sleep. But nobody ever died from smoking weed… unless they choked on a Dorito.)

Your boys might have clowned you for lightening your skin. “Dude, if you tryin’a be white, just use full sentences.” You could have all laughed together as you got the message. And, maybe then, I wouldn’t have paused on a picture of you as a young man and thought for a split-second, “Who the fuck is that?” Then, “Oh shit. That’s Michael Jackson.” The brown of then was so far from the cement gray of your dying day.

Your boys might have said, “What you mean (pre-pubescent boy) is spending the night?!?! Send that boy down to the guest house with his parents and get dressed. We goin’ to the club tonight.” “Fine, you can bring Bubbles. We’ll teach him how to make it rain.”

Or, who knows? Maybe they would’ve told you to get rid of the chimp after it bit a hole in Rashida Jones’ (Quincy Jones’ daughter) hand. (That’s what I mean. Who gets to keep their pet monkey after it attacks a child?!?!?!?! Only you, Mike. Only you.)

What a mind-fuck it must have been… Even your brothers were in no position to be your boys. You were their meal ticket. All that groupie ass they was gettin’ - with you pretending to be asleep - that was your groupie ass, Michael. And they knew it. Even as men, how could they really regulate you one moment then beg you to do a reunion tour in the next? Without you, Michael, The Jacksons would have been the stuff of Indiana talent show legend. They had to know that. And so, your brothers couldn’t be your boys.

Your boys are the people who know the real you. But, perhaps more importantly, they remind you of who you really are in the moments when you forget. But even as a child, those around you robbed you OF YOU. If there’s a basic way kids identify themselves it is by their age. Early on, you were taught to lie, to say you were younger, to construct a self for public consumption. And consume we did.

We exalted you for transcending race. And so, in a nation where a Black man could once be lynched for looking at a White woman, you showed them. You became a White woman. You transformed yourself right before our eyes. Then you seemed to go past even that extreme point. You widdled your nose down until it was no more, bleached your skin until it no longer resembled a human shade, made yourself a blank slate onto which the world could project its own hopes and dreams, its own neuroses and pathologies. Pictures in tabloids suggested that your nose actually fell off at one point. I wonder if that wasn’t an apt metaphor for the inevitable end when we seek to transcend race, to erase our differences. Perhaps it would be more constructive to embrace that which makes us different, to love each other not despite our differences but, in part, because of them.

We pretended that it might be possible for you to live out childhood as an adult. The tragedy of childhood lost is that it is lost. It cannot simply be purchased. To be sure, we can be child-like in our presence in the moment. We can live life with open hearts and open arms. But we must accept that we are doing those things as adults. Your boys could have helped you understand that. They could have explained that many of us missed out on pieces of childhood, that our prisons are filled with people who were abused in one way or another. Then, they could have explained that, generally speaking, nobody gives a shit. But for you, Mike, that lost childhood became blanket absolution for everything from dangling your own child off a balcony to inviting boys into your bedroom, potentially an equally perilous situation.

Your boys could have stopped you when you started to run from the hospital with your newborn child and said, “What the fuck are you doing?” This may come as a shock, but most of us aren’t allowed to do crazy shit like that. There are rules. But not for you, Mike. Never for you.

Recently, I wrote to an online forum and asked this question:

From Chris Brown getting probation to R. Kelly getting barely inconvenienced to Michael Jackson being deified... Is there any wrong that can't be made right by a hit record?

Let me tell you, Mike… Those niggas attacked me like I had invented slavery or somethin’. And so the special treatment you received in life extends into death. Any adult approach to your life and legacy is met with emotional defense based on theories ranging from racial conspiracy to childhood lost. People wax poetic about their love for you as they gaze upon a brown-faced boy and ignore the desaturated man, a man drained of far more than the color of his skin.

They will pretend you hadn’t alternated between punchline and freak show in the decades since “Thriller.” They will pop in their ear buds and allow “You Are Not Alone” to drown out the reality of the situation; You were all alone. Even as hundreds of thousands filled arenas to see you, you were - in a fundamental way – alone.

And so, in this final hour, I will be your boy. I will tell you that all pedophile punchlines aside, that every time you had some intergenerational, one-on-one slumber party, you were fucking up.

I will tell you that you probably should have lost your kids behind that balcony shit. And, if not then, certainly you should have lost them as you descended into what seems to have been an absurd level of drug addiction. I have no doubt you loved your kids. But you were fucking up.

When you came to court in what one CNN reporter called your “Cap’n Crunch” outfit, you were fucking up.

Mike, over the years, you did a lot of fucking up. And I just wish you had some boys – some real boys – who could have told you so and stemmed the tide. It didn’t have to go this way. Your life didn’t have to go this way. Your face didn’t have to go this way.

I’m reminded of one of my favorite “street jokes”:

A bird was late flying South for the winter. So, his wings froze up and he fell through the roof of a barn. A cow took a shit on him and the warmth of the shit melted the ice from his wings. But then a cat came along, licked the shit away and ate the bird.

Lesson: Not everybody who shits on you is your enemy. And not everybody who takes shit off you is your friend.

We took so much shit off you, Michael. We looked the other way as you played a major role in normalizing plastic surgery, telling the world with your own face that there was a solution to be found at the end of a scalpel. We looked the other way as you abused drugs and maybe boys, too. We looked the other way, Michael, because you were SO talented and your music made us feel SO good.

But today, I can’t look the other way. I find myself mourning that brown-skinned boy, a boy I started mourning long before your final breath. I mourn the man you could have become. I mourn the loss of pure enjoyment I could have experienced – remembering days of wearing a single white glove, perfecting my moonwalk, singing “Lady In My Life” in a talent show - because the sound of your music invariably leads me to thoughts of the man behind the music.

Many continue to look away, to cherry-pick amongst the events of your life. But I can’t look away. I find myself facing some harsh realities. I find myself staring at some hilarious absurdities. I’ve set my DVR to record your memorial because I simply can’t look away.

And as I watch, I mourn for a world that allowed you to happen, a world where fame “trumps” all. (Pun unintended, but allowed to remain.) I mourn for a world that will refuse to learn the lessons we could salvage from a tragic death and the life which led to it. I mourn for a world where you could never have boys, Michael. I mourn for a world that did that to your face.

RIP,
NMN

NMN On Rhianna

2009-03-26T18:53:00.000-07:00

I was just on MySpace and saw that a comic I know is "friends" with Rhianna. I chuckled. I decided I would "friend" her too. A notice popped up that said "Rhianna does not accept friend requests from comedians."

For those keeping score at home, that's woman beaters: yes, comedians: no.

I don't make the news. I just report it.

Smiles, everyone. Smiles.

2009-02-24T09:36:00.000-08:00

If you can make it to the Valley on Wednesday night, I hear this is the hot new room for comedy. Check it out.

SUPPORT BLACK BUSINESS! Come see my shows.

Black History Month

2009-02-03T15:12:00.000-08:00

It is hereby declared that Black History Month is cancelled indefinitely on account of there being a Black President.

"Did you know (some Black person) invented the soap dish?" just doesn't pack the same punch it used to.

As you were.

XOXO,
NMN

Today

2009-01-20T12:33:00.000-08:00

"Just waking up in the mornin'/gotta thank God/I don't know/but today seems kind'a odd..."
- Ice Cube, IT WAS A GOOD DAY

My Dearest Niglets,

"Today was a good day" as Ice Cube once said. Strange that we started today with "Tomorrow." You probably won't remember by the time you're reading this. So, let me explain. You see Mrs. NMN (aka Mommy) bought us all tickets to go see "Annie" this past weekend. And since we walked out of that theater all you've wanted is for us to sing "Tomorrow" to you. This morning, Mommy burned a CD and we listened to it on repeat all the way to school.

I thought about the play - all the talk of tough times and the need for hope - as we drove by all the "For Sale" signs that punctuate this landscape, this moment in our country's history. I thought about the play and considered that it is "The Hard Knock Life" for us as a nation today, with people getting laid-off, companies closing and retirement being snatched from beneath so many as men and women die in wars that were ill-conceived and poorly executed.

But as I glanced into the rearview mirror and looked at your serene faces, as you enjoyed the music, I mostly thought of sitting in that theater together. I thought of you, my dear Niglette, sucking your fingers on my lap nodding your head to the music. I thought of Mommy shushing you, Niglet, as you declared, "I don't like Mrs. Hannigan." And I thought of the warm feeling in my chest when I considered that we were sharing one of those memory moments, the kind your grandmother gave me many yesterdays ago. Saturday was good day.

"Look at this beautiful Black family." On Monday, we went down to Martin Luther King Blvd. to watch the parade. The calendar may have said King Holiday, but Barack Obama got at least equal billing. The smiles were as bright as the California sun. And the faces were every shade of the human rainbow. And as we walked up Crenshaw Blvd., rushing to claim our spot, a woman smiled at us from the bus stop and said, "Look at this beautiful Black family." The Obamas have made beautiful Black families chic. And as we hoisted you onto our shoulders to watch the marching bands, Korean drummers and stepping fraternities, I realized I've never been so excited to be in style. Monday was a good day.

Today, in the midst of brushing teeth and getting dressed and eating breakfast and getting out the door on time, I pulled the two of you into our room to watch CNN. Your usual Sprout shows would have to be missed today. I needed to point to the TV and ask, "Who's that?" I needed to hear you say, "Obama!" I needed to include you today in an event I never thought would come in a million tomorrows. I doubt you'll remember what inauguration means, but I hope some piece of you always remembers that anything is possible for you in this country. That has never been clearer to me than it is today.

Today is a "tomorrow" that we all had to "hang on" eight years to see, a tomorrow for which so many hung on much longer than that, a tomorrow for which, tragically, some had to hang.

Today, a message of hope was vindicated, vanquishing a message of fear.

Today, I raced back home to hear the first words of President Barack Hussein Obama.

Today, I was inspired.

Today, I listened to "Tomorrow" on a loop just to make you happy, glancing into a rearview mirror and seeing the future.

Today was a good day.

XOXO,
NMN (aka Papa)

CAN YOU BARACK IT LIKE THIS?

2008-11-05T14:32:00.000-08:00

“There won’t never be no Black President!” I’ve said it and I know I wasn’t the only one. No, I’ve heard many speak of Jesse Jackson or Shirley Chisolm and the importance of their campaigns. But the significance was always symbolic. Never did anyone really believe that they would become President of the United States. There won’t never be no Black President! That was my belief.

I woke up this morning. The sun seemed to be shining just a little bit brighter. I thought it was me, but then one of my boys called. When I told him about my observation, he told me he was driving to a meeting and had noticed that the sky was a most beautiful blue. I’m sure you can guess what was going on; a new day has dawned.

There won’t never be no Black President! This ain’t South Africa. Black people ain’t the majority. Shit, I was surprised that with White people voting, they let a Black woman walk off with a million dollars at the end of the second season of “Survivor.” A Black President?! Of the United States?! Come on, man. Ridiculous.

There won’t never be no Black President! Yet there I sat last night, my children up after their bedtime because I didn’t want them to miss this. The impossible was becoming possible before my eyes. Pennsylvania… one nail in the coffin. Ohio… another. For weeks I’d been saying that I didn’t just think Barack Obama would win, but that he would crush, leave absolutely no doubt. But as Tuesday progressed and I waited for the numbers to come in, I started remembering all the reasons why this was impossible.

There won’t never be no Black President! I thought of a friend who relayed a staggering “Facebook” story. He’s Black. He’d gone to school with White kids. One girl, in particular, had harassed him on the school bus. She’d called him a nigger… repeatedly. And though others – including the bus driver – didn’t join in her chorus, they did nothing to stop her from spewing her hate. This wasn’t Selma in the 60’s. This was New York in the ‘80’s. Oddly, that girl – now a woman – sent him a friend request on Facebook recently. I couldn’t help but laugh the laugh born of agony when I read his email about the whole thing. “This is a metaphor for America,” I thought. “He’s supposed to forget she called him a nigger and be friends. After all, she’s forgotten.”

There won’t never be no Black President! Shit, a Black man can’t even pick up his wallet without the NYPD blasting him with forty-one reminders of where he stands in this country. A Black man can’t have a bachelor party without being reminded of the same. President?! Amadou Diallo and Sean Bell would find it laughable… except they’re dead.

There won’t never be no Black President! Yet, there I sat watching Wolf Blitzer count down to the closing of the polls in the West Coast. I’m a numbers guy. The numbers were adding up, but… It couldn’t be. And then… they called it. Barack Hussein Obama would be the 44th President of the United States. A friend who’d stopped by shed a few tears. I cheered… I think. I don’t totally remember. Another friend refused to celebrate, sure it was too soon, sure that something could still go wrong. But there it was on the screen before us, for all to see… President-Elect Barack Obama. Then it hit me.

There won’t never be no Black President! There will only be a President who is Black. That may seem like an irrelevant distinction. But it makes all the difference in the world.

Barack Obama’s story is not simply the story of Black America. It is the story of America. It is a story of immigration and integration that captures the imagination. It is a story of the heartland meeting the motherland and making love.

Barack Obama’s story was penned by Horatio Alger AND Maya Angelou. Barack Obama’s story captures the dream that is America and places it within a slim frame, behind a charming smile and gives it an eloquence that would make Dr. King say, “You better preach.”

There won’t never be no Black president! As I watched celebrations - planned and spontaneous - around the country, I didn’t see Black America. I saw America. I saw the bright-eyed hope of fights to be fought in the future and the wrinkled faces of battles lost and won in the past. I saw the children of Asia and Europe and South America and, yes, Africa. I saw men and women. I saw gay and straight. (You can’t tell people are gay by looking at them, but that was a lot of people. There had to be some gay people in there somewhere.)

There won’t never be no Black President! But not for the reasons I imagined. There won’t never be no Black President because the country doesn’t need one. We need a President who speaks to and calls on what unites us, not what divides us. We need a President who inspires many of my friends, none of whom were Black, to text me with messages like “HNIC, baby!”

We need a President who will inspire my friend who is a blonde White woman to call me last night in a state of absolute euphoria to report that “your borough is rockin’.” Spontaneously, Brooklyn had taken to the streets and DeKalb Avenue was alive with the joy of the NEW “real America.” (Bye bye now, Sarah!) In that America a White woman from Boston finds herself literally “dancing in the streets,” as the old Motown hit once said, as a drumming circle provides the beat. She reported that the celebration was so wild that the buses couldn’t run. So, to clear the street. They got on the bus and celebrated with the passengers. No one had to sit in the back of that bus. No one sat at all. America had stood up to the politics of hate and division and on that bus, on that night, they all jumped to their feet to celebrate.

There won’t never be no Black President?! A friend sent me this email on election day:

My dad…

Just turned 79.

He voted for Eisenhower. Twice.

He voted for Nixon. Twice. Yikes! (He admits he regrets it)

He voted for Goldwater.

He voted for Ford.

He voted for Reagan. Twice.

He voted for Bush Sr. Twice.

He voted for Bob Dole.

He voted for W. Twice. Yeesh. (He was dissapointed with W)

But this morning he voted for Obama.

Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks? Hope really is alive and well in America today!

There won’t never be no Black President?! We don’t need one. We need a president who will inspire “an old dog” to learn some new tricks. We need a President who will inspire a Black grandmother in North Carolina to weep as she stands in line to exercise her right to the ballot, crying because she “knows now why God kept me around so long.”

We need a President who makes a point of including gay Americans in his victory speech. We need a President who goes out of his way to pronounce the names of leaders and nations correctly. We need a President who so obviously adores his family that I find myself wondering whether Theo and Vanessa will be moving to The White House with them.

We don’t need a Black President. We need a President who is of the people, who was elected by the people, and who will be for the people. Only time will tell if Barrack Obama can be all of that once he resides at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. But I believe. And I rejoice that I’m not the only one. My apologies, America. I got this one wrong.

There won’t never be no Black President?! We don’t need a Black President. We need a President who calls on the best of who we are and the greatest of what we can be. And if that person should happen to have two X chromosomes or almond shaped eyes or a turban or a life-partner of the same sex or a name we have some difficulty pronouncing, we now know that we are capable, as a nation, of “learning new tricks,” of placing the best person in the highest office in the land. This time around many of us feel we found that person. His name happens to be Barack Hussein Obama. He happens to be Black. And he happens to be the next President of the United States of America.

it ain't no joke

2008-09-23T15:47:00.000-07:00

Featuring some of the funniest comics on the LA scene:

Ed Greer
HOLLYWOOD IMPROV, THE NEW BREED COMEDY SHOWCASE

Earl Skakel
WORLD FAMOUS COMEDY STORE, HOLLYWOOD IMPROV

Tim Babb
2008 BOSTON COMEDY FESTIVAL, THE ICE HOUSE (PASDAENA, CA), SAN JOSE IMPROV

And your boy...

Orlando Bishop
WORLD FAMOUS COMEDY STORE, HOLLYWOOD IMPROV

Come out and join us as...

What A Joke

2008-09-17T11:23:00.001-07:00

Wanna know what I think? I think that Sarah Palin is a joke. There, I said it. I think that she has lied directly to the American people. And all I hear is that she's a maverick. ("I do not think that means what you think it means.") She has taken federal money without reservation or conscience. She has lobbied for those dollars. I think it's fitting that she supported the "Bridge to Nowhere" because when it comes to Sarah Palin, I think there's no there there.

I think that all sorts of contortions are being done to justify voting for a ticket that promises to run this country further into the ground. If nothing else, Republicans are supposed to be about the money. Meanwhile these Republican clowns - following the Bush Doctrine! - have depleted our economy to the point where financial pillars that have stood for over a century are crumbling into the gutters of Wall Street on a daily basis.

I don't criticize Sarah Palin because she has five kids or chose to have a child with Down's Syndrome. I criticize her because she claims to have gone places she didn't go to manufacture experience and knowledge she doesn't have. And so what if she can see Russia from her house?! My buddy can see Dodger Stadium from his house, that don't make him no center fielder.

I did not vote for Alan Keyes. Why? Because, though he is Black, I can think of few people in this country I find more politically and personally reprehensible. I support Barack Obama because he is a candidate I believe in. And I resent the insinuation that he simply won the Democractic nomination because of sexism. Did sexism have its primary ahead of schedule? And while I'm on Obama and all the hell he's caught re: sexism... What did he actually do or say that was sexist? Yes, the media may have been out of line on various occasions. But I keep asking what Barack actually did and I get these vague stares and mumbling, meandering responses.

But I digress. The point is that Sarah Palin is the poster child for White privilege. (Tim Wise broke this down like an organic compound. Check out that article: http://www.redroom.com/blog/tim-wise/this-your-nation-white-privilege) I wish that there were a Shaqualanda Obama sitting there pregnant with a thug boyfriend. Would our nation be so respectful of a family's privacy then? Oh... give me a break.

You know what I say to a nation that would vote for McCain/Palin? Well, then you deserve them. Go on. Cut off your nose to spite your uterus. I know doctors. Should a family member ever be in trouble, I'm sure I'll be able to work out a quiet little deal. But what of all those who won't have those relationships. How dare Sarah Palin bemoan her right to a private family decision as she poises herself to rob every American of that same right.

Lipstick? No, that's not the difference. The difference between Sarah Palin and a pitbull is that there is no reason that the pitbull should know better than to kill people whether with elective war, wire hangers or the poverty that will sweep this nation if unregulated companies are allowed to continue their unconscionable money-grab that is subsidized by government bail-outs. Go on. Vote for McCain/Palin. "Bomb, bomb, bomb. Bomb, bomb, Iran." And let Blackwater reap the rewards. Way to support the troops! What are people thinking?!

Sarah Palin is a joke. They say that comedy is just tragedy plus time. But this time around it will be comedy plus time that equals tragedy. What a joke. That's what I think.

Funny, like "haha" funny

2008-08-13T15:32:00.001-07:00

Your boy will be on stage, in LA, twice next week. For those who will be around, come out and check me out. Here are the details:

Thursday, August 21, 2008
8:00 PM
White Boy Comedy @ Room 5
143 N. La Brea Ave.
Los Angeles, CA 90069
Cost: $10 cash (credit cards accepted inside)

Friday, August 22, 2008
9:00 PM
Funni Fridays @ The Comedy Store (The Belly Room)
8433 Sunset Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90069
Cost: $5

SUPPORT BLACK BUSINESS! Come see my shows.

XOXO,
NMN

"I ain't scared of you muthafuckas!" RIP Bernie Mac

WHERE DO YOU GET THE BALLS?!

2008-07-10T13:34:00.000-07:00

First of all… fuck Jesse Jackson! Now, to be sure this is not the first time I’ve made that declaration and - knowing Jesse and myself - it probably won’t be the last. But I had to get this out before it made my fucking head explode.

Here’s what Jesse had to say – or should I say whisper – when he thought the Fox mics had been turned off:

“See, Barack been, um, talkin’ down to Black people on this faith based… I wanna cut his nuts off.” (video below, with CNN discussion starring - who else? - Rev. Al)

Now first of all, Jesse, Barack is not the one talking down to Black people. You are. Barack, in the Father’s Day address that seems to have brought on this murderous rage, acknowledged that our government and our society can and must do better when it comes to the plight of Black people in this country. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hnd5zZR19UE) But he made an additional point. He said that which many Black people think and say throughout this country on a daily basis: We need to get our shit together.

He said “us” not “you.” And it was a message of love; Tough love is love, too. I’ll put it in my own words. “Nigga, if you was man enough to lay down and make a baby, then you need to be man enough to stand up and raise a child.” I don’t give a fuck if you or anybody else doesn’t want to hear it. That’s true spit. It’s not talking down to people to hold them accountable for their behavior. It is talking down to people to absolve them of personal responsibility because of societal ills.

Obama didn’t mock, insult or belittle. He just told it like it is. That’s not talking down to people. That’s treating people like adults, something which no segment of the American population gets very much of from our public officials. (If they can get married, that’ll make everybody gay!!! They hate us for our freedom!!! No gas tax this summer. Problem solved!!!)

But I understand why you might be a little sensitive. (Hey, Jesse! It’s 2008, do you know where your children are?!) Maybe somebody should have cut off your nuts before you had a chance to add to the depressing statistics to which Senator Obama referred. I mean, seriously, you fixed your sanctimonious mouth to talk about cutting Obama’s nuts off?!?!?!

WHERE DO YOU GET THE BALLS?

In a nation where strange fruit has always been in season, how dare you make such a callous and utterly ignorant reference. If Don Imus had said this shit, you, Rev. Al and the rest of the Boycott Brigade would be out beating pans and talking shit – which seems to be all you ever do anymore. But nobody brings up the political and historical significance of even suggesting that you want to castrate the most prominent Black man in America at this moment. I don’t care if you apologized. You aren’t sorry for what you said. You’re sorry because the mic was hot. Fuck you! And fuck any and all muthafuckas who will try to excuse what you’ve said.

WHERE DO YOU GET THE BALLS?

You want to cut Obama’s nuts off?! For what? For saying that Black men in this country can and must do better than they’ve done? You accused Obama of “acting White” when he wouldn’t be your puppet in reacting to the Jena 6. Where were you and Rev. Al when R. Kelly went free? I ain’t never been called a “nappy headed ho.” But I am going to assume that it ain’t nearly as bad as being pissed on by a statutory rapist. Yeah… I’m sure you’ll both be part of the standing ovation he will get when he wins his NEXT Image Award. I heard Barack Obama ask a congregation full of Black women if they need help. And I heard those women respond with a resounding, “YES!” Well, the truth is far too many of us are only looking to help Black women out of their panties. I agree with Senator Obama that they need a lot more help than that. My wife and kids couldn’t agree more.

I was in a Black comedy club one night and said, “I have two kids… by the same woman… my wife… which makes me a double minority.” OOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH… you should’a seen how those niggas turned on me. And I say to them what I say to you on Barack Obama’s behalf, “I don’t make the news. I just report it.” It’s time for brothers to be called out on their bullshit. I’m tired of hearing about rappers and athletes and garden-variety niggas from around the way who have 6 kids by 7 mamas. (That’s not a typo. That’s a math joke. I like math jokes. Does that mean I’m acting white too?!)

We wring our hands about the problem of “single mothers.” But when do we cut the bullshit and admit that the single mothers are not the problem? Absentee fathers are the problem. The absolution starts before the discussion begins.

Of course R. Kelly wasn’t convicted for pissing on a Black girl. That’s nothing next to a community that has shit on Black girls for generations.

WHERE DO YOU GET THE BALLS?

Who the fuck are you to dictate to Barack Obama what his beliefs should be about anything? You ran your campaigns. That was over in 1988. The flat-top was an acceptable hairstyle. I suggest with intended disrespect that you, your world view and your strategies are as relevant as the ol’ “box cut.” I just wish you would follow its lead and go the fuck away.

I keep asking where you get the balls to talk about cutting Obama’s nuts off. But it strikes me that you don’t have the balls to cut off his nuts… not even figuratively. And that’s why he stands, his own man, with a serious shot at becoming President of the United States… while you stand for nothing, having become a fucking joke.

No Big Deal

2008-06-05T07:28:00.000-07:00

Dear Senator Obama,

You are the first Black person to be the Presidential nominee of a major American party. But I’m here to tell you… That’s no big deal.

Oh, I’ve listened to the conjecture, the pontifications, the declarations of what it would mean historically to have a Black nominee and possibly a Black president. Everybody seems to think it will be a great day for the Black man if you win. I’m not so sure.

You see, there’s been a lot of brothers out there skatin’ on some ol’ “The man’s keepin’ me down, I can’t get a job” shit. Can you imagine the shit they are going to have to take from their women the morning after the election?

Well, well, well… Michelle Obama’s man got a fuckin’ job! He’s President. Maybe you heard. Surely you can run yo’ ass down to Popeye’s and serve up some number threes, muthafucka!

Great?! For the nigga who has to listen to that shit, you becoming President is the worst thing that could ever happen.

Everybody’s saying it’s a big deal that you’re the first Black nominee. A year ago, you wasn’t even Black. Or, at least, you weren’t Black enough. Remember those days. It seems like just yesterday I was scratching my head wondering why all anybody could talk about was how you were raised by White folks and your daddy wasn’t even Black; He was AFRICAN! Obama ain’t really Black, that was the word. But before I knew it, you were too Black. Am I Wright?

Now, when Dr. King was killed in 1968 many wondered if The Dream died with him. Then, 20 years later, in 1988, Jesse Jackson’s – largely symbolic – Presidential campaign reminded us that, though progress had been made, The Dream had been deferred. But 20 years later, in 2008, I don’t see you as the realization of The Dream. In 2008, 20 years after “Run, Jesse, Run” and 40 years after Dr. King’s assassination, I see you as the evolution of The Dream – an evolution that has occurred at a revolutionary rate. 45 years after Dr. King articulated his Dream on a hot August day in 1963, under the watchful eye of Abraham Lincoln – who had 100 years before that given this nation the Emancipation Proclamation in 1863 – you stand, not simply a free man, but potentially the leader of the Free World. (Is it just me or is “Leader of The Free World” about as presumptuous as Americans be?)

And how have you gotten to this point? Paradoxically, you may boldly go where no Black man has gone before by not running as a Black man. You have run simply as Barack Obama. You never denied your blackness. (Did you and Michelle really do a fist bump on stage last night? Wow… [http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/politics/chi-barack-obama-fist-bump-080605-ht,0,4475001.story] ) But you never allowed your blackness to define you.

I didn’t think that was possible. I’ve said since watching Jesse’s campaigns that “There won’t never be a Black President of the United States!” And here you go now, poised to make me eat my words.

I was so sure that you wouldn’t even get to sniff victory in the Presidential election that I nominated you for another position, H.N.I.C. (http://musingsnmn.blogspot.com/2007/02/hnic.html) I figured you’d be available. And guess what? You won that election. Though, to give you some sense of my readership, you were challenged by Jay-Z and Tyrone Biggums. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=orE15Ijztt0&feature=related)

I figured at some point, you would wrap up your candidacy and Head Nigga In Charge would make a fine fall-back plan even if you’re a no-nigga-sayin’ brother which I would guess you are. I figured that joke was just sitting out there waiting to be told. But month after month, primary after primary, caucus after caucus, you persevered and, finally, became your party’s “presumptive nominee.” I guess the joke was on me.

I watched your celebration. I watched you deliver your historic speech. And there on the bed beside me were my kids, those little niglets I love so much. I listened to you speak and thought, “Maybe we can leave them the world in better shape than we found it in.” (Though, given the way kids tear up all nice things, I don’t know why I even worry about that.)

I don’t want to be one of those people who puts all their hopes and dreams on you. Should you win, the story of your Presidency will not begin with “Once upon a time…” nor will it end with “…happily ever after.” The rivers won’t overflow with Hennessy. Kool-Aid won’t rain down from the sky.

To be sure, there will be another Sean Bell. AIDS will still be running through our communities like the common cold. And then, there’ always R. Kelly. (sigh) The country at large will still be held captive by the oil companies for the foreseeable future. Getting out of Iraq will not be nearly as easy as going in was. Life will still have its difficulties.

But maybe – just maybe – if the land of the free and the home of the slave can overcome its ugly past, we can truly get to the day of which I’ve heard you speak, a day when we move from the red state/blue state paradigm to a purple America, a day when we move past an outdated Black/White paradigm to one that acknowledges and embraces all the hues of living color across this nation and the world. Maybe – just maybe – one day I’ll tell my kids that I put them on that bed next to me because I wanted them to share a moment I never thought I’d live to see, a Black man securing the Democratic nomination for President of the United States. And they’ll look at me quizzically – as I looked at my mother and wondered how they even had baseball teams without Black people - and ask, “What was the big deal?”

I imagine - though I’ll try to provide context - that on a basic level, I’ll be stumped. What was the big deal? I had challenged myself for some time not to choose my candidate early, not to vote for you because we have our race in common. I listened. And I liked what you had to say. It is time for change. Yes, as a matter of fact, we can. I do think diplomacy should be fully attempted before military solutions are employed. I came to support you independent of your skin color.

So, it may be a stretch for me to say that your historic nomination is no big deal. But I think the bigger deal is that you reminded A New Millennium Nigga not of the old millennium yesterday that made it a big deal, but of the possibility of a new millennium tomorrow when a Black man, or a White woman (Hillary deserves some love for what she did here, too.), or a wheelchair-bound agnostic lesbian running for the highest office in the land will be no big deal at all.

That part of me that lives with that yesterday feels compelled to call you my “brother” and celebrate this as a very big deal. But the part of me that wants to join you in that tomorrow feels compelled to call you my “fellow American” and celebrate that this is no big deal at all.

XOXO,
NMN

p.s. Hillary’s cool and all, but we all know I should be your Vice-President.

Getting To No You

2008-01-07T20:57:00.000-08:00

Your boy's directorial debut.

Starring: Quddus Philippe & Natalie Wachen

We Are One

2007-11-28T13:11:00.000-08:00

Sean Taylor is dead. And I'm sad to say that it didn't make me sad. I was not shocked. I did not find myself searching to make sense of a senseless loss of life. I simply listened to the words of a friend and said, "He died?" It was more of a twist than a shock, the equivalent of encountering rain on a day when the weather was supposed to be sunny. Sean Taylor, a 24 year old Black man, a safety -- I'll refrain from expounding on the irony of a "safety" being shot and killed in his own home -- a Washington Redskin, a father, a long-term boyfriend, a son, a brother, a friend, had died. "Oh well," I thought, "I should check my email." That was essentially it. Then I thought, "What the hell has happened to me?"

I cried when Tupac died. I cried real tears. The loss hit me in a way so powerful that I still remember that it was Friday the 13th. Friday, September 13th. It is filed away in my mind and it appears on my personal calendar...along with March 9th, the day Biggie died.

I don't know the exact date that Jam Master Jay was killed. But I do remember that it was near Halloween. I remember because a close friend called and asked if I thought it would be weird if he dressed as Jay for Halloween that year. "Are you doing it as a joke?," I asked. He answered quickly, "Nah...not at all." My advice was concise. "Well, if people ask, tell them that. And if they don't like it, tell them to suck your fuckin' dick." I wore shell toe Adidas, a hoodie and a leather jacket -- the look Jay introduced to Run DMC and then the world. Yeah, it was definitely around Halloween.

I haven't written a Musing in a while. I've thought about it many times. But somehow I couldn't capture succinctly what it was that I wanted to share. I suspect that may still be the case, so I pray you'll stay with me, New Millennium Nation.

You see, it is not that I haven't written because I have nothing to say. In fact, I have so much I want to say that I have not been able to effectively organize it. I've seen the story of the Black woman in West Virginia who was held and tortured for a week (http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/09/10/woman.tortured/index.html?section=cnn_latest) by six White people. I've read the story of Christopher Newsom, Jr. and Channon Christian, the White couple from Knoxville, TN, who were abducted, raped, tortured and murdered by four men and a woman, all of whom were Black. (http://www.snopes.com/politics/crime/newsom.asp) I've read of these atrocities and more -- every day, more, it seems -- and I have wanted to write this simple message.

Back in the late Spring, I was sitting in the rocking chair in my kids' bedroom, watching them play. I was tired -- I'm always tired, it seems -- so I was sitting quietly and letting the twins do their thing. Then, as I gazed down at my daughter, a moment occurred that has left me forever changed. I experienced what I can only describe as a glimpse of "The Truth." Suddenly, I was aware that my late mother was there with me and my daughter. But I knew in that moment -- not in my head, but in that deep "I know that I know" place -- that we were not three distinct entities. "We are one." The message was clear. The beauty of the moment was unspeakable. And just like that...it was over. But I had "seen" it. Like Neo seeing the Matrix. Like Luke using The Force. I had seen it, The Truth. We are one.

Now, I don't mean that in a touchy-feely "Can't we all just get along?" way. I mean quite literally that we are all basically and fundamentally connected to one another. I had glimpsed The Truth that produced the idea that "everything is everything." I remembered a lyric I had written.

I know we call it joy
when we send the praise up
but I'll be feelin' no joy
'til we all raise up
and it ain't all about race
as seen by my eye
'cause if everything is everything
then race is a lie

Yes, a lie. We're living a lie. Many lies really. Many lies which all conspire to tell one giant lie. Separation. The very idea that men and women...Blacks and Whites...Koreans and the Chinese...Christians and Muslims...Muslims and Jews...Jews and Christians...all three of those groups and atheists...Democrats and Republicans...liberals and conservatives...Coke people and Pepsi people..."American football" fans and "soccer/football" fans...Ginger guys and Mary Ann guys...lightskinneded niggas and darkskinneded niggas...Yankee fans and Red Sox fans...Crips and Bloods...lefties and righties...dog people and cat people...straight people and gay people...people who love my Musings and stupid people...

PHEW! This goddamn list really is endless.

IT'S ALL A GIANT FUCKING LIE! We are one.

Now, I feel I must come clean. I haven't tackled this Musing after all this time for one simple reason. I've been scared. I've been scared that I would sound crazy or silly or...I don't know what. But whatever it is, I realize I just can't give a fuck about that anymore. This message can't simply be stated. It must be shouted.

WE ARE ONE!

I now know that there are only two forces in the world: love and fear. Yes, I have been afraid to put myself out there like this. But my love for you must overwhelm my fear of you. I know that if it doesn't happen soon...if the revolution that I see and that I propose doesn't come soon...that we will do harm that can not be undone to our world, to ourselves.

WE ARE ONE!

I won't insult the memories of people who were raped and tortured by those of another race by reducing their deaths to an opportunity to keep score in the American Race Game that produces only losers. I won't engage in the opportunism that surrounds incidents like "The Duke Rape Case." I will simply say that we have created a world that produces these moments. And so, We have raped and tortured these people. And only We can stop that from happening in the future. Only We can create a world where we recognize, celebrate and cherish each other's humanity. And if we do manifest that reality, there will be no more stories like these. And, in the meantime, we might be able to mourn the human indignity and tragedy and stop the game of societal tit-for-tat that left me smirking at the OJ verdict and thinking, "Yeah, y'all muthafuckas didn't cry after the Rodney King verdict. Now it's your turn to cry." I hope my son never thinks that thought. I hope I can teach him that...

WE ARE ONE!

No, I did not cry for Sean Taylor. And I realize that in that moment, I was so wrapped up in this "reality," that I had lost touch with that which is real...

WE ARE ONE!

My heart has been hardened by a lifetime of stories of young brothers being shot, being killed. The leading cause of death for Black men 19-34 is murder. I'm now 35. That means that if I die of cancer in the next month, I was one of the lucky ones. That is fucked up. In my lifetime, I had mourned Big L...and Scott La Rock...and Proof...and Darrent Williams...and...and...and...the list seems literally endless. When the NAACP buried "Nigger," I remember thinking, "If only that was the only nigger buried in Detroit that week." A nigga being killed is not shocking to me. In fact, it has become commonplace. I am no more shocked by the death of Sean Taylor than I am by water being wet or finding the sun rising in the East.

Somewhere, some nigga thinks they got away with killing Sean Taylor. (Yes, I'm making assumptions. If you don't like it, call Jesse and Al and have them throw one of their uber-effective "nappy headed ho's" rallies in front of my house.) What is lost on the nigga who killed Sean Taylor is the reality that struck me after the Virginia Tech killings, the dark joke that pokes at my consciousness after every murder/suicide. Murder is suicide. It truly is. Because...

WE ARE ONE!

We weave elaborate fictions to fight fictitious wars against an enemy that by definition can not be defined. (Terror is a noun, not a nation. This interminable "War on Terror" will bankrupt us financially and in far more profound ways.) We abuse the patriotism of Pat Tillman and thousands like him, others who didn't have quite as high a profile. We position ourselves to engage in yet another elective war, where innumerable civilians will lose their lives. And we finance it all from coffers that we fill with our tax dollars, as we leave more and more children behind. Those children will no doubt be exposed and, in most cases, fall victim to the lies and unconsciousness that has led to teenagers across this nation beating -- and sometimes killing -- the homeless for sport, as a pastime. And some of them will no doubt draw on the bile that will well within them as they are abused and/or neglected by this society. And they will let the hater in them win out, as they kill the next Sean Taylor. And I wonder how to intercede with this message I feel I have been given to deliver...

WE ARE ONE!

In a world where resources could be used to save lives, Michael Vick "invested" in a dog fighting ring that, in the end, put an end to the lives of innocent creatures and to the life of a superstar he once knew. R. Kelly pisses on Black girls and that seemingly stops no one from continuing to "step in the name of love" as he puts out album after album. The NAACP buries "The N-Word" even after giving Isaiah Washington (of "F-word" fame) an Image Award...not an acting award, an IMAGE Award! Don Imus was for a moment the face of all that was wrong in America. He's back on the radio and the beat goes on. The Bush administration's parting gift to America is going to be a war with Iran. Nooses are apparently as ubiquitous on this nation's campuses as books and bongs. Jena 6?! Don't get me started. Public gay-bashers are exposed as private freaks. Yes, that is all true.

And if we are one, then it is also true that, at present, we are a fucking idiot. But we can change that. We can make a decision in this moment to be, as Gandhi suggested, "the change we want to see in the world." We are out here. We believe that life is precious. We believe that false divisions are used to pit us against one another, occupying us with what are ultimately trivialities, while the opportunity to make this world a better place passes by us. We know that we should "fight War, not wars," as a high school student shared with me recently. Let's hurry. There is no time to waste. Let's come together today and begin the revolution, one that begins within and which will leave us without 24 year old superstars being killed in their own homes while the love of their life huddles under the covers with their infant daughter.

Let's hurry. I'd like to make a change in time to mourn Sean Taylor as he deserves to be mourned -- as a part of WE -- before I am distracted with debates of Obama's Blackness and "Dancing With The Stars" results, before his barely post-pubescent body is buried beneath a mound of bodies of murdered Black men who could have been there to raise their own daughters.

Let's hurry. I am clinging to my consciousness, my awareness that "We Are One." I am fighting to keep my grip on the hope that though We are a fucking idiot...that We can do better...starting in this Moment, the only Moment that matters, the only Moment there is...that We can live as one...that we can be one. We must be.

WE ARE ONE!

A note from NMN: I don't know how to proceed. But we can figure it out together. This can be the beginning of a movement-- one not based on any one group getting anything, but on all people of all "groups" giving something...that thing being love. Let's get started...in this Moment...together...as One.

NMN HITS THE STAGE

2007-07-24T13:50:00.000-07:00

'Nuff said.

R.I.P. NIGGER

2007-07-23T16:25:00.000-07:00

The NAACP buried "The N-Word." Check out this never-seen-before, exclusive footage from the funeral.

Hey old friends!

2007-07-05T06:51:00.001-07:00

It's been a long time...

So, here's what's up. Life has been crazy -- Musings on the way -- and that's why you haven't heard from me, New Millennium Nation. The Min-O-Prop actually got himself a real-life job. (The nerve...worrying about making a living and supporting his family when we have videos we need to make.) But he should be back in the fold soon. And then we'll be hittin' you with more insanity than ever before.

In the meantime, your boy has been working on this stand-up thing. And on July 20th, I'm coming out! (Wait...that didn't come out right.)

Anyway, here's the poster for my first big performance, the first one I'm actually willing to let my friends and family see.

If you're in or near LA, hope to see you there. Tell them you're there to see me. It won't make a bit of difference, but it'll stroke my ego to know it's being said. Just kidding...but not really.

XOXO,
NMN

I DIDN'T START IT!

2007-05-21T07:54:00.000-07:00

An open letter to NMN’s sister on her birthday:

“I didn’t start it!” How many times did Mommy hear that one. Of course, she didn’t usually care who started the fight. She just wanted the fighting to stop. And, on some level, she must have known that you had indeed started the fight. If I remember correctly, you had always started it. But we need not quibble about that now.

Looking back, it is no surprise that we fought the way we did. I only took Intro Psych in school. However, I believe the technical term is “Niggas Livin’ All Up On Top Of Each Other Syndrome.” (There are usually severe outbreaks in the projects across America in July and August.) Sharing that living room/bedroom/family room for all those years, the subtext of half the shit we said to each other before I headed off to college was, “You again?!?! Why don’t you get the fuck out my face?”

But the flip side of our particular case of N.L.A.U.O.T.O.E.O.S is that we were always so close. Sometimes, people missed that as they heard us argue from morning ‘til night. Then they’d fuck up and mess with one of us. Remember when Michael pushed you when we were walking home from school. Yeah… I probably didn’t need that final punch to his temple, but he had to learn. NOBODY PICKS ON MY BABY SISTER BUT ME! (Note: And by “pick on” I mean respond reasonably to your provocation.)

It’s been a while since either of us has felt compelled to punch some fool in his temple. (Unless you’ve been holding out on me.) But I think it’s cool how much we still look out for each other. There’s something deeper than love in our voices when we ask – even if we’re too busy to talk – “You alright, though?” There’s something comforting about knowing that if I said, “No,” you would put the world on hold to listen. There’s something special in the way we ask, “How you doin’?” We don’t just ask it. We mean it. And there’s the irony, of course, after all those years of paint-chipping screaming matches over the phone. We both now use the phone nearly every day…to call each other.

I watch the niglets play…then fight…then hug…then play some more. The whole fucking cycle gives me a headache, if you want to know the truth.

I want to reason with two-year-olds. I want to tell them that someday they’ll be so close that even from three thousand miles away, they’ll watch each other’s backs like hawks. He’ll cheer her up when she’s down. She’ll talk him down when he’s hot. He’ll fume that she isn’t being treated fairly at work and bark, “Fuck that! You go back in there. And you don’t take no shit off nobody.” Then he’ll hear her smile and remember that they’re not in Flatbush – I mean, er…Ladera Heights anymore.

I wonder how long it’ll be before I can tell them about you driving from Chicago to LA with me in a Uhaul full of their stuff. What a wild ride. Blinding snow in the mountains. Torrential downpour as we descended into LA. And, between those, the wind did it’s best to tip us over now and then. But we survived the tough weather…together.

Then it strikes me that I might as well save my breath…that they’ll have to learn it for themselves as we did. They’ll have their own reasons for admiring one another the way I admire you, my little sister. My little sister who had a son at eighteen then went on to raise that son, get her college degree and then her MBA.

I always wanted an MBA! When – and let’s face it, if – I go to heaven, I’m telling Mommy you wouldn’t share! That’s some bullshit, right there.

It’s funny. They call it sibling rivalry. But in the end, there is no competition. You are the best little sister a nigga could ever pray to have. I know when I’m outdone. I humbly concede.

So, let me say for the record that I am sorry that I once took a running start and banged your head into a wall. And I will simply assume that you did not specifically grow your nails out so that you could gather skin samples from me. (Damn, that shit used to sting!)

I hope this Musing sets off a cacophonous chorus of “Happy Birthday” wishes for my li’l sis. Then, for once, I can proudly admit, “I started it!”

XOXO,
NMN

p.s. I forgive you for starting all those fights when we were kids.

p.p.s. You’re welcome.

p.p.p.s. And don’t be expectin’ no card from me this year.

Special Announcement

2007-05-14T16:10:00.000-07:00

For those in the LA area, here's a flyer for a comedy showcase where "HNIC '07" will be screened. If you're in the LA area, check it out. It should be a great night of stand-up (and video!).

Tell a friend!

Fantasy Football: Hate It Or Love It?

2007-05-07T10:23:00.000-07:00

With the NFL Draft in the rearview, football fans are all getting ready for the season to come. But your boy can't get over the season that was.

Millions of people are playing. But what's popular ain't always right. Fantasy Football: Hate It Or Love It?

You can respond in writing here or click the YouTube logo, grab a webcam and sound off with your answer. So...

HOLLA AT YOUR BOY!

NMN Meets Don Imus

2007-04-23T12:21:00.000-07:00

Your boy muses on nappy-headed ho's and habitually racist shows.

You can respond in writing here or click the YouTube logo, grab a webcam and speak on it. So...

HOLLA AT YOUR BOY!

NO NIGGA

2007-04-01T14:05:00.000-07:00

Your boy is going to reform his nigga-ish ways!

To "nigga" or not to "nigga"? That is the question.

You can respond in writing here or click the YouTube logo, grab a webcam and sound off with your answer. So...

HOLLA AT YOUR BOY!

Image Awards?

2007-03-26T10:19:00.000-07:00

Your boy wonders what image the NAACP is celebrating.

You can respond in writing here or click the YouTube logo, grab a webcam and create an "image" of your own. So...

HOLLA AT YOUR BOY!

Drinking Stories

2007-03-12T08:57:00.000-07:00

In this episode of "The Thinking Room":

With St. Patrick's Day around the corner, your boy shares a cautionary tale.

You can respond in writing here or click the YouTube logo, grab a webcam and share your worst drinking story straight, no chaser. So...

HOLLA AT YOUR BOY!

Nobel Beef Prize

2007-03-05T06:23:00.000-08:00

"I never, ever ran from the Ku Klux Klan/And I shouldn't have to run from a Black man."
("Self-Destruction", Kool Moe Dee)

You can respond in writing here or click the YouTube logo, grab a webcam and respond in living color. So...

HOLLA AT YOUR BOY!

MORE TROOPS?

2007-02-26T11:18:00.000-08:00

In this episode of "The Thinking Room":

ESCALATION: A Bad Idea Or A Really Bad Idea?

You can respond in writing here or click the YouTube logo, grab a webcam and respond in living color. So...

HOLLA AT YOUR BOY!

HNIC '07

2007-02-20T12:34:00.000-08:00

Vote early!

Vote often!

Tell a friend!

The Duke Rape Case

2007-02-14T08:58:00.000-08:00

Your boy wonders if justice will be done down tobaccco road.

You can respond in writing here or grab a webcam and post a video response via YouTube. So...

HOLLA AT YOUR BOY!

Black Coaches

2007-02-14T08:48:00.000-08:00

In this episode of "The Thinking Room":

They might as well call the shit Super Bowl HNIC!

You can respond in writing here or grab a webcam and post a video response via YouTube. So...

HOLLA AT YOUR BOY!

American Idle?

2007-02-14T08:45:00.000-08:00

First of all...fuck American Idol!

You can respond in writing here or grab a webcam and post a video response via YouTube. So...

HOLLA AT YOUR BOY!

What's Your Dream?

2007-02-14T08:41:00.000-08:00

"I Have A Dream" has become my nightmare.

You can respond in writing here or grab a webcam and post a video response via YouTube. So...

HOLLA AT YOUR BOY!

Why Are You Broke?

2007-02-14T08:35:00.000-08:00

In this episode of "The Thinking Room":

NMN is broke because he's addicted to Starbucks. Why are you broke?

You can respond in writing here or grab a webcam and post a video response via YouTube. So...

HOLLA AT YOUR BOY!

I Am Changing

2007-02-09T08:11:00.000-08:00

The Rev. Ted Haggard is "completely heterosexual." Like Effie White in "DreamGirls" -- a musical and thus of no interest to a "completely heterosexual" man like Haggard -- Rev. Haggard is chaaaaayaaayaaayaang-ing.

Wow! It only took him three weeks of intensive therapy to cure himself of his gayness. And that is why I nominate him for HNIC. (For those who would employ reverse racism in this case and insist that the HNIC be Black, I respectfully point out that if Haggard could become straight in three weeks, he could probably transform himself from White to Black in about two and a half months...tops. So there.)

With the help of Jesus -- who apparently works most often with Evangelicals and Soul Train Award winners -- Haggard seems to have found the key to "solving" complicated "problems" in record time. At this rate, I'm betting that he could end poverty, defeat hunger, decrease the incarceration rate and rid our communities of drugs by Christmas.

"Hang all the mistletoe/Life for y'all niggas will be better/This Christmas."

That means that by the top of 2008 he could tackle my "Baby Daddy Is Not A Real Relation" campaign. (Seriously people, pick somebody and make babies with them. You don't have to get married, but DAMN. I'm sayin'.)

May be then he could get some niggas together to cure Cancer...and AIDS! Now, that would be a Black History moment for your ass. (But admittedly wouldn't leave much to do after March 2008.)

I do find myself wondering, though. If being heterosexual is such a simple thing, why didn't Rev. Haggard do it in the first place? I'm sure he'll explain after the election.

All rise -- to your feet, not in your jeans -- for the next HNIC...The Tranformative Rev. Ted Haggard!

Keep It Clean

2007-02-07T08:45:00.000-08:00

Next up...the junior Senator from the great state of Illinois...Barack Obama. I hesitated to nominate Mr. Obama as his hands must surely be full with his Presidential campaign. However, I rather like him and thought he should get to actually win an election. I suspect that won't be the case in '08. (Though, like Charlie Brown doing his best Vinatieri, I cling to a sliver of hope.)

You can imagine my surprise when some Black people I talked to protested this nomination, asserting that Sen. Obama "ain't really African-American" because his mother is White and his father is African (Kenyan, to be exact). I hate when niggas start that shit, that "these niggas are better than those niggas" shit.

I hate to hear immigrant niggas insulting American niggas for being everything from lazy to loud when they should show some goddamn respect for the descendants of those who caught hell to make America a place where they could at least have a snowball's chance at the American Dream. It makes me sick to hear the descendants of slaves always looking to insult the latest group of immigrants, whether they be Haitian or Jamaican or just good ol' "African booty-scratchers"...Crip niggas versus Blood niggas...Hennessy niggas versus Courvosier niggas...Shaq niggas versus Kobe niggas...

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH NIGGAS?!

How many different ways can we divide ourselves up. Who's more Black? Who's less Black? Want to know if Senator Obama is Black? Ask yourself this. If he found himself face to face with the NYPD one night, would they hold their fire as he reached for his wallet in front of his own goddamn house just because his mother was White and his father African? I say, "Nay!" He's Black...good ol' fashioned-Rodney King-72nd Precinct plunger up the ass-that nigga fits the description-Black! Case closed, you fucking crabs in a barrel.

But my main reason for wanting Senator Obama to be the first Head Nigga In Charge is because he's clean. I hadn't really thought about that shit before Joe Biden brought it up. But I must admit, that nigga is clean. I've never seen him lookin' raggedy and dirty going up Capitol Hill. His teeth look white...at least on TV. And I've never heard rumors that he stinks so bad that he will burn your nose hairs. Never once have I heard that his breath stunk so bad that he would leave your tear ducts barren. That is one clean nigga. (Note: Few know this, but Senator Biden reminds me of the scientific fact that Black people are just White people who have failed to wash themselves for thousands of years. Throw in some Jheri Curl juice and some of that fried chicken grease that used to sit on the stove and we're lucky to have found a clean nigga in the bunch.)

I was talking to a Mexican guy I know -- who, for the record, I have never seen pissy drunk on tequila -- and he was saying that Obama seemed not only clean, but articulate. I was happy to hear that, as was my Chinese neighbor, who I have never seen eating rice -- or anything else for that matter -- with chopsticks. But I knew that Obama had a chance to be the new "Uniter, Not A Divider" when my gay friend -- who, to his credit, has never tried to turn me out or molest my kids -- told my wife -- who disguises her PMS remarkably well -- that he thought Obama would make a great Head Nigga In Charge.

It was tough to understand him through his effeminate lisp, but that was all I needed to hear. It's official. I nominate Senator Barack Obama for the esteemed position of Head Nigga In Charge. He's clean. And he speaks so well.

It's A Skating Party

2007-02-06T07:55:00.000-08:00

I did my best to convince niggas to turn on him, to ostracize him. I figured that with half the population being women I had a chance. I mean, that "rape" after "statutory" would surely turn a nation of strong, independent Black women against the "Predator of the Prom." But I have learned my lesson. May Golden Shower Power rule forever. Nothing in this world -- NOTHING! -- shall come between niggas and the music they love.

I must even confess that I found myself at a Katt Williams concert in "The Chi" on my feet and nodding my head as Snoop put down some "That's That Shit." I have to admit that shit was hotter than the projects in August. Who am I to fight against the laws of nigga nature?

Okay. Okay. I know when I'm licked (so to speak). So I nominate a man who is more than a molester...more than a statutory rapist...more than a child pornographer. He also makes hot tracks.

He's even shared his campaign song, which I think gives us a glimpse into the man and his campaign.

I BELIEVE I CAN SKATE

You may think molestation is a crime
You may think that I should do hard time
But I’m one of the biggest stars in the world
So, it’s okay if I pee on little girls.

If I make hot tracks, Niggas will have my back
If I make their ass shake, Then there’s no debate

I believe I can skate
I believe I can beat the case
Ain’t gonna be locked up for one damn day
Get on my jet and fly away
I treat Black girls like little whores
And yet I’m running out the courtroom door
I believe I can skate (I can skate!)
I believe I can skate (I can skate!)
I believe I can skate...Woo!

Ladies and gentlemen, today's nominee for the esteemed position of HNIC...Robert Sylvester Kelly.

H.N.I.C.

2007-02-05T07:04:00.000-08:00

My apologies, dear readers. I meant to share this Musing days ago, but I’ve been very busy. (Must say though, that there’s something that feels right about a Black History Month celebration starting late.) Anyway, here’s the Musing:

First of all…fuck Black History Month! Those of you who’ve been with NMN since the beginning know that Black History Month is where it all started. (Has it really been a year already?) And if you recall, the Musing-a-Day campaign was my alternative to the usual Black history trivia that gets tossed around every year.

“Some nigga invented some obscure shit. (Thoughtful pause.) It’s not African-American history. It’s American history.” No, it’s trivia. And it should come as no surprise that a people who are defined and who define themselves with trivia can be dismissed as trivial.

So, if you want to sit around smiling piously at a fucking jar of peanut butter, be my guest. (No disrespect to Dr. Carver, of course.) But I know that I must do something more to celebrate this February. And this it.

New Millennium Nation we are going to elect an HNIC.

That’s right. We’re going to decide on a Head Nigga In Charge. People are always asking, “Who speaks for Black America? Jesse? Rev. Al? Bobby Brown?” Now, we’ll know once and for all.

Next time the likes of Michael Richards says some racist shit he won’t have to wander aimlessly looking for a Black person who can grant absolution on behalf of all Black people. (Note: This is not to suggest that the HNIC must be Black. People of all races are welcome to run. As a matter of fact, a White person might do quite well as Whites have a long history of telling Blacks what Blacks think.) The world has become such a complex, confusing place. This is just my small way of helping to simplify things for people.

Reparations? Police brutality? Flava Flav? The Head Nigga In Charge will be the decider, like Dubya. And you know that means he (OR SHE!) won’t have to listen to anybody. That’s one powerful nigga. As a matter of fact, that nigga might be a no-nigga-sayin’-nigga, in which case that nigga might outlaw the use of the word nigga.

(The nerve. After A New Millennium Nigga was the nigga who had the idea to have niggas vote on the Head Nigga In Charge in the first muthafuckin’ place. See how niggas are?)

Here’s the deal. Post your nominations and by month’s end we will have elected the first official HNIC. You can nominate anyone -- anyone at all – except A New Millennium Nigga. (One, I wouldn’t want this to feel like Florida 2000. And two, I’ve had the experience of trying to organize niggas and it ain’t fun.)

So, be creative. Despite Sen. Biden’s preferences, the nigga you nominate doesn’t even have to be particularly clean. Let’s get to work people. If you don’t participate in the political process, I don’t want to hear you complaining when Gary Coleman is calling the shots for Black America. (Whachu talkin’ ‘bout, niggas?)

HNIC 2007. It’s not just going to be a part of African-American history. It’s going to be a part of American history. (Note: And it should be a fucking blast!)

MAN-IFESTO

2007-01-04T13:42:00.000-08:00

It’s 2007. And like every other new year, people are sure to be making and breaking resolutions right up into mid-February when they settle right back into the mediocre selves that they found themselves disappointed in that past December. I don’t do resolutions.

I do, however, tend to map things out at the top of the year. List things I want to accomplish in the new year and beyond. Grade my efforts on last year’s list. Wonder why years -- though reportedly still 365 days – are starting to feel shorter. But this year, that too seems inadequate.

I just read an article in January’s Esquire about Norman Mailer. The author, Tom Junod – obviously a fan – paints a picture of a man capable, at once, of writing brilliantly, stabbing his wife, grappling with life’s great questions and engaging in drunken headbutting that leaves a scar to this day. All I could think was, “I hope they say that about me someday.” All except for the stabbing of the wife part. I rather like Mrs. NMN and don’t feel she has done anything for which she deserves to be stabbed…yet. (Just kidding. You can tweak it all you like, but a good domestic violence joke is hard to write.)

Lately, I’ve been asking myself big questions. Things like, will it matter when I’m gone that I was here? It saddens me to inform you, New Millennium Nation, that I am dying.

I have no idea when, you understand. But I am, and have been since the day of my birth – an event which, appropriately, took place in a hospital that was thereafter shut down – dying.

Oddly, I don’t find that depressing. I know for sure that it does not depress me, because I have experienced deep depression. I know from depressed. And the inevitability of death does not depress me. In fact, I’ve found this recent “discovery” mind-blowingly liberating. “You’re entering an existentialist phase,” some of you will opine smugly. Perhaps, but it is my existentialist phase. So fuck you for trying to cut my trip short.

And so this is my man-ifesto, if you will. My declaration today of the man I want to be someday. It is also my way of procrastinating, so it will be – I am quite sure – exceptionally long.

And for those of you still with me…here it goes.

I want to be a good father, which by my definition includes being a good husband. I want to understand how Mrs. NMN’s friends could have been so wrong about me. (She never says what they said…but I know!) I want to understand how I could have been right about me with so much evidence to the contrary. I want to let go of petty shit like this after eight years of marriage and two beautiful kids.

I want someone at my funeral to say, “He was a good man.” I want someone else to say, “He was an asshole.” I want them to exchange fiery “Fuck you’s!,” breaking up the maudlin predictably I would surely have found revolting. I want them to fight right there on the steps of the church. I want the combatants to be women. I want somebody to remember that I – in part, an adolescent boy until my dying day – always had fond memories of girl fights because there was always a chance somebody’s titty might pop out.

I want to read the Bible –the one I’ve been eyeballing for the last year -- in its entirety. I then want to feed it, page by page, into the nearest shredder and spend the rest of my life deciding for myself what I believe.

I want to wrestle with God until he gets tired of my shit and puts my lights out, bloodying my nose and making me spit teeth. I want to come to, stagger to my feet, and square my shoulders to that muthafucka, ready to go another round if he doesn’t ANSWER MY FUCKING QUESTIONS!!! Like, “What was the fucking story with Job? That story always shook my confidence. What are you, some degenerate gambler?”

I want to be cooler every year like Ed Bradley. And in whatever comes after this life, I want to drink at the bar with him until he’s moved to sing “Sixty Minute Man” at full throat, like in the clip they played on “60 Minutes” after he died. Everybody should, at some point, get lit and sing at the top of their lungs. It’s great. I’ve done it before. And I hope to do it again. And if it’s heaven to me, there’ll be some fucking “stinking drunk-from the gut-in the key of X” singing going on from time to time. As Ed -- we'll be on a first name basis after drinking together all night -- finishes singing, I want to lean over to Richard Pryor and shoot off some quip that moves him to call me a “funny muthafucka.” I want to smile back, “No. YOU are one funny muthafucka.” Then, as I sober up, I want to thank Richard Wright for giving the gift of “Black Boy” to a ten year old Black boy.

I want to get into heaven. I want to know there is a heaven. I hope God doesn’t send me to hell for that whole “ANSWER MY FUCKING QUESTIONS!!!” incident. Knowing me, the Devil – if he, or she, or it exists – would probably send me back eventually. I can be a real pain in the ass and I suspect God is the only one who could put up with my bullshit for eternity.

I want to see my mother again. I want to tell her she shouldn’t have left so soon. I want to say that to her, though I’ll know then as I know now, that she was scared as shit of becoming a helpless old person like the Alzheimer’s patients she’d cared for all those years. I want her to tell me she doesn’t give a shit what I think since, if it hadn’t been for her years of lobbying on my behalf, I would never have been admitted into heaven in the first goddamn place. I want there to be cursing in heaven. I want her to tell me that my father finally apologized.

I want my nephew to brag about me. I want his mother, my sister, to say I was a good uncle, a good brother. Or, at least, that I tried.

I want to create something that touches someone somewhere. I want to make a movie that makes a 13-year old boy blow the soda he bought at the concession stand out his nose as he learns – as I did from the Elephantitis film clip in “Johnny Dangerously” – that juvenile humor is a gift that lasts a lifetime. I want to write the right words in the right way at the right time and inspire somebody to do the right thing. I want to thank Spike Lee for changing my life by making “Do The Right Thing”.

I want to apologize to everybody I ever did wrong and explain to them that I’m sorry I did them wrong, but not sorry I did wrong. After all, you have to fuck up to learn. And I had a lot to learn.

I want to write what I truly feel and not immediately want to delete it, showing no one.

I want a lot of things.

Fuck! Look at all the time I’ve wasted.

I better get to work.

It's Gotta Be The Shoes

2006-12-25T22:04:00.000-08:00

First of all…fuck Michael Jordan! I don’t really mean that, I guess. But the hater in me does. I’ve heard it said that Michael Jordan played basketball better than anyone has ever done anything. That is an arguable point to be sure. But how many people in the history of humankind would even qualify for the argument. That’s pretty rarified air (pun intended – please excuse). After all, he was so good at what he did that he has become the gold standard – or platinum standard, if you will -- of greatness. “(fill in the blank) is the Michael Jordan of (fill in the blank).” And that’s what I’m musing about this Christmas.

I never owned a pair of Air Jordans. Not as a kid. Not ever. It seems a little silly on some level. I’ve always wanted a pair…real bad.

I was thirteen years old when the first Jordans hit the market and changed everything. Until then, the pinnacle of must have ghetto shoedom for me were shell toe Adidas. They cost about sixty bucks. I owned a pair. They were white on white. I wore them for the first day of school in sixth grade even though it rained that day. I had been planning that outfit for a week and neither rain nor sleet nor gloom of night was going to keep me from making my desired first impression on the niggas at Jackie Robinson Intermediate School.

Yes, I had MY A-DI-DAS! Before that I had blue on grey suede Pumas. I wore those with the fat laces. Before that I had burgundy canvas Keds that I hooked up with burgundy and white laces, checkerboarded to the most precise standards. The relationship between a nigga and his kicks is a ridiculously precious thing.

I still clean my sneakers with a toothbrush – not the one I use on my teeth, but a toothbrush nonetheless. As I consider the obsessive quality of dipping a toothbrush in mild soap and water in order to keep my dogs white, I take some solace in the fact that -- at the very least -- I no longer walk the streets with a toothbrush in my back pocket ready to address any scuff or smudge.

Yes, I always did and always will love my sneaks. That’s just the way it is. But I never owned a pair of Jordans.

I remember when they hit the market at the then astronomical price of $100. I remember all the adults around me scoffing at the exorbitant cost. I remember my mother telling me stories of kids being killed in the streets for their Jordans. I remember the coolest of the rich kids at Polytechnic Preparatory Country Day School having Jordans. I remember all the kids in my neighborhood who’d made all the “wrong” choices having Jordans. But I never had no muthafuckin’ Air Jordans.

I remember my moms, in her bedroom on the phone, talking to my godmother…or my aunt…or somebody…borrowing the money she needed to pay for me to go to Poly Prep. And I remember not having the heart to ask her for $100 to buy no muthafuckin’, stupid-ass Air Jordans. But I wanted those muthafuckas…real bad.

Since then, I’ve grown up. And the man I’ve become could’ve – at some point, I guess – bought some Jordans. I mean, my cellphone cost me more than some Jordans ever would. And I’ve bought a pair for my nephew. (Had to make sure he was stylin’ as he walked into his new high school.) But they’d come to represent something more for me over the years. I’ve never bought a pair for myself.

Somehow, I’d convinced myself that they were not for me, that I’m better off shopping off the “CLEARANCE” part of the wall in the sneaker store. “After all, I’m not some young’un tryin’a impress the girls,” I thought. I had better things to do with my money than buy some Jordans. But I always stopped to check out the latest as I browsed. Deep inside the man I’d become, the boy in me still wanted some Jordans…real bad.

“I’ll buy some of his sneakers when he pays to see one of my movies,” I’d scoff, struggling to puff my chest out. I would reason and rationalize my way past them, fighting the po’ boy complex in me, fighting the sadness of a kid who felt it was so basically un-fucking-fair that, for all that he tried to do right, everybody in the goddamn world seemed to have some Jordans except him. I tried to stifle the lingering ache of inadequacy that swirled in my gut as I tried to dress up the team sneakers we bought for varsity basketball. I wanted some Air Jordans as a boy…and as a man…but I never got them.

Mrs. NMN knows all about my po’ boy complex. She knows all about the house I wanted to buy my moms, my way of saying thanks for toiling and borrowing and saving and scraping to send a nigga to private school. She knows all about the crushing regret that engulfed me when my mother died before I could crack the Hollywood nut that was supposed to make all that possible. Mrs. NMN knows that I’ve bought her a Coach bag worth way more, but that I’ve never been able to bring myself to buy myself no muthafuckin’, stupid-ass Air Jordans.

“Close your eyes,” Mrs. NMN grinned on Christmas morning. I did. A box was placed in my hands. I opened my eyes to see that familiar and elusive silhouette. I opened the box to find my first pair of Air Jordans.

It is fucking goofy as hell that it meant so much to me. It really is. But I had to leave the room to compose myself. I couldn’t let the entire gathered family see the tears in my eyes. I couldn’t fully explain what it meant to me that after all these years of “right” choices that I’d finally reached the most absurdly ghetto promised land anyone could imagine. I couldn’t explain why I seriously considered keeping those pristinely white sneakers in that box forever, aware that the moment I wore them they might get scuffed…might get smudged…might be any less perfect than they were in that box on Christmas morning. I doubted that anyone could possibly understand why that gift, as much as any I’d ever received, said, “I know you”…said, “I love you.”

A pair of sneakers…given to a grown-ass man…You would think there’d be better ways to sum up a life struggle. You would think there’d be better ways to celebrate success in high school…college…film school…career…marriage…family. You would think that twenty years after their introduction, the significance of a pair of Air Jordans would be diminished by the perspective of an adult who knows better than to believe that “It’s gotta be the shoes.” You would be wrong.

A pair of sneakers…given to a grown-ass man…unlocked a lifetime of memories. A pair of sneakers…given to a grown-ass man…was a soothing salve on wounds that have festered for twenty years. A pair of sneakers…given to a grown-ass man…

Mrs. NMN is the Michael Jordan of wives.

I Apologize

2006-11-21T08:50:00.001-08:00

First of all...fuck Michael Richards...for apologizing!

Mr. Richards, it is, after all, I who should apologize to you. You see, I had no idea that you, Michael Richards -- the legendary Kramer -- frequented my humble little blog. I'd been warned by many that my use of the word "nigga" would create this situation, that it would place the word in the American lexicon, that I would force the legions of White people who blindly follow me and repeat my teachings across the globe to say things they wouldn't otherwise say. But I never really believed that I was this influential, this powerful. Perhaps if I'd considered your inability to maintain some level of human decency-- even in a comedy club, even when being (gasp!) heckled -- I would have realized that I was pulling the pin on the grenade that you threw at your audience.

Some readers may need to be caught up, Mr. Richards. Excuse me for a moment.

For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, this is some video from Mr. Richards' now infamous performance at The Laugh Factory (And for those of you who can't view the video -- especially those naughty ones who consume Musings on company time -- I'll give you the Cliff's Notes. Picture Cosmo Kramer, in response to being heckled, trying to set the world record for the use of the word nigger in a two minute span and throwing in a blatant lynching reference for shits and giggles.):

And...we're back. Wow, huh? How exciting for me! Michael Richards is apparently my number one fan.

But then -- and this is the part I feel worst about -- Mr. Richards, you found your life turned upside-down. And all because you're a member of the New Millennium Nation. Viral video being the force it is, the whole nation saw the video. But they were wrong to see it as an ugly, racist tirade by a bigoted bastard. They were wrong to be shocked as you explained eloquently, "...it shocks you to see what's buried beneath, muthafuckas." They should not have been shocked. They should have viewed this as what it was; a tribute to A New Millennium Nigga. So, it broke my heart that you had to go on Letterman and apologize...for seven minutes:

A racist?! Why would anybody think you were a racist? Of course you're not a racist. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) You, sir, are the victim of my brazen negritude, my embarrassing inability to appreciate just how much you idolize me.

This may come as a shock to you, but I've been idolized many times before. There was the time in eighth grade when I had to hem up a kid who took it upon himself to call my friend Jolene a nigger because she had gotten in line ahead of him to buy candy. He assured me he wasn't a racist. There was the after-school tackle in the pick-up football game that caused another non-racist to bless us with an n-bomb. There have been the cars that sped by with loyal fans just looking to say "Hi" to me, A New Millennium Nigga, an American icon. Yes, I've apparently touched so many.

But I wonder sometimes why other things I say aren't repeated with such regularity and vigor. For instance:

Affirmative action is pretty much the least that White America could and should do to atone for its treatment of Black people and all oppressed people in this country.

Or:

New Edition was way better than New Kids on the Block.

Or even:

A New Millennium Nigga is every woman's ideal lover. He's dreamy...and angry, too!

I can't even get Mrs. NMN to say that last one. You would think, with my societal power, that more of these would catch on. But they don't. Only "nigga/nigger" does. Weird.

You know, I'm thinking about it and you never mentioned me on Letterman. As a matter of fact, I have no reason to believe that you've ever heard of me. (And where did you get that cute little riff about "50 years ago" and those Black gentlemen "hanging upside-down with a fork in [their] ass?" You didn't get that from me. I stopped doing lynching jokes after I caused the murder of James Byrd, Jr. I should have cut them out altogether after I got Emitt Till killed, but you know how sometimes niggas can be hardheaded.) You know what? This may sound crazy, but I think all that racist shit that came out of you...came out of you.

Hear me out on this. I know it's radical. But may be you are racist. May be you just didn't know how fucking racist you are. May be a lot of Americans are like that. May be this entire nation should try taking the first step...and that's admitting you have a problem.

I've heard so many friends of the Black race over the years say that we Blacks need to take responsibility for our lives and stop blaming others. I'm going to have to request you be held to the same standard, Mr. Richards. I'm going to have to request that others, Black or White, who would use your racism to explain why I shouldn't say nigga get the cause and effect relationship straight.

You see, racism like the shit you said at The Laugh Factory helped to create the world in which I exist, a world where I never know which seemingly bening White person is walking around with visions of "niggers hanging upside-down with a fork sticking out their ass" dancing around in their head. I've become who I've needed to become to survive that world.

Reasonable minds may disagree on my creative and political choices. Earl Ofari Hutchinson opined on Arianna Huffington's blog that the increasingly random use of the "n-word" by black comedians was partly to blame for the incident. "The obsessive use of and the tortured defense of the word by so many blacks gave Richards the license to use the word without any thought that there'd be any blow back for doing it. He wasterribly wrong and got publicly called out for it. The blacks that use and defend that word should be called out too. Who's willing to do that?"

He got the tortured part right. But the defense is of myself, of the place I have scratched and clawed to create for myself in this society, this country, this world. I defend myself against those who wag their finger at me, who disrespect me for my personal choice. I defend myself against those who would in any way excuse the rapist for calling the woman he rapes a "bitch," simply because she may call her girlfriends "bitches" when they're talking shit on the phone.

I know the difference between Dave Chapelle and David Duke, Mr. Richards. I know that I laugh with Chris Rock but never at the Little Rock Nine, Mr. Hutchinson. Don't conflate and confuse the issues.

The more I think about it, the less I feel like I should be doing the apologizing. I'm not sorry for what you did, Mr. Richards. And, because your racism exists independent of my choices, I don't even feel sorry for what I do.

Other niggas in the community think it's crummy
But I don't, neither does the youth cause we
em-brace adversity it goes right with the race
- Q-Tip, "Sucka Niggas"

No, I don't apologize. I embrace the adversity. I embrace the race. I embrace the reality that even with a Master's Degree under my belt, all any temp agencies seemed able to scrounge up for me when I graduated were warehouse jobs. I embrace the memory of the White woman who, unprompted, turned to me and my Black male companions in a Writers' Guild elevator and blurted, "Boy, you sure are menacing." And I, like Redman, say, "I'll Be Dat!" I know how many see me. I know who I am. And I know that those are inextricably linked in my experience.

Much respect to those who make a different choice. I respect their decision. But I've looked back over my life, over the history and heritage I share with millions of "others" and I've decided to take that scarlet "N" America forced upon me and to wear it as a badge of honor.

I look at the brothers I see with their kids at the playground, brothers we're told don't exist -- seeing as how Black men never take care of their kids...or anybody else's -- and I say, "You are not invisible. I see you. Keep on doing that fatherhood thing. I love you for that, my nigga."

I see the brothers making it in corporate America and I say, "You keep holding it down, my niggas. 'Cause we know that Reginald Lewis wrote 'Why Should White Guys Have All The Fun?' for a reason."

I look at my brothers who have gotten caught up in what Ice Cube describes on his latest CD as "The Nigga Trap" and I say, "I still got love for you, my niggas. It is never too late to do your part to turn this whole thing around. (See the late, great Stanley "Tookie" Williams who, for all his wrongs, did what he could from where he was to make the world a better place.) Raise up and be who you should be and not who you were told you were."

I am A New Millennium Nigga. I do not apologize for being that. I do not apologize for saying that. I say what I mean. And I mean what I say.

So, do me a favor Mr. Richards, don't apologize. Don't apologize while you hide behind "I'm not a racist." You are a fucking racist. You may not want to be. You may not want us to know that you are. You may not enjoy seeing yourself that way. But the truth of the video is overwhelming.

You didn't use "nigga" like I use "nigga." You know why? Because you can't. You have neither the cultural nor the emotional context that would allow that to happen. You simply saw some Black people and said the first fucked-up thing that came to mind, the thing that comes to more minds than we may ever know or admit. "Nigger!" It wasn't about a shared struggle. It was about the hate that made that struggle my reality. And anybody who would blame me for that is fucking bugging. [Note: "Bugging" is a word that niggas use when they mean that someone is "flipping out." Usage: Michael Richards bugged the fuck out and called some niggas "niggers" at The Laugh Factory last Friday night.]

Mr. Richards -- And I call you that to model a behavior I like to call "respecting other people's humanity" -- you are one racist muthafucka.

So, now you know what I think of you. And I already know what you think of me. That's a start.

So, don't apologize. Not yet. Not when it's so clear that you said what you meant and you meant what you said.

No, it does not shock me to "see what is buried beneath," muthafucka. The sound of the tell-tale heart that is racism pounds and resounds in my ears. So I guess I am sorry about one thing. I'm sorry that this is where we find ourselves...even in this new millennium.

A FATHER, A FIGHTER

2006-11-15T11:48:00.000-08:00

My Dearest Niglets,

I’m a fighter. I’m guessing that by the time I show you this letter, you will have pretty much gathered that about me. But I’m not a fighter fighter. I mean, I’m not a “pro” as they say in the gym. So, although I am by nature a fighter, in the gym I’m not a fighter. I’m just a guy who loves boxing. And though I was a relatively advanced (that means old) 29 years old the first time that I stepped into a gym to train, on some level I guess I’ve always loved the sweet science.

Why do they call it the “sweet science?” Well, I’m thinking that the “You’re Bleeding On The Inside And A Little Bit From The Eye Science” didn’t test well. I’m playing…mostly. Someday, we’ll spend a little time watching some vintage Ali fights, and maybe some vintage Sugar Ray Leonard fights, or even some vintage “Pretty Boy” Floyd Mayweather Jr. fights and I’ll try to explain, to show you. I’ll try to help you recognize the perfection that was Roy Jones. I’ll try to explain why the “grill guy” winning the heavyweight championship at the age of 45 was an inspiration to middle-aged (to you, that means old too) people across the country. I’ll try to help you appreciate the beauty of Arturo Gatti’s heart.

I have no way of knowing whether you will like boxing. You may turn to me and say that it is a barbaric sport (which it is) which generally has poor people – or people who started out poor – beating the hell out of each other (which it does). But as I think about it, I’ve learned a lot about life through boxing.

Grandpa – my father -- loved the fights. He’d watch on TV. (That was before every fight that involved a guy you’d barely heard of cost fifty bucks. Ahhhh…pay-per-view.) I first fell in love with boxing sitting next to him. I don’t know whether it was watching with him or later on, but at some point I noticed that just about the last thing the ref tells both fighters is “Protect yourself at all times.”

“Protect yourself at all times” seems sound advice. For me, it seems more sound advice with each passing year. Life can be tough. People can be rough, friend and foe alike – assuming for a moment that they can always be distinguished one from the other. Protect yourself at all times.

It’s funny, though. I also hope that you’ll fall in love someday, find someone who you trust enough to let your guard down. Believe me, that’s hard to do after keeping your guard up all the time. But hopefully, you’ll find someone like your mother, someone who not only won’t hit you when your hands are down, but who will look to protect you in a million ways you never thought of before, who will greet you with open arms and watch your back when you need to rest your weary arms.

Still, I cringe. Because if you think boxing is rough, believe me, love can be a bruising game. It’s one worth playing though, even when you have to play through the pain.

So, please…Protect yourself at all times…except when you should let your guard down…which only you can decide. Good luck with that.

“Who you got, Duran or Leonard?” It seems like it should have been a simple question. But I’m Panamanian-American. That seems like it should be a simple thing, too. But any immigrant or second-generation child of an immigrant who has been accused of becoming “too American” can tell you that striking a balance isn’t always simple at all. I first became aware of that when Sugar Ray Leonard and Roberto Duran fought in Montreal in 1980. I loved Sugar Ray Leonard. I was only four when he won the gold, but I remember liking to wear my robe and pretend that I was him.

So, by the time I was eight, I had read the Ebony articles, I had watched his fights and I had rooted for him as he became World Champion. My family was rooting for Duran, though. “Hands of Stone” was the pride of Panama and they wanted to see him whup up on that pretty boy, Ray Leonard. The first fight happened and I lost…I mean Sugar Ray lost. I was crushed. But my uncle – the man who taught me how to score fights using the ten point must system -- who’d flown from Panama to Montreal was ecstatic. Grandpa was ecstatic. Everybody, it seemed, was ecstatic except me.

Then came the rematch. Grandpa promised to take me to see the closed circuit. (Back in the day, before pay-per-view was around, but after the “superfight” was born, you’d head out to a movie theater and they’d project the fight live.) This time, I’d root with Pa – that’s what I called Grandpa. I’d root for Duran. We’d be on the same side, the same glorious, victorious side. Except…not.

It was so exciting. Pa came to pick me up. It was a school night, but Ma – that’s what I called your Grandma – gave me special permission to go because it was so important to me. The fight was going along. Duran was getting frustrated as Sugar Ray Leonard danced around him and refused to stand and slug it out. It was getting ugly. Sugar Ray was hitting Duran at will and was generally embarrassing him. Then it happened. Duran turned to his corner and infamously said, “No mas.” He quit.

That was the dagger to my heart. He quit. He didn’t get knocked out. He didn’t just lose. I mean, there’s no shame in losing if you give your all. But don’t ever quit. Remember that. Anyway, Duran did quit. And, even as I write this, I’m disappointed all over again.

I had lost…I mean, Duran had lost…No dammit! I had lost…again!

When it came to Duran and Leonard I somehow managed to lose, to root for the wrong guy, each time. Looking back, that makes sense. I’ve learned that in a fight against yourself, you never win.

“Alli viene Duran.” A buzz ran through the Panama airport. He walks through smiling at everyone. They all smile back, including me. All I could think was, “Wait ‘til Pa gets better. I have to tell him I saw Duran.” I was headed back to Los Angeles. I had left Pa behind in a hospital that didn’t have screens in all the windows. He had a brain tumor. They’d done surgery and removed as much as they could. “He’ll get better,” I assured myself. “He’s a fighter.” Yeah, your Grandpa was a fighter too. You come from a long line of fighters.

He didn’t get better. He died. Sometimes when I look at you guys I feel particularly sorry about that. He would’ve gotten a kick out of you. He loved kids.

Maybe we all could’ve watched a fight together. Who knows who we would have been rooting for? and why? Pa might have told you about the red Everlast 7oz. junior gloves he got me one Christmas. I might have told the story of seeing Duran in the airport. Pa might’ve even told you about the time he came to pick me up after school and found me fighting. He would’ve enjoyed calling me out in front of you. He liked to laugh.

I don’t remember the fight as well as I remember the aftermath. Pa did his best to admonish me for fighting. He really did try, bless his heart. He finally settled on “As long as you were defending yourself. You should only fight to defend yourself.” That was about as much admonishment as he could muster. Then he looked in the rearview mirror and said, “You’re tough. You did alright.” His boy was a fighter and he couldn’t hide that he was proud.

After Grandpa died I didn’t have much fight in me. I had never been so sad…or so fat! Good Lord. Street teams started putting posters on my back. I was fat, for real. Finally, I decided that I was going to get back in shape. And that’s when I wandered into La Brea Boxing Gym. And that’s where I met a trainer named Amilcar Brusa.

Brusa was in his late seventies, just a few years older than Pa. He had trained world champions, twelve of them. He had been the WBA Trainer of the Year and is a member of their Hall of Fame. You may be asking yourself why he would want anything to do with a 29 year old writer who’d never step foot in a boxing gym. I don’t know.

Maybe he saw me as some kind of mascot. Or he may have just been tickled by my earnestness. But Brusa, worked with me every day I came in there. He was a friend to me at one of the lowest points in my life. I don’t think he knew that the good boxing was doing my body was a drop in the bucket compared to the good it was doing my spirit.

The heavy bag I used was right below a Panamanian flag. I took that as a sign that I was in the right place. I beat that heavy bag, day after day, until I started feeling better. Some days I would talk to Grandpa. Some days I would beat on the doctor who couldn’t save him. Some days I would have a good long talk with God. I didn’t get my answers to all my questions, but beating on that heavy bag sure did get me in some good shape.

Eventually, I sparred. And Brusa was in my corner. He’d call things out, things he’d taught me. When I watch fights, I’m always interested in the relationship between a fighter and his trainer. Often they seem so close. I once saw Buddy McGirt stop an Arturo Gatti fight because Gatti’s eye was swollen completely shut. He leaned down to Gatti and said, “I’m stopping it, Arturo. I love you too much.” I don’t know how many fans paid any attention to that. I did. It was stunningly beautiful. I thought, “It’s nice to have someone in your corner who cares.” I surely didn’t face any gruesome moments like that sparring with 16oz. gloves and headgear. But it was nice to know that Brusa was in my corner, even if it was just for a little early-morning sparring in a cold, empty gym.

“I’m’a take a leak.” I stood up after my pronouncement. (By the way, I DO NOT want to hear you talking like that.) I was fourteen and hanging out with my friends. The big Tyson/Spinks fight was about to start. “It’s just the first round,” I figured. “Hold on,” my buddy Carl said, “Go between rounds.” That worked out real well. See, Tyson knocked Spinks out in ninety-one seconds. It was the first round. It was the last round. It was the only round. It was literally awesome.

Being in Brooklyn when Tyson was king was amazing. I always felt like he represented a bunch of brothers the world had forgotten. But they couldn’t ignore him once he laced ‘em up and got in the ring. He was just a ball of fury, a fighting machine. He was the physical manifestation of the rage that gripped the Brownsvilles and the Bed-Stuys and the East New Yorks. Brooklyn had nothin’ but love for Iron Mike.

But then things went south for him. He went to prison. And I know you won’t believe this, but he bit a piece of Evander Holyfield’s ear off. It was kind’a like the Duran situation but with cannibalism.

Remember I said that you should never quit? If your other option seems to be biting off a piece of some nigga’s ear…quit. We’ll all get over it.

People made a lot of jokes about Tyson biting Holyfield. And rightly so. It was funny…in a way. But in another way it was tragic. Tyson had become the savage he believed the world saw in him, saw in all of us.

A generation before us had Ali. We had Tyson. I’ve always felt like the difference between them represented something deeper about the Black community after the Civil Rights Era. We somehow fell from beautiful to base, from majesty to minstrelry. Part of me still roots for Mike Tyson, even as he publicly considers a publicity stunt like fighting a woman. Just recently, a friend from New York admitted that she holds out hope that he’ll make one more comeback. It’s hard to accept that someone who represented hope for so many is now hopeless, a shell of his former self, a monument to potential never realized.

I’m back in the gym these days. After Grandma died, guess what? I got fat again! But I’ve been pounding on that heavy bag. I’ve been dropping weight. I’ve been punching out some of the pain of the past as I work on the body I hope will give me a whole lot of future, a whole lot of future with you. I guess you could say I’m fighting for our future. I guess you could say that in and out of the ring. But I hope you already know that.

I’m trying to teach you what I’ve learned fighting, living.

When you see an opening, don’t think about it. Just let your hands go.

Train hard, because a lot of fights are won before you step foot in the ring.

Sooner or later, you’re going to have to stand your ground and fight.

I hope this all makes sense to you. I’m saying it the best way I know how. After all, I’m a fighter. Just remember…

Protect yourself at all times.

Never quit.

Never bite a nigga’s ear off.

And no matter what goes down, I’m in your corner.

Now get out there and fight!

Love,
Daddy

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED?!

2006-11-13T18:13:00.000-08:00

Dubya ain't the only one who prematurely congratulates if you ask me.

Peep the latest Musing over at Pajiba for some post-midterm (sounds oxymoronic, no?) analysis.

Chicken Soup For A Nigga's Soul

2006-10-16T08:05:00.000-07:00

My mother’s chicken soup was gooder than a muthafucka. And that’s way fuckin’ better than “Mmm…Mmm…Good!”

Earlier this week, I was dealing with a nasty cold. I don’t get sick often, so it’s always a bit of a shock to me. But this cold was a beast. It had me congested and achy. And it did its best to convince me that it might just be the flu.

Then it struck me. Chicken soup. I would make some chicken soup. My mother always made me chicken soup when I was sick. Real chicken. Real soup. You know the kind. Potatoes and carrots boiled ‘til they were soft, but not mushy. Celery provided green accents that merited this Nutritional Information label: “This soup contains life. Known side effect: Good health.” Yes, I would make some chicken soup. Off to the store I went.

May be I had chicken soup on my mind because I’d recently seen the video for “Chicken Noodle Soup” by Webstar & Young B. Though there’s nothing inherently wrong with chicken noodle soup nor with “…a soda on the side,” I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling -- as the minutes of grinning and dancing passed -- that I was soaking in some ignorant shit.

I’m not the first, nor will I be the last to bemoan the Black folks I’ve known in my day whose kids could do the latest dance, but could not answer a simple question.

“5x3.” My mother stood there with my food in her hands. “Huh?” It was instinctual. I was stalling. She knew it. I knew it. And I also knew that my ability to gather myself and retrieve that answer from my memory was the only thing standing between me and my dinner. Deep breath. “15.” “Very good.” She didn’t smile or anything, but my mother was satisfied for the moment. She knew it. I knew it. And before I knew it, I knew my multiplication tables backward and forward.

I smiled to myself as I pushed my cart through Ralph’s. “Chicken? Check. Potatoes? Check. Carrots? Check. But where, oh where, do they keep the times tables? This shit ain’t gonna taste right without the times tables.” I was doing my best to recreate the soup in my mind, trying to think of everything that my mom used to put in there. But what would I use in place of times tables?

I walk past cans of chicken noodle soup and sneer, “And they call that soup?”

“CHICKEN NOODLE SOUP. CHICKEN NOODLE SOUP. CHICKEN NOODLE SOUP WITH A SODA ON THE SIDE.” In the video, kids dance on Harlem streets. (Even when we dance we rep where we from, right?) And as I watched, as I enjoyed the joy and energy that filled the screen, as these kids got “their light feet goin’,” a smile crept onto my face. I argued with myself.

NMN: Yeah, but do they know their times tables?

NMN (prime) : How you know they don’t know their times tables?

NMN: I didn’t say they didn’t. I’m just sayin’.

NMN (prime): You knew the times tables AND the latest dances. So, what are you sayin’?

But I knew damn well what I was saying. I was saying that not everybody is as lucky as me. I was saying that sometimes -- like we see in the video -- that whether its because Mommy has to go to work or she has to rush back to the TV because Maury has the paternity results and they’re back from commercial, some kids never get asked what five times three equals. Some kids don’t know. And some kids, like the ones I once had as a substitute teacher, still use the actual written tables as they do basic algebra in their eleventh grade class. I knew that, though it was possible to know how to do the Chicken Noodle Soup and know that 5x3 =15, that for far too many that is not the case. And in a disheartening percentage of that number the education is light on the ‘rithmetic and heavy on the rhythm. And that gives me the blues.

“With dumplings?” I always asked Ma if there would be dumplings. There always were, but I always asked. Looking back, I guess it enhanced the expectation. Those dumplings were sweet little treats in my mother’s soup, part of how Ma gave being sick an upside. “You want dumplings?” She knew I did. “Yeah,” I shot back. “Okay.” She smiled a smile as warm as the soup she was going to make me. And off to the store she went.

I must have tasted that soup fifty-eleven times. I just couldn’t get it quite right. I asked Mrs. NMN to taste it. “It’s fine,” she said. “Just give it a chance to cook. It just needs time now.”

I stood there quietly, watching over the simmering pot. I started to wonder if this first attempt at my mother’s chicken soup since she’s been gone wasn’t a way to heal something more than the common cold. One of the niglets let out a cry from their crib. Neither Mrs. NMN nor I moved. We’ve learned not to go running in there too quickly. Quiet. We talked.

Which of the twins is doing this new thing? Which of the twins is saying that new word? Which of the twins is playing that new game?

I stopped for a moment. “I love them so much,” I said, overwhelmed by the love and the realization. “I know,” Mrs. NMN smiled back.

“If it hadn’t been for them…” My voice trailed off. My wife knew the rest anyway. The niglets were born just a couple months after my mother died. I looked down at the soup and mused, “That was hard times. I don’t know what I would have done without them.” I didn’t have a good cry over losing my mother for about a year after her funeral.

LET IT RAIN. CLEAR IT OUT.

Mrs. NMN added, “I know what you mean. You just love them so much that it gives you a reason to live.”

And then it hit me like a bolt of lightning. Love. My mother’s love was in the cooking of that soup. And my love for her was in the tasting. No pot of soup I ever made would taste like hers. No pot of soup I ever made could taste like hers. Not to my tastebuds. It was a relief to realize that I didn’t have to try to make it taste the same. Without her love in there, this was a whole new recipe. My recipe.

“Oooh, that’s good.” Mrs. NMN lowered the spoon from her lips. “We should put some aside for the kids for tomorrow. They’re going to like that.”

I smiled at the thought, and wondered if the niglets might like my chicken soup.

I wonder if they’ll do the latest dances. I wonder if they’ll appreciate why I drilled them on their times tables. I wonder if they’ll understand why I say the latter is more important than the former, but that to have the latter AND the former is to have a rich life. I wonder if they’ll know that I’ll love them all the same. I wonder if, when they get sick, they’ll look forward to my chicken soup with dumplings in it, just the way they like.

And though it won’t ever be as good as my mother’s, it will be made with love. And I hope that the niglets grow up thinking, “Daddy’s chicken soup is gooder than a muthafucka.” That’s way fuckin’ better than “Mmm…Mmm…Good!”

ZIP IT!

2006-10-04T07:14:00.000-07:00

ZIP IT!

First of all…fuck Bob Woodward!

Mr. Woodward, I have two words for you: ZIP IT!

If you'd like to know why then click here and head on over to Pajiba.

Five Years Later

2006-09-11T13:32:00.000-07:00

It was an unremarkable morning. I woke up early as I often do. I had a script to read before heading off to a meeting. I laid out on the couch in the quiet of the morning. I probably would have had to stop to think of the date if you would have asked me at that moment. But today, five years later, I am very clear about it. It was September 11, 2001.

The phone rang. It was my little sister. "Mommy called me and said that planes flew into the Pentagon and the World Trade Center." "What?," I said incredulously. "Let me call you right back."

"The Pentagon and the World Trade Center ain't nowhere near each other," I thought. "That doesn't make any sense."

I turned on the TV to see what was going on so that I could call my sister back and clear things up for her. But what I saw made no sense to me.

A plane had flown into one of the towers. And there... came... another one. Holy shit!

She was right. She was also in Manhattan. So was my godmother. My mother was in Brooklyn. Where the fuck was my nephew? I was so many miles from my home and everyone I knew and loved there seemed to be in danger. I spent so many days worrying about the shit that might happen to them...in New York...the city that never sleeps...and that you should never sleep on. My mind was always full of all the dangers that might lurk around some corner, waiting to harm them. But I never thought of any shit like this. I don't think anybody had. It didn't make any sense.

I knew people who were killed in the towers. One of them I'd coached when I was an assistant football coach at my old high school. Another was a friend, Mark, who I'd played basketball with in high school. He did most of the playing. I mostly sat on the bench. But as I pulled those pine splinters out of my ass Mark and I did a lot of joking around. That's what I remember about him. He was always smiling or laughing or joking. I won't disrespect his memory by pretending that we were best friends or even that we'd been in touch since the high school days. But I can say that I was sad in a specific way for Mark, who I never knew to have anything other than a smile and a kind word for those around him. I was sad for his family, who I was sure had shared many more laughs with him than I had and who would surely miss him in the worst way.

But all of that would come later. I didn't feel any sadness or melancholy immediately. I just felt pissed. May be it was the New Yorker in me. But I was ready to see some asses get whupped behind that shit. I thought of a friend who'd been schooling me about bin Laden years earlier and thought immediately that he was so horrifically right. And I told another friend that we should just tell Afghanistan to give his ass up or there'd be a hole in the map where they used to be. But it turns out that things were not that simple.

Flags waved. And I was going to buy one to flap above my SUV. (Now, that's a complicated image.) But then I heard about the Puerto Ricans who got beat up by a mob who assumed they were Arab. And I thought, "That doesn't make any sense." So, I didn't wave my flag because I wasn't for going out and stomping brownskinned people and it seemed that I might be aligning myself with that if I did wave a flag.

Then came Iraq. And I thought, "That doesn't make any sense." After all, we were supposed to be righting the wrong of 9/11 and Saddam didn't have anything to do with that. But a lot of Americans were convinced he did. That didn't make any sense either. But off we went.

Suddenly the reality of my cousin being chased down the streets of Lower Manhattan by a cloud of dust and debris that he described as being like the real-life version of "The Blob" became blurred by the fallacies fed to us by politicians on every side who sought to further their agendas and careers. Congressional voting would be so twisted and turned by politicians and the pundits who lend them credibility that the American public would in the end have trouble telling its elbow from its asshole in the so-called "War on Terror." And it strikes me that playing politics with a human tragedy doesn't make any sense.

Five years later, financial and political wrangling have held up the rebuilding at Ground Zero. Five years later, conspiracy theories go unchecked as video tapes that could answer questions about what happened at the Pentagon are held by the government. Five years later, Ray Nagin, representing a city victimized by another national disaster, displays a stunning lack of empathy and humanity as he sinpes about the "hole in the ground" that hasn't been fixed up in in New York. Five years later, ABC plans to aid and abet the hijacking of a historical event for political purposes by airing a "docudrama" filled with facts that are, at best, in question. Five years later, the 9/11 widows have been publicly insulted and attacked by Ann Coulter. Five years later, the nation seems content to debate whether blow jobs or the clearing of brush were the distraction that allowed 9/11 to happen. Five years later, many Democrats are paying the price for the cowardice they showed in following the pack when the courage to be the voice of dissent was needed. Five years later, I shudder at the heightened religious overtones of the international political landscape. Five years later, I wonder if God -- if there is any, if he/she/it is on any side in a violent struggle -- would want the world this way. Five years later, my heart is broken...again. Five years later, and still it doesn't make any sense.

Your Name Is Bush!!!

2006-09-06T16:06:00.000-07:00

I try. I really do try. I try with all my mind, heart and soul to go through my day and see shit the way others do. But it just doesn't work for A New Millennium Nigga. Take this picture:

What do you see?

To find out what A New Millennium Nigga sees

click here

and head on over to Pajiba.

U.S.A.D.D.

2006-08-29T15:07:00.000-07:00

NEW MILLENIUM NIGGA NEWS BRIEF (transcript provided by Reuters)
(credit given to Paul Mooney who introduced the idea of "The Nigga News" years ago)

NMN: With a media landscape that is overrun with sensationalized stories, we here at The New Millennium Nigga News Brief take great pride in bringing you the important stories. And today we have just one of those types of stories for you.

August 29, 2006. Do you know what today is?

A small square over NMN's shoulder reads "Do You Know What Today Is?"

NMN: It's our anniversary. One year ago today Katrina and Dubya proved that they have something in common. For one, the fact that they blew last August caused a lot of people to die. I mean, the way they took New Orleans by storm... Turn out the lights and light a candle. That's all I have to say. In my mind they're a couple with star power.

Speaking of which, Brangelina -- or Brad and Angelina for those of you not in the celebrity know -- are looking to adopt another child. Apparently Angelina feels that--

NMN puts a finger to his earpiece.

NMN: Really? They adopted me? I didn't even know I was up for adoption.

NMN looks into camera.

NMN: Brad -- or should I say Dad? -- I plan to be the Black son that every white man in America dreams of having. And Angelina...wassup with the Oedipal, mami? You know Sanjay Gupta was on here last week and said that breastfeeding is good for brain development.

NMN winks at camera.

NMN: But what was I saying? Oh yeah, Katrina. See just because it hasn't been in the news constantly doesn't mean that it's not still an important story. I mean, that kind of death and destruction is certainly worthy of our national atten--

NMN puts his finger to his ear.

NMN: This just in...Some white girl is missing. Now, this is important, so pay attention. We want everybody across the nation to occupy themselves with looking for this little white girl. I mean if a missing white girl wasn't the most important shit in the world, why'd they name the AMBER Alert after a little white girl. Hello. Because if it was an ALIZE Alert everybody would switch over to American Idol. That's why. I mean, what's more important than a missing little white girl? Nothing. That's what. Not Iraq. Not Lebanon. Not Darfur. Not nothing.

Tears well in NMN's eyes.

NMN: Poor little white girl. It's so strange how no Black kids ever go missing. We're just lucky as a community I guess--

NMN listens to his earpiece.

NMN: They do. Then why don't we ever have days on end of around the clock--What the fuck do you mean who gives a fuck about them? Keep talkin' like I won't come back to the control room and stomp your ass. It's just that type of attitude that has allowed America to move on from the plight of children displaced by Katrina. Oh yeah, Katrina. I almost forgot. Dammit! Sorry. Time for sports.

This just in. We've received word from Dallas training camp that Terrell Owens is still an asshole. For more on T.O. and his assholic ways please go online to The Musings of A New Millennium Nigga and bask in the vitriolic rant that is "Big Head Niggas." (www.musingsnmn.blogspot.com/2006/04/big-head-niggas.html)

But before we run out of time I did want to speak to Mayor Nagin's recent comment defending the clean-up effort in New Orleans. The fount of mind-blowing quotes said, "That’s alright. You guys in New York can’t get a hole in the ground fixed and it’s five years later. So let’s be fair." Shouldn't our politicians be political animals? How fucking stupid and insensitive would you have to be to say that in a "60 Minutes" interview? The man's not Marion Barry, but still... Am I the only Black person who cringes when he says the worst fucking thing at the worst possible fucking time. It's a time for rebuil--

NMN puts his finger to his earpiece.

NMN: News Flash. Having run out of names remotely related to his original moniker of Puffy, Sean "Diddy" Combs, has now changed his public name to Osvaldo. For those of you keeping score at home, that's Sean "Osvaldo" Combs. An odd choice to be sure, but-- Wait a minute. I just want to say this about Katrina --

NMN puts his finger to his earpiece...again. He's disgusted.

NMN: Fine. Many are saying that Conan O' Brien was insensitive to air a skit he had filmed days, if not weeks before the telecast of the Emmys, because there'd been a plane crash in Kentucky and the people whose lives were ripped apart by that crash might have rushed home to watch the muthafuckin' Emmys and been offended.

NMN listens then shakes his head.

NMN: And it's really, as always, about the kids. What?!?!?! The kids?!?!?! That's just fucking stupid. Get real, people. Kids don't watch the Emmys. And they certainly don't watch the news. So unless somebody's making plane crash jokes on Laguna-fucking-Beach I'm pretty sure the kids will be okay. So, log on and vote or whatever you do when you answer stupid ass questions to fill our air time. But back to Katrina.

NMN looks at the ceiling in frustration. He sighs.

NMN: (uninterested) Today it was reported that the President likes fart jokes. This is important for you to know because how else could you possibly determine that he's the man equipped to be the "Leader of the Free World." At least Clinton got his dick sucked. That's grown man shit. Doesn't it just make you sad to know that somewhere this sentence has been uttered, "Hey, Prime Minister, pull my finger." Fine, you want to do this story. I'll do this story.

Mr. President, here's a fart joke for you. What do the federal response to Katrina, a fart and Iraq all have in common?

Ya give up.

Ya really give up.

They all stink and they were all the work of an asshole. Get it.

NMN smiles at camera.

NMN: So, anyway, as I was saying--

NMN puts his finger to his ear.

NMN: OUT OF TIME?!?!?!?!

ANNOUNCER: The Nigga Network: Programming That Can't Possibly Be More Troubling Than What's On BET...or CNN...or MSNBC...or Fox...or

The sound fades out as the Announcer never runs out of names.

The Fall Line

2006-08-21T11:55:00.000-07:00

A New Millennium Nigga is hardly a fashion expert, but I am here to tell you that, this fall, brown will be the new black...when it comes to political race-baiting that is.

The party that brought you Willie Horton now brings you "Macaca." You see, that's a term that is essentially used to equate people with monkeys. And that's what Virginia Senator, George Allen call an Indian-American man who worked for his opponent and had the audacity to videotape him. What he said exactly was this:

"This fellow here, over here with the yellow shirt, macaca, or whatever his name is. He's with my opponent. He's following us around everywhere. And it's just great…. Let's give a welcome to macaca, here. Welcome to America and the real world of Virginia." (LA Times)

Yes, Virginia, there is racism in America. And it's alive and well. It resides in the halls of the Senate. And judging by the lack of denunciation from his party, it is still fully acceptable amongst Republicans.

It is not, however, acceptable to me. So I say...first of all...FUCK SENATOR GEORGE ALLEN!

Not that he would care. He reportedly took his yearbook picture wearing a confederate flag in his lapel. He reportedly flew a confederate flag in his own home until recently. He reportedly displayed a noose in his Virginia office. And he now reportedly "welcomes" Indian-Americans to America and the "real world" of Virginia, with the term "macaca," a French variation on the idea of a "porch monkey." (And here I thought the Republicans were still mad at the French...Does this mean that we can call muthafuckin Freedom Fries muthafuckin' French Fries again?!?!?!?!) By all reports, George Allen is a racist bastard, who has done nothing but sully the name of a Hall of Fame coach. (With no evidence to the contrary, I will assume that in this one case the apple fell a considerable distance from the tree that was legendary NFL coach, George Allen, the Sentor's father.) I am pretty fucking sure that he could not give a shit what the fuck I -- a Black man, an American -- think.

Yes, Brown is the new Black. (Gay-bashing is soooooo 2004. Helllllloooooo.) In our post-9/11 world you can say and do anything you like to people with brown skin, apparently, without raising the ire of the American public. Where are all the "What about the children?" cries I heard after a glimpse of Janet Jackson's tit? You can wage "pre-emptive" wars and kill hundreds of thousands of brown people. You can mispronounce Saddam's name until it sounds like Sodom or a curse word. You can insult a fellow American and call him a monkey. Traditionally, the fifth anniversary gift in America is wood. But on the fifth anniversary of 9/11, with mid-term elections around the corner and national unity transformed into rampant xenophobia, America's going to be getting a heapin' helpin' of racism. And this country is going to gobble it up. I will go on record betting that Senator Allen gets re-elected. Welcome to America, people! Welcome to the real world of Virginia!

Senator Allen - or "my cracker", or whatever your name is -- you opposed the recognition of the King holiday. But now that the nation has chosen to respect a man who worked to destroy the blanket of racism and hatred that you wrap himself in, I hope that you will take advantage of the day off this coming year to do a little homework on America. You see, not all Americans look like you. As a matter of fact, your friend "macaca" from the rally is from Virginia you ignorant fucking bigot. His name is S.R. Sidarth. He is a senior at the University of Virginia. He is an American. And he is a man, not a monkey. So, fuck you.

I know that he is a man, because he displayed great restraint in not whuppin' yo' ass when you disrespected him and his people. But you should be careful. You use that kind of language around the wrong muthafuckas -- muthafuckas like me, for instance -- and you might regret having a noose so handy.

Lethal Weapon 5

2006-08-09T10:11:00.000-07:00

LETHAL WEAPON 5: Hate…The Deadliest Weapon

based on a true bigot

EXT. PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY - NIGHT
A Lexus careens past a sign that reads: SPEED LIMIT 45 MPH.

INT./EXT. LEXUS – NIGHT

The speedometer reads: 87 MPH.

Mel Gibson, acclaimed actor, director and raging alcoholic sings along spiritedly to Borat’s “Throw the Jew Down the Well.” He’s not laughing. He doesn’t realize it was a joke. Neither does he realize that he’s a fucking joke.

A POLICE SIREN WAILS.

EXT. PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY – NIGHT

Two Officers approach Mel’s Lexus.

OFFICER 1
License and registration.

Mel hands his license and registration to Officer 1.

MEL
You may take my license and registration but you will never take my freedom!

OFFICER 1
Ohhhh-kay.

He looks over at Officer 2, who just shrugs.

OFFICER 2
Do you know why we stopped you?

MEL
Because I’ve got worse luck than a baby Jew dick facing a mole.

OFFICER 2
What?!

MEL
You know…a mole. Snip. Snip. Bye-bye, dick tip.

OFFICER 1
You mean a mohel?

MEL
Mole, mohel. To-may-to, to-mah-to. Halloween, holocaust.

OFFICER 2
Have you been drinking?

MEL
Are you a Jew?

OFFICER 2
What?

MEL
Huh?

Officer 1 reaches into the car and pulls the keys from the ignition.

OFFICER 1
Please step out of the car, sir.

MEL
You may take my car keys but you will never take my freedom!

CUT TO:

EXT. PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY – NIGHT

A police tow truck pulls away with Mel’s Lexus.

As a handcuffed Mel is put in the backseat of the police cruiser—

MEL
You may take my car but –

OFFICER 1
Yeah. We know. Your freedom. You have the right to remain silent, Adolf. Use it.

Officer 1 pushes him into the car and slams the door behind him.

CUT TO:

INT. POLICE STATION – DAY

Captain Murphy sits at his desk in his office.

CAPTAIN MURPHY
Now, after being arrested Gibson kept talking about losing something. But he was so shitfaced nobody could figure out what it was.

Across from him sits Det. Riggs (who could pass for Mel Gibson in a pinch).

RIGGS
I’ll work the case. But not with a Nigger.

NEW MILLENNIUM NIGGA
The name is Nigga.

A New Millennium Nigga sits next to Riggs.

NMN
Detective Nigga, muthafucka. But you should call me NMN. I don’t like how ‘nigger’ falls off your lips so easy.

Riggs stands and squares off.

RIGGS
That’s fine with me, Detective Nigger.

NMN stands nose to nose with Riggs.

NMN
You better not say it again or else.

CAPTAIN MURPHY
Nigga. Calm down. Riggs, don’t say it. Nigga’s crazy.

RIGGS
Or else what…Nigger.

CUT TO:

EXT. CEDAR SINAI EMERGENCY ROOM – NIGHT

Nigga and Riggs walk out of the emergency room. Riggs is limping.

RIGGS
Fine. I’m sorry I called you ‘Nigger.’

NMN
Okay. Then I’m sorry I shot you.

RIGGS
I’m also sorry that I was worked on by a Jew doctor at a place called Cedar Sinai.

NMN rolls his eyes and opens the car door.

NMN
Let’s get to work. Mel Gibson lost something and it’s our job to find it.

Riggs looks up at the Cedar Sinai sign as he gets in the passenger seat.

RIGGS
I’m too anti-semitic for this shit.

CUT TO:

INT. BAR – NIGHT

A Woman Bartender wipes down the bar as Nigga and Riggs question her.

BARTENDER
He was talking crazy. ‘The holocaust never happened…The Jews started all the wars in the world…’

RIGGS
First, you say he was talking crazy. Then you say he was saying that the holocaust never happened and that the Jews started all the wars in the world. Which one was it, Sugar Tits?

BARTENDER
Excuse me!

RIGGS
I mean, the entire world conspiring to make up the story that was arguably the historical centerpiece of the 20th century…Makes sense to me.

BARTENDER
Did you just call me ‘Sugar Tits?’

RIGGS
Yeah. Why? Are your tits not sweet?

NMN
Let me apologize for my partner. He’s a hateful bigot. That kind of shit comes out in all sorts of ways. Thanks for your help.

BARTENDER
You’re welcome.

She turns to Riggs.

BARTENDER
You’re an asshole.

RIGGS
And you’re an argument for taking back women’s right to vote.

NMN
Will you shut the fuck up?

NMN turns to the bartender.

NMN
Ignore him. By the way, what was Gibson drinking?

BARTENDER
Screaming Nazis.

NMN
Figures.

The Bartender turns and walks away.

RIGGS
Those are my favorite.

NMN
Figures.

RIGGS
Hey, NMN. Didn’t they say Gibson had a bottle of tequila with him when he got stopped?

NMN
Yeah.

RIGGS
Well, lookee there, Senor.

Riggs points to a Latino Man at the bar.

CUT TO:

EXT. BAR – NIGHT

Nigga and Riggs walk out of the bar.

NMN
You should be careful how you talk to people.

RIGGS
How was I supposed to know he was the owner?

NMN
Even if he wasn’t, I don’t think ‘Hey Paco, get over here before I call INS,’ is the way to start a conversation.

RIGGS
Look, I see a Mexican, I think tequila.

NMN
He was Dominican.

RIGGS
What’d I say?

NMN
You’re going to get brought up on charges.

RIGGS
Who cares? All I have to do is get some Jew lawyer to Jew down the charges to a slap on the wrist.

NMN
Don’t think I won’t shoot you again just ‘cause you ain’t insultin’ Black people, you ign’ant bastard.

A New Millennium Nigga opens the car door.

RIGGS
What? What did I say?

He climbs into the passenger seat.

RIGGS
I’m too anti-semitic for this shit.

EXT. PARKING LOT – NIGHT

Riggs follows A New Millennium Nigga through the lot.

RIGGS
I don’t know why we had to waste time getting the keys. I thought you people all had to learn how to steal cars before you dropped out of high school and got your baby mothers pregnant.

NMN
One. It’s ‘baby mama.’ Two. Shooting your racist ass is still on the table.

They step up to the trunk of Mel Gibson’s Lexus. A New Millennium Nigga pulls the keys from his pocket and opens it. He smiles down.

NMN
Just as I suspected.

CUT TO:

INT. POLICE STATION – NIGHT

A New Millennnium Nigga, standing amidst a crowd of Detectives, drops a human brain on a table.

CAPTAIN MURPHY
A brain?

NMN
A mind.

RIGGS
You mean he lost his mind?

NMN
We should have known.

CAPTAIN MURPHY
Why? Because when asked his thoughts on gay people he reportedly said, ‘They take it up the ass,’ then gestured and explained eloquently, ‘This is only for taking a shit.’

RIGGS
Don’t be ridiculous. People get away with being crude and hateful when talking about gay people all the time.

NMN
Sad, but true.

CAPTAIN MURPHY
Oh, I know. It must be because he was able to connect getting stopped for speeding and arrested on a DUI to Jewish people at all, never mind in an anti-semitic way.

NMN
No. We should have known he had lost his mind because he works in Hollywood and he let a few drinks get him talking bad about Jewish people. That’s like Pat Reilly getting caught telling nigger jokes.

Everyone laughs.

RIGGS
You’re right. They’re a bunch of Shylocks. Those Jews are going to take a pound of Mel’s flesh.

NMN
That’s it.

A New Millennium Nigga pulls his gun and shoots Riggs, who falls to the floor bleeding profusely. Apparently, if you shoot a racist, anti-semitic, sexist, general bigot, he does indeed bleed. He gasps for his last breath.

RIGGS
I’m too anti-semitic for this shit.

Riggs dies.

Everyone cheers.

CAPTAIN MURPHY
If only hatred had died right along with him.

NMN
You’re right. Hatred is the deadliest weapon of all…besides this here gun that is.

They all laugh.

Credits roll.

What the fuck is a playard?

2006-07-17T09:09:00.000-07:00

For those of you unfamiliar with the Min-o-Prop or, more formally, the Minister of Propaganda, he is the man who creates those crazy images you find in this blog. Well, it turns out the Min-o-Prop and Mrs. Min-o-Prop are expecting a Mini-o-Prop any day now. That said, there's some shit I have to say in one of my favorite art forms, the open letter.

Dear Min-o-Prop,

WHAT THE FUCK IS A PLAYARD? When you become a new parent, there's lots of shit to learn...sometimes literally. There's the miconeum. That's the first shit you have to worry about...even before they're born. Turns out that infants will start taking dumps right there inside of Mommy (quite R. Kelly, if you ask me!) and then will eat it (quite Chuck Berry, if you ask me!). So, as it turns out, with no prompting some kids try to eat shit and die right off the bat.

Read lots of baby books and you'll have a list of shit like that as long as your arm or my -- well, not that long...but pretty fuckin' long -- that they will give you to worry about. Rest easy, most kids turn out fine. Chances are that your kid won't be afflicted by some condition that only impacts .01% of the babies born in the Caucus Mountains. And no, your kid probably won't eat shit and die. It is their destiny to make YOU deal with their shit for years to come.

So, more than likely, the first shit you deal with will be miconeum. It looks like wet tar. You'll think it's cute. Having a new baby makes you fuckin' loopy like that. Nobody else thinks your kid's shit is cute. Trust me. I'm still not allowed within 50 feet of Roscoe's for making that mistake.

After that you'll head into garden variety baby poop. Milk in. This shit out. Doesn't stink too bad. And as long as you can keep it contained in a diaper -- by the way, not a given I have learned the hard way -- you should be alright.

But there's other shit. All this shit. Car seats...and strollers...and baby carriers, which you may also hear called a Baby Bjorn. Beware: the fancier the name sounds, the more you will pay for the same shit.

Which leads me to playards? What the fuck is a playard, you ask? So did I. See, here's what happened. A well-intentioned, more experienced mother came by the house to visit/commiserate/thank God she didn't have a newborn anymore just after we brought the niglets home. As we talked, she asked what must have seemed a very simple question. "Do you have a playard?"

A little panic bubbled in my guts. I was scared, scared that she would tell others that Cedar Sinai had allowed that "ign'ant muthafucka out the hospital with not one, but two babies, and he don't even know what the fuck a playard is." I tried to think. My mind scrambled. But, alas, I knew not of the playard of which she spoke.

See, when I was a kid we had these things called play pens. It was named a pen, because after all if you sit in a pile of your own shit, you live like an animal. The name was appropriate. But as time went on, I guess some White mom felt that little Johnny would be scarred by having to sit his ass in a pen. Or some Black mom was too scared to utter the phrase, "Antwan's in the pen." Either way, I had heard during Mrs. NMN's pregnancy that they now called a play pen a "Pack n' Play."

So, I knew what a Pack N' Play was. But what the fuck was a playard? Turns out a "Playard" ain't nothin' but a fuckin' "Pack N' Play" which in turn ain't nothin' but a fuckin' play pen. But if Babies r' Us called it a play pen, you would expect to buy it for a price similar to the one your father paid all those years ago. And they can't have that. They have to bend you over the counter -- after you've waited in the checkout line for the entire third fucking trimester -- and have you pay "Playard" prices for a fucking play pen which, if your kid is anything like my niglets, won't get no fuckin' use, because they will believe that it is their God-given goddamn right to be held all fucking day long. If you can't tell, I'm a little bitter about that shit.

So much shit! You'll see. It can be classified by color and texture most simply. On occasion, you'll also want to acknowledge quantity. This is particularly handy if you and the Mrs. are playing a late-night game of "Not It" when a diaper change is needed at 3 o-fuckin-clock in the fucking morning. If you can say, "Come on, man. I changed him/her earlier and it was a dump the size of a fucking Prius," you give yourself a fighting chance. Of course, you would then have to weather some onslaught about the rigors of pregnancy -- Hint: You have no answer for that. -- or childbirth -- Hint: See first hint...and multilply by one million. -- to win the debate. It won't happen. But you will have been competitive. And sometimes that's the best you can hope for, my friend.

Ahh yes, you've got "green runny." You've got your "red clay pellets." I've recently discovered "camouflage mound." And sometimes you get the "classic brown overflow." I've stood in a restaurant bathroom wiping shit from my shirt, arms and hands. (I called Zagat to share my experience, but no one has called back.) But the most memorable shit I've encountered will forever be known as a "Code Red."

There I was innocently bathing the niglets, when I peered past the bubbles looking for a toy so I could play with them. "That's odd," I thought, "I don't remember buying a floating Mr. Hanky." My eyes widened as the realization thudded against my skull. I sounded the alarm. "Mrs. NMN, CODE RED! We have a CODE RED!" She came running. Though we had never discussed the eventuality, she knew exactly what I meant. Yes, one of the niglets had shit in the tub.

Bet that's not what you had in mind when you and the Mrs. started "trying." I bet you weren't thinking about shit like babyproofing. That shit never ends. You can read lots of books about it, but here's my thumbnail on how you should babyproof. Get on your hands and knees and crawl around your house. Every few feet ask yourself this simple question: What is the dumbest fuckin' shit I could do at this very moment?

(Special note: Kids will put anything in their mouth. ANYTHING!!! Except, of course, the food you feed them which they will promptly spit on you.)

Then all you have to do is close off that particular path to the emergency room.

So, in conclusion...

Congratulations! And good luck!

Welcome to the fraternity, brother. And I mean that shit!

Not sure that you're ready? I sure wasn't. I guess I'm still not sure. But don't worry babyproofing. Don't worry about diaper sizes. (Just relax and read the box.) Or if you're bonding correctly. (If you're bonding, that's correct.) You'll figure all that shit out. In the end, who gives a fuck what a fucking playard is?

If you really want to know if you can be a father, here are the questions I think you should be thinking about:

So I ask you, do you give a shit? Do you know what love is? Do you know what selflessness is? Do you know what it is to see all the goodness in the world in something that weighs less than a big bag of rice? Do you know what it is to see a first smile and have all the troubles and bullshit of the world recede so far into the background that they basically disappear? Do you know what it is to give your whole self to someone thankfully? and to realize that they are giving even more to you just by being? If not, you will. Fatherhood is some serious shit.

Exhaustedly Yours,
A New Millennium Nigga

WHO IS STAR JONES?!?!?!

2006-07-12T17:12:00.000-07:00

Welcome back to WNMN Radio 1863...the home of the "Slam-Bam-Thank You Ma'am-Oh Shit!-They shootin!-GODDDAMN!-Summer Jam!"

All you simple muthafuckas have to do is sit your ass near a radio all summer listening to ads that we get paid out the glutes for and we will lace .00000000000000001% of you with nosebleed tickets to see bad stage performances of the songs you should be sick of after listening to our wack-ass rotation through three months of Africa-hot weather.

And you can bet that no matter how many times we talk about how good it is to have Black people come together in peace, some ign'ant muthafucka will ruin it for every-fuckin'-body by clappin' dey pistol instead of dey fuckin' hands.

So, be sure to look for us...leading the evening news...embarassin' self-respectin' Black people everywhere. It happens every year. Like the changing of the seasons...or that muthafuckin' "shocking" study that shows that Hollywood is still as racist, sexist and generally fuckin' fucked up as it was the year before.

Alright, niggas...Next up, we got the latest battle rap. Looks like the ladies want to get down with all that cheddar that goes with havin' beef. Here's HGTV's Star Jones with..."I'M STAR JONES!!!"

(The track for Mike Jones' "Back Then" starts.)

I’M STAR JONES!!!

(Chorus)
When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong

When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong. (I’M HUNGRY!)

When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong

When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong. (I’M HUNGRY!)

I’M STAR JONES!!!

(Verse 1)
When Barbara Walters says my name
The ho never shows no love
She had me booted out the club
Fired, like I was a scrub

It was her “View”
The thing to do
Was to choose fuckin’ Rosie
In my “View”
I was the Star
I would’a thought she would’a chose me

Recognize. My name is Star
Yeah, I might’a took the shit too far
Sponsor my wedding, Gimme some bedding
And maybe then I’ll plug your shit
Yeah, I was straight runnin’ shit
On some ol’ corporate thuggin’ shit

So they kicked me off the show
And that’s fuckin’ up my dough
Plus, my man is on the low (allegedly)
They got Star Jones about to blow

Befo’ when steaks was on the grill
Befo’ I had to skip some meals
A sista had a fuckin’ way to deal. (Yeah)

Befo’ when steaks was on the grill
Befo’ I had to skip some meals
A sista had a fuckin’ way to deal. (Yeah)

(I said...) Befo’ when steaks was on the grill
Befo’ I had to skip some meals
A sista had a fuckin’ way to deal. (Because…)

(Chorus)
When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong

When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong. (I’M HUNGRY!)

When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong

When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong. (I’M HUNGRY!)

I’M STAR JONES!!!

(Verse 2)
Since I got that bypass
Folks been talkin’ ‘bout my ass
They say it shrunk too fuckin’ fast
They put a sista’s spot on blast

Even Al Roker
That joker
Tried to call me out
Then when I leave “The View”
Babs went and fuckin’ bawled me out

And Elizabeth and Joy
Fuck y’all fuckin’ bitches too
Nine years
I was down wit you
Now what the fuck am I to do?

I been callin’ agencies
Just to see
Can they handle me
They say,
“You’ve got no fucking talent.
How many Ryan Seacrests can there be?”

Befo’ when steaks was on the grill
Befo’ I had to skip some meals
A sista had a fuckin’ way to deal. (Yeah)

Befo’ when steaks was on the grill
Befo’ I had to skip some meals
A sista had a fuckin’ way to deal. (Yeah)

(I said...) Befo’ when steaks was on the grill
Befo’ I had to skip some meals
A sista had a fuckin’ way to deal. (Because…)

(Chorus)
When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong

When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong. (I’M HUNGRY!)

When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong

When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong. (I’M HUNGRY!)

I’M STAR JONES!!!

Tough Love

2006-07-04T09:00:00.000-07:00

America walks up to the quiet house, stumbling drunk. After fumbling with his keys, he opens the door and trips into the living room. There, in the darkness, sits A New Millennium Nigga.

NMN: Where the fuck have you been? What the fuck have you been doing in Iraq for three years when I sent your ass to Afghanistan? I mean, seriously. Get your shit together. You're not some baby republic anymore. You're the United Fucking States of America. You're 230 years old today. And it's time you grew the fuck up.

230 years old and you still believe -- or at least tell - fairy tales like "democracy is on the march" and "mission accomplished." The time comes in every boy's life when he must put away his childish ways. That time has come and gone for you. Grow the fuck up! And don't tell me no bullshit about having to spread democracy to people who have been beaten, tortured and murdered by an evil government. 'Cause if that's what you're about, logically you would have to be one suicidal muthafucka, muthafucka.

230 years old and you are still the same racist muthafucka you have always been. No, there's no more slavery...officially, at least. But it's the small things. They add up. Like Big Ben Roethlisberger. Now, here this muthafucka rides a motorcycle...with no helmet -- AND NO GODDAMN LICENSE! -- and the sports world wrings its hands, "praying for a speedy recovery." A year earlier, Kellen Winslow Jr. does the same shit and everybody I heard on sports radio was using his accident to confirm and affirm that he was a bad seed. It is selfish and irresponsible for a person upon whom others depend to be out playing Russian Roulette with his life and their livelihood. But if that's true for K2 it has got to be true for Big Ben. See, it's little shit like that.

JJ Redick, basketball star and poster boy from Duke -- and by the way, their lacrosse team is a study in what's wrong with America -- gets busted driving drunk and where's the outrage in the sports world. But let Chad Johnson do an (entertaining) end zone celebration and, to hear people tell it, the very fabric of America is being shredded by his negritude. It's shit like that.

Shit like that fucking Andrea Yates. She drowned her fucking kids in a bathtub and admitted she did it. As a matter of fact, after drowning the first couple, one of the kids said, "Hey ma. Why you killin' everybody?" She chased that muthafucka down and killed him too. Now she's getting a new trial. And you're wringing your hands again. She's got post-partum depression?! She still killed her fucking kids. But because she's some nice white lady, who reminds Agnes in Des Moines of herself, we have to come up with some way to explain that she's less a murderer than the niggas you love to use to lead the local news. You can give Andrea Yates a thousand fucking trials, but at the end of the day, she's still gonna be the lady who killed her helpless fucking kids. Insanity? Really? OF COURSE SHE WAS INSANE! SHE KILLED HER FUCKING KIDS!

But where's all this compassion, all this fucking pious understanding, when some nigga shoots another nigga over a pair of sneakers or a vial of crack or a fifty-cent pack of cookies. Don't you think those muthafuckas might be crazy too? A friend of mine used to say that he was "Depressed on account of being oppressed." Most the niggas in jail are out dey goddamn minds. So let's give that shit a fancy name and set those muthafuckas free. I like "Post-Ghetto-Good-Muthafuckin'-Sense-Deficiency-Trigger- Finger-Hyperactivity-Disorder." But I'll leave the naming of the shit to the professionals. I just wish that everybody cared so much about mental health when the defendant looked like Lionel Jefferson instead of Marsha Brady. But all I hear is, "Marsha. Marsha. Marsha." And it makes me wish I could watch that clip of her beak being broken on a fucking loop on a jumbotron in Times Square.

230 years old and you still hold on to the same bullshit, non-sensical stereotypes you always have. It makes no fucking sense, you ignorant bastard. BLACK PEOPLE ARE LAZY?! Jus always remember this:

WHO THE FUCK WENT TO GET WHOM TO DO WHOSE MUTHAFUCKIN' WORK?! Lazy?! Fuck you, you slave driving piece of shit. There wouldn't be an America without the uncompensated sweat equity of Black people. LAZY?! You got a fuckin' nerve. But that comes as no surprise. You had to have a fucking nerve to do that shit in the first place.

BLACK PEOPLE CAN'T SWIM?! Just because niggas drowned during the Middle Passage does not mean they couldn't swim. It just means that they rathered diving into shark-infested waters to becoming your slaves, to spending another minute with you. And getting back to Iraq, that's your fucking problem now. You never consider that being around you ain't no privilege. You may be surprised by the insurgency, but I ain't. And I don't think I'm alone. You have no idea how many niggas in America have a litttle (unexpressed) Nat Turner in them.

BLACK PEOPLE LOVE FRIED CHICKEN AND WATERMELON?! First of all, I have, in my lifetime, known a brother whose nickname was "Watermelon." And still the people I know who love fried chicken and watermelon most were all white! Tell some white people there's gonna be fried chicken and/or watermelon served and they get a look of joy on their face like there's going to be a "90210" marathon on all fucking day. You know what? I had a chance to fly on a private jet last year (with a lovely group of white people). You know what they served? Cold fried chicken. I don't know what your hang up is about chicken and watermelon, but, for a change, don't put your shit on us.

230 years old! And what have you amounted to? You're a racist muthafucka who refuses to clean up the messes he makes...at home or abroad. You know what? Go straight to bed. No dinner. Let's face it. You could afford to miss a meal with your slothful, gluttonous, ever-widening ass.

So as you watch those fireworks tonight -- from your bedroom window, because you are on punishment, muthafucka -- realize that I, A New Millennium Nigga, am trying like those fireworks to bring light to your darkness. Now, if you would just listen and change your ugly, racist ways maybe by the tricentennial you will have managed to wash some of the blood of your Black people and of brown, yellow and every other color people throughout the world from your violent, wicked hands.

AMERICA STORMS OFF TO BED.

NMN: (after him) And no more invasions for another ten years, young man!

THE BEDROOM DOOR SLAMS.

NMN: HAPPY MUTHAFUCKIN' BIRTHDAY TO YOU!

Brothers on Fatherhood

2006-06-19T10:00:00.000-07:00

Black Fatherhood. A complicated topic to be sure. As I contemplated what this week's Musing would be, I found myself troubled by the disparity between the messages I receive -- essentially that Black Fatherhood is an oxymoron -- and the reality I see with brothers throughout my life who, as fathers... sons... cousins... brothers... mentors... simply as Black men, have illustrated for me the beauty of Black Fatherhood. And there are so many men out there, so many whom I do not know. They prove every day, in many ways that Black Fatherhood is far from an oxymoron. It is a beautiful reality.

So, I decided to have the brothers speak (or write) for themselves. Enjoy.

What is a father…it is someone who takes care of his family and makes the sacrifices necessary for them to achieve the dreams that they may not even know that they have yet.

My journey to fatherhood began long before Thursday May 26th 2005 at 22:22, the time I officially became a father to a 5lbs 6.7oz beautiful baby girl named Jazz Laura Dow. It began long before my brothers and sisters combined produced my 8 nieces and 1 nephew…each of which I love like my own. Yes, I said 8 girls and 1 boy…by the way another one is on the way (my brother and his wife not Nik and Me) so if you’re counting, including Jazz that’s 9 to 2….yes it’s a boy. It began long before I was a Big Brother for Big Brother’s Big Sisters. Long before I was a mentor to children in the village outside of my Alma Mater Lincoln University in PA. It began long before I physically could produce a child. My journey to fatherhood began with my Dad.

August 1978 my father at the time 38 decided to move his family from Guyana, South America to Long Island, New York. Why would anyone do that at 38…let me set the scene? Frank Theodore Dow is a manager at the Sugar Estate; they pay him a very nice wage complete with a housing allowance. He is well respected in the work place and the community. His wife Winona “Molly” Dow is a stay at home mom who takes care of their children the youngest of which is 4 (Me). By all accounts Frank and his family are living a very nice life. Why move to a country thousands of miles away? Why put yourself in a situation where your wife now has to work outside of the home so you can make ends meet? Oh yeah not to mention you don’t have a job yourself…totally different culture, and then there is that thing that you have never actually seen live…snow…why do it? Education! You see Frank could have stayed in Guyana and his family would have been OK. His sons would have most likely followed in his footsteps working in the Estate. His daughters would have gotten married and raised families of their own. Sounds like a decent life to me…but what if he makes the move his kids could go to college become whatever they want to be…they could open a restaurant (Winnie’s Caribbean Café) be President/CEO of their own companies (Dow Mazur Group) (Body Sculpture International) or even teach the next generation of children. For Frank…I mean my Dad that was reason enough. Now don’t get me wrong this decision was not made solely by him. Part of being a responsible father and man is knowing that all decisions must be made jointly with your Wife.

Fast forward 28 years and my parent’s dreams have come true.

If I am 1/10 the father to Jazz that my father was to me she will be fine.

Happy Father’s Day to my Dad!!!! Frank Theodore Dow

You’re Son,
Kwame Jipco Dow

Hello Orlando,

Fatherhood just like ministry is a calling. I knew myself called to be a minister while still in my mid teens. I felt myself distinctly not called to be a father even before then. I had no way of knowing that pastoring a church for 18 years would provide a way of enfolding many father roles into my life.
I am grateful beyond words for the emotional and spiritual connection I have with several men and women I met. The reciprocity of ever growing affection and respect is a gift I cherish with all my heart.

Love,
(Rev.) Edward (Goode)

My little league team sucked. Really. But that never stopped my father from coming to my games, from playing catch with me, from squatting down like a catcher out in front of the house and calling for my fastball. (I was convinced at age nine that I had two great pitches. One was a “smoking” fastball. The other was a Ron Guidry-like slider.) It never stopped him from coming to the games and rooting for us, rooting for me.

It was an evening game. And we had a chance to win. I don’t remember the score, but I was the go-ahead run and I was on first base. The batter hit a weak grounder back up the middle and it got out of the infield. I took off running and decided that I could get to third base. Once I rounded second I knew that was a bad idea. My coach was waving for me to slide before I was halfway to third. And behind my coach, beyond the fence, my father’s eyes just kept getting bigger and bigger and…I ran as fast as I could. I slid. “Safe!” I later scored the winning run. We won that game.

As I walked off the field, I yelled, “We won!” “Yeah you did,” my father smiled back, his melodic baritone dripping with pride. On the way home, as a treat for finally winning a game, my father stopped with me at a pizza parlor on Flatbush. I had a slice and an orange soda. I don’t remember much about being in the restaurant. But I do remember Pa laughing that I had no business going to third. I remember feeling that he was proud of me, proud that his son was the kind of guy who would take an extra base. I remember feeling like I had shown him I was a winner. I remember that was the best slice of pizza I’ve ever eaten. And I remember how good that orange soda was going down.

Every now and again, I will find myself in a pizzeria. And when I’m in the mood, I order orange soda. It’s never as good as it was, but it serves as a nice reminder of a little boy who took an extra base, giving all he had to be a winner…and of a father who took an extra moment, giving of himself to say that he was proud.

Orlando Bishop

[Celebrating his connection to his father, Gaspar Alejandro Bishop, Orlando Gaspar Bishop invested in some very personal body art. The canvas is his right shoulder. The Minister of Propaganda was inspired to create some art of his own based on that tattoo. Here it is.]

Hey Orlando,

Here is the poem that my father wrote for me when I was a 3 years old:

My Son

little guy, smiley brown

you've turned my whole damn world around

your curly hair and big, bright eyes

makes just seeing you each day

a grand surprise

your little hand, squeezing my finger tight

while we walk along talking

makes my life alright

you've trust and wisdom and innocence and joy

my son, my life, my little boy

"my daddy, I'm probably lonely,

will you come and play with me?"

why sure I will sweetheart,

right now and for always

may God grant that I'll always be around

to wipe your tears, guide your steps

and offer you a hand up

when life chances to tumble you down

we've got big plans and adventures

you and I

and the oceans, trees, mountains and the sky

will be our playground, while we grow

toghether - a man and his son,

a little boy and his daddy.

Marshall S. Gordon, 1976

and here is one that I wrote recently:

When It's Time to BE There

When it was time,

a simple man,

who wasn't offered

many choices

and wasn't exposed

to many voices,

listened

to his soul.

'Cause no one

could control

that part.

And what he heard,

for some reason,

seemed absurd

to both those above

and below.

So,

giving them all the finger,

he cashed in all his chips

for one little boy,

one little kid.

He gave up his job.

He gave up his wealth.

He gave up on this cold world

for sanity and health.

So that he could BE there.

He moved to a new land

where he worked with his hands.

And those hands gave

everything he made

as an offering

to the forgotten bond

of father and son.

Why do we make it so hard?

Why must it be a sacrifice?

I'd go through hell for my boys.

I'd fuckin' do it twice.

Or as many times as it takes

so that I can BE there

to put the locks in their hair

and give them trees to climb.

To listen to their stories

and have time

for their worries.

I was lucky

to have learned from the source.

An incredible, unmovable,

embraceable force.

Shown to me

by a man

Not afraid to love

And holding nothing in.

He

was my dad,

and now

I am him.

Here, always.

With my two little men

Who will BE there for theirs

when it's time.

Jason Gordon, 2006

Thanks to those who shared. And thanks to the fathers... sons... cousins... brothers... mentors... men who made that sharing possible. Happy Father's Day!

Say It Ain't So, Joe

2006-06-14T01:24:00.000-07:00

First of all...Fuck Joe Theismann!

Some of you may be wondering, "Who the fuck is Joe Theismann?" Well, to answer that, I will first tell you who the fuck he was.

Joe Theismann was the quarterback of the Washington Redskins from 1978-1985. He won a Super Bowl and was once the league MVP. And if you ask anybody who was a football fan in 1985, they can tell you about the moment on Monday Night Football when Lawrence Taylor broke Theismann’s leg while sacking him. It looked like he had two knees. It was fucking gross.

Why am I cursing his stupid ass out twenty-one years after he was forced into retirement? I’ll tell you why by telling him why, in an open letter.

Dear Joe,

First of all…fuck you! I don’t say that because you were a Redskin and I am a Giants fan. I don’t even say that because I’ve had to listen to your inane dronings on Sunday Night Football for years.

Yes, we know. When a football is thrown, it often follows an arc. Do they actually pay you to sit there and marvel at the fact that that which goes up must come down? (Touchdown) Jesus. Good work if you can get it, I guess. The phenomenon is called gravity. Look it up and stop wasting my precious football viewing time with your bullshit.

Hey, may be next year you could do an analysis of that orange “glowy” stuff that is so hot. (By the way, it’s called fire.) Or you could do a segment on how when the groundskeepers turn on the sprinklers AND the sun shines, the fucking grass grows, you fucking idiot.

But your incessant babbling about the most basic of scientific principles is not why I say, “Fuck you!” It is simply why I should have long ago. No, I say fuck you for kicking Ricky Williams when he’s down.

Here are some of the quotes that particularly grabbed my attention:

“I don't ever want to be mentioned in the same breath as Ricky Williams as a football player. He's a disgrace to the game. The man doesn't deserve to play football. He should go on with his life and treat his drug addictions or go do whatever he wants to do.”

“He's been suspended from the National Football League on multiple occasions. Doesn't anybody have any class anywhere? For gosh sakes, let the kid go do what he wants to do. He doesn't want to play football.”

Here’s a question for you, since you seem so knowledgeable about drug addiction. Were you on the “Budweiser Hot Seat” (as seen on SportsCenter every fucking day) when you started bashing Ricky or was it during one of the Red Stripe commercials that run on your network ‘round the clock? Or may be it was during one of the highlight packages that used the “…and twins” melody made famous by a Coors advertising campaign featuring scantily clad twins. Or were you getting the scripts you and your colleagues read when Levitra or Viagra or Pleezstayhard flashes across my screen before some nationally-televised game? I just want some fucking context for your judgemental rantings.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!?!?!

I have heard Jim Kelly invite Chris Berman over for some beers on the fucking air. Was that a disgrace?

I bet you’re thinking that marijuana, Ricky’s apparent drug of choice, is illegal. Can’t argue with you there. But why is it illegal? Could it be that the government knows that if it were legal, it could be grown in the average backyard? We can’t have people getting fucked up, if Uncle Sam can’t cash in on it, taxing shit like crazy. Could it be that the tobacco companies are scared? That they’ve invested millions to keep marijuana illegal? No, it couldn’t be any of that. It must be that cirrhosis of the liver, as caused by alcohol, is so goddamn wonderful that we wouldn’t want anybody in this drugged out country to fuck things up by finding a high that is not physically addictive.

Ricky Williams suffers from social anxiety. Weed helps him manage that. Where’s the disgrace in that? I don’t see any disgrace in that.

But here’s some shit in the world of football I do find disgraceful:

Ricky, reportedly, did not test positive for marijuana. I do not know what substance was found, but his “drug addiction” apparently was not the issue. So get your fucking facts straight before you malign the man. You’re a member of the media now. And spewing half-baked analysis is just as ugly from an ESPN analyst as it is from the likes of Bill O’Lie-ly over on Fox News.

Your teammate, Dexter Manley, graduated from Oklahoma State University and couldn’t read above a second grade level. That’s just one of thousands of examples of how this sport uses brothers shamelessly, chews them up and spits them out. “Doesn't anybody have any class anywhere?” I don’t know. But they sure don’t seem to have any class -- or any classes -- at OSU. That’s a fucking disgrace!

While on the topic of education, allow me to turn to your alma mater, Notre Dame. That football program has all the integrity of a New Orleans levee. In 2001, the football program was recognized for having a 100% graduation rate. Before the end of that year , the head coach, Bob Davie, received his pink slip. Removing the “student” from the phrase “student-athlete?” That’s a fucking disgrace!

The coach who followed him, Ty Willingham, was fired after three years although Notre Dame had never in its storied history broken a contract, never failed to allow a coach the full five years to right the program. But then again, Ty was Black. And we already know that niggas have to be twice as good to get half as far, so there was no real surprise there. But that kind of blatant racism? That’s a fucking disgrace!

Our nation is so pumped full of pharmaceutical drugs that I know of an office of a respectable organization where Zoloft is referred to as “Vitamin Z.” That’s a fucking disgrace!

Apparently, some of the drugs that we pop into our kids like they’re fucking Pez cause suicidal thoughts. Warnings have been added to the labels, but that doesn’t mean that parents and doctors aren’t slangin’ that shit like they are the PTA version of Tony Montana. That’s a fucking disgrace!

And a guy changing the pronunciation of his name from THEEZ-MAN to THIGHS-MAN so that it would rhyme with “Heisman” (the award given to the top college football player in the nation)? That’s the kind of self-promotion that got Kellen Winslow Jr. blasted when he played at Miami. You remember, don’t you? He was a disgrace, too, according to some. Yeah, I think a guy changing his name so that it rhymes with the award he’s pandering for is lame beyond fucking description. That’s a fucking disgrace!

Here’s a news flash. Ricky Williams wants to play football. That’s why he’s…(drum roll, please)…playing football. Instead of making up shit about what he wants or doesn’t want to do, why don’t you speak on shit you know about? There have got to be more scientific facts that you could share. Like may be when a bucket is dumped on a couch, you could point out that water is wet, you stupid muthafucka.

Ricky Williams has had a lot to deal with over the last few years. He is obviously a person in search of happiness, in search of something. He has been suspended from the NFL, where he wants to play, for a year. He will now be playing in Canada for a fraction of what he could have made in the NFL. And all this seems to have sprung from his use of a substance that in no way enhances his football performance. (see Bill Romanowski, the rabid ‘roid rager who pretty much ended Marcus Williams’ career – another fucking disgrace!)

Don’t pick on Ricky. He’s never said he wasn’t responsible for his own actions. He never pulled a Palmeiro and wagged his finger at Congress while he lied through his teeth. All he’s ever done is accept the consequences of his actions, which is more than can be said about a lot of people in this country, including the asshole in the Oval Office.

It is not for you to decide from on high (so to speak) who does and does not deserve to play football…even if it is for your former team. So, do me a favor. Don’t kick a man when he’s down. That’s a fucking disgrace!

XOXO,
A New Millennium Nigga

An Inconvenient Spring Break

2006-06-05T06:15:00.000-07:00

An Afro-Euro-Asian girl screams into camera with a smile on her alcohol-slackened face.

AFRO-EURO-ASIAN GIRL: Hi! This is Afro-Euro-Asian Girl from California. And everybody I know is dead. So I’ll send my shout-out to the other 15 people on Ear—

Her friend whispers in her ear.

AFRO-EURO-ASIAN GIRL: What?

Her friend whispers to her again.

AFRO-EURO-ASIAN GIRL: make that 14 people left on Earth, WHHHEEEEEEEW!

The crowd around her joins her ear-drum piercing scream. NMN steps in front of the camera.

NMN: This is A New Millennium Nigga. And welcome to MTV's "Spring Break: North Pole."

Fifteen people, half of the Earth's remaining population, cheer.

NMN: For those of you who haven't yet drowned or died of dehydration, thanks for tuning in. This is the first time MTV has done spring break at the North Pole. And given the rate at which people are dying, I think it's safe to say it will also be the last.

Everyone boos.

NMN: But enough of that. Let's party.

Back to cheering.

NMN: But not too hard. You may never shake that hangover. Remember, we're almost out of drinkable water.

More boos.

NMN: Here to perform the hottest song to hit the charts in 2056, an updated version of a hip-hop classic, we've got Nelly III doing "It's Getting Hot Out Here."

Cheers. A production assistant trots over to NMN and whispers something in his ear.

NMN: Wow. Really? Sorry to hear that. Folks, Nelly III is dead.

A Frat Boy raises a red plastic party cup.

FRAT BOY: DRINK!

Everybody takes their red party cups to the head.

NMN: Apparently, he was on the wrong glacier at the wrong time. Now, he swims with the mercury-laden fishes. Rest in peace, Nelly III. We'll be seeing you soon, I'm sure.

Boos.

NMN: But enough about that. Let's party!

Cheers.

NMN: Performing their smash hit "(I Want My) SUV", the punk sensation Carbon Die Oxide.

PA: Nope. Dead.

FRAT BOY: DRINK!

Everybody takes their red party cups to the head.

NMN: What happened?

PA: Typhoon.

NMN: I thought they were from Indiana.

PA: They were.

NMN: Can we get the guys who sing "Row, Row, Row Your Boat (Right Up Ol' Broadway)."

PA: Dead. Dead.

FRAT BOY: DRINK!

Everybody takes their red party cups to the head.

PA: The short dark-haired guy ate the tall blonde-haired guy when they got trapped on an island.

NMN: What island?

PA: Germany.

NMN: So, let's get the short guy.

PA: No can do. Died of shock. Turns out he's allergic to human.

NMN: No bullshit?

PA: I swear. It would take a twisted mind to make that shit up.

NMN: Fine. Let's do the contest. Alright, listen up people. The person who answers this right will get a glass of water.

The Spring Breakers "ooh" and "aah" as they fight for position around NMN.

NMN: Name the 2006 film that warned that the world was headed for this tragic fate. And, for the added bonus, an ear of corn, the last remaining vegetable known to man, name the man who starred in it.

NMN scans the crowd.

NMN: The brother in the back.

BROTHER: Actually, I'm not a brother. I just have a wicked sunburn. I haven't found shelter from the sun in almost six months.

NMN: But at least you made it up here and that's what counts. It's only 135 degrees here. Imagine if you were someplace really hot. Well, do you have an answer for me?

“BROTHER”: The film was "An Inconvenient Truth" and the guy's name was...

NMN: Come on. You can do it. Rhymes with bore...but he wasn't a bore, was he? Well, he was when he ran for President, but--

FRAT BOY: Oh yeah, we learned about that in History. He lost to that "uniter, not a divider guy." What's his name? My professor said he was actually a divider after all.

NMN: Well, your teacher had it partially right. But before he got halfway through his second term his approval rating was 29%. That means he united almost three-quarters of the American people. They all agreed that he fucking sucked at being President.

“BROTHER”: Gore! It was Al Gore!

SKATER CHICK: My grandpa was telling me how he totally won and the Supreme Court just appointed Bush President of the United States.

“BROTHER”: Was that when we became a monarchy?

NMN: No, actually that’s when we became a theocracy. The U.S. didn’t become a monarchy until Halliburton bought the Army to reduce the skyrocketing deficit. It was really the government’s money since they had been handing it to Halliburton over the years. Anyway, those muthafuckas bought the Army and installed the Bush twins as queens.

FRAT BOY: DRINK!

NMN: Goddammit, Frat Boy! They’ve been dead for years. How many times do I have to tell you? If this game is going to work, we can only drink to new deaths.

Frat Boy hangs his head, disappointed.

FRAT BOY: Sorry.

NMN: Anyway, Queens Jenna and Barbara were installed. And that was the start of the monarchy. Unfortunately, they followed their father’s lead and hired polluters to oversee the environment.

FRAT BOY: Yeah, like Lee Raymond.

NMN: That’s right. After collecting $400 million to go the fuck home after using Exxon’s gas pumps to fuck a nation, Lee Raymond was bored. After all how many cigars can you light with hundred dollar bills before it just gets old?

“BROTHER”: Wait a minute. Didn’t you have him killed?

NMN: That’s an ugly accusation. But what the fuck? All the police are dead. Yeah, I had it done. That muthafucka should have taken me seriously when I told him I was going to shove all that money up his ass. Exxon and the other oil companies were fucking the American people from every direction. Energy crisis?! More like a crisis of decency. A crisis of muthafuckin’ morals! (suddenly sounding like Samuel L. Jackson) Yeah, Lee Raymond is dead. And I hope he burns in hell!

SKATER CHICK: But you drove an SUV. Why isn’t it your fault that the world is ending?

NMN: First of all, Skater Chick, fuck you! Don’t be comin’ at me like you ain’t got no fuckin’ sense just because it is the man-made end of days. Yeah, I drove an SUV. I bought the muthafucka in 2001. That was over twenty years after I sat in elementary school and listened to my teacher talk about alternative fuels and electric cars and solar power and a bunch of other shit that never came to fucking pass. For fuck’s sake, there was a gas crisis in ’79. Do you want to know what was done about the energy problems in the 22 years between the gas crisis and my SUV? Dick. Nada. Nothing. L’goose egg. And that’s because the car manufacturers and the muthafuckin’ oil magnates and the “for sale” politicians all greased each other’s palms and scratched each other’s back while they sentenced all of us to death. They flew in private jets. They were driven from here to there in town cars and limos. And what? I was supposed to pay ten grand over fucking sticker for technology that should have been available to me for years. I was supposed to drive my wife and twins around in a Prius like it was some niggafied clown car from the Univer-Soul Circus. Nah, man. Fuck that!

PA runs out and whispers in NMN’s ear.

NMN: I don’t give a fuck what the people at the MTV offices want. I’ll curse if I fucking want to curse. First of all, 1515 Broadway ain’t nothin’ but a fuckin’ people aquarium at this point. You know what? I’m out of here. There’s some brothers at Cape Canaveral who are looking to go to the moon. And one of their grandfathers used to read my blog. All those futuristic movies with nothing but white people and as it turns out, if it works, it’s gonna be with some niggas. That’s called irony. Did you learn that in school?

Frat Boy nods.

NMN presses a button on his watch and talks into it.

NMN: Let’s bounce like fake breasts.

A helicopter appears in the sky. NMN rushes to it and climbs in. The crowd looks on in amazement.

FRAT BOY: There hasn’t been any fuel for years. How…?

NMN: You ever heard of Soylent Green? Well, let’s just say that those Klansmen that died up here last week did not die in vain. See ya!

The helicopter pilot slumps over in his seat.

NMN: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

A hush falls over the crowd. The PA steps up and checks the pilot’s pulse.

PA: He’s…dead.

FRAT BOY: DRINK!

NMN bangs his head into his seat again and again.

NMN: Goddamn global warming!

FLAAAT-BUUUSH!

2006-05-22T08:36:00.000-07:00

I never met Tiesha Sargent. I would have walked right by her on the street. No, I never knew Tiesha Sargent. But I feel as though I knew her all too well.

Though she was considerably younger than me, we probably bought Jolly Rancher stix from the same candy stores. I'm guessing she may have played double dutch like the girls I knew. She only lived a block away from the apartment where I grew up, the building where I grew up, the block where I grew up. Yeah, she probably played double dutch or freeze tag or, my personal favorite, “run, catch and kiss” on hot summer days. She probably threw snowballs at her friends on the way home from school during the cold-ass winter. And if she grew up at the address I saw for her parents she may have even gone to PS 92, where I went.

I used to fight all the time at 92. I remember one day, walking back from the coat closet, Jerry pushed me. I don't remember if we had been arguing or fighting earlier in the day. I don't remember if I was in a particularly bad mood. I don't remember very much about it. Fourth grade was a long time ago. But I do remember this. I remember spinning around, without missing a beat, as soon as I was pushed, and punching that nigga dead in his jaw. FIGHT!

I recently described that scene to someone and joked that it was like something out of some "Bugsy Malone" version of "Oz." No words were spoken. Things were that volatile. We were always one push, one dis, one hard stare from two niggas going at it like dey was fightin' over the last pair of Air Jordans on God's green Earth. So much anger. So much violence. And we were the top class. We were the smart kids. It must've been a real fucking zoo in those special ed classes...a Brooklyn Zoo.

BROOKLYN ZOO! Ol' Dirty Bastard coined the phrase. It was chilling how accurate it felt when he said it. It's a place I love. It's a place I claim. But sometimes in Brooklyn you are reminded in the most painful ways that human beings are animals. You are faced with the feared Niggers (Africanus Ignoramus). And as Tiesha saw, those muthafuckas eat their young.

A few years back my nephew came to visit me in LA. We went to the beach. There he was, a boy, skinny as J.J. Evans on Dexatrim. He braced himself as a big wave came in and screamed, "FLAAAT-BUUUSH!" I laughed. I knew what that meant. He took on that wave. Like any kid from Flatbush or Brownsville or Bushwick or "Do or Die" Bed-Stuy he knew in his gut that if he could face the Brooklyn Zoo, no stupid ass wave was going to knock him over. Fuck the physics! The little nigga knew the math.

I wonder if Tiesha felt any of that as she went to Brearley, the independent school that Prep for Prep sent her off to after she did her 14 months of hard academic time. I wonder if faced with the challenges of a college like Wesleyan, she ever stared down a final or a paper or a possibly racist professor and yelled, "FLAAAT-BUUUSH!"

Once when I was a teenager, I was in a corner store. A guy came in with his girl and bought a fifty-cent pack of cookies. As he left the store he stopped and turned back. He held up the cookies and said, "This pack is open. I'm'a get another pack." The store owner shot back, "No. You open it." At that point the brother did the only reasonable thing to do in a conflict over a fifty-cent pack of cookies. He pulled out a gun and started waving it.

He said a lot of things. He generally seemed to be commenting on the customer service at that particular establishment and his desire to address the return policy. There was also something about "shootin' a muthafucka" in an attempt to make his position clear. At one point, I saw down the barrel of that waving gun. I thought, "Oh shit. I'm gonna die today...in this store...over a fifty-fuckin'-cent pack of cookies."

I chimed in. "Look, man. As far as I'm concerned you can have another pack of cookies. Can I go?" "Yeah, go ahead, shorty." I calmly slipped between my new best friend and the store owner and out of the store. As I walked back up the street to my building, I laughed.

I remember one day sitting in the Chinese restaurant that was on Bedford, about a block from my house. My mother had sent me to grab some dinner. My buddy, Dwayne, was with me. Then we heard a commotion. It was Liz Kids, a gang of girls who were a lot like the Girl Scouts of America, except they got their merit badges for "stompin' bitches."

Anyway, that kind of noise from that group of girls meant one thing...GIRL FIGHT! We followed them down Parkside. Dwayne and I laughed as we went. Girl fights were great. Eventually somebody always ended up semi-naked…usually titties out. Violence and sex. Sweet.

So they got to the building of the girl who they were going to jump. They were screaming for her to come outside. A crowd was forming. Somebody came outside...but it wasn't the girl they were looking for. It was some muthafucka with a gun. He promptly busted two shots in the air. NIGGAS WAS OUT!

I ran. I hurdled the hood of a parked car. I was passing muthafuckas like they was standing still. My guess is that before those bullets came back down, I was back in the Chinese restaurant. I realized that I wasn’t so much afraid of getting shot because I might die, but because my mother would have wanted to know what the fuck I was doing down Parkside when she sent me to the Chinese restaurant. Dwayne showed up moments later, imitating how fast I ran when the bullets started flying. We laughed.

Once when I was a teenager, I was in Linden Houses, a project in Brooklyn. I was there to see a girl from my school. Some brothers started following me and I was pretty sure it was about to be on. My cousin, let’s call him “Shabazz”, lived over there. I turned around and said, “I’m Shabazz’s cousin.” Those niggas backed away like I had called the name of the Devil himself. Months later, when I saw Shabazz, we laughed about how his name saved my ass. Years later, Shabazz was shot to death. I guess you earn a name like that.

I once heard a woman who was upset about something that someone else was not taking seriously say, “It wasn’t not funny.” I loved that shit. Somehow the fucked up grammar helps to express how “not funny” she found that shit.

I think of Shabazz and I think, "We laughed. But it wasn’t not funny."

I think of our neighbor, Miss Rosa, being stabbed in the elevator. I think of how my teenage sister was the first person Miss Rosa saw. I think of the horrified way my sister described the blood. And I think, “It wasn’t not funny.”

I think of my cousin who was shot in the head in a fucking card game. And I think, “It wasn’t not funny.”

I think of Tiesha Sargent, who I never met. I think of Tiesha Sargent who I would have walked past in the street. I think of Tiesha Sargent, who I never knew. And it makes me sad that I feel I know her all to well.

Tiesha Sargent, a young woman, in her twenties, was killed last Sunday morning. She was shot to death. And it most muthafuckin’ definitely wasn’t not funny!

It wasn’t not funny that after getting through Brearley and Wesleyan, Tiesha Sargent could drown in one of the waves of violence that washes over neighborhoods like Flatbush every day, all over this country.

It wasn’t not funny that we grew up in Flatbush seeing so much violence, knowing so much violence.

It wasn’t not funny that I grew up believing that I probably wouldn’t live to tell the muthafuckin’ tale.

No, none of that shit wasn’t not funny.

So, though I’ve chosen to make violence the subject of a Musing, these days I don’t find it very amusing at all.

NMNSA

2006-05-17T20:10:00.000-07:00

I wanted to share with my readers an editorial I wrote that appeared in the CPT, or Colored People’s Times. It is an open letter to our Commander in Chief…our spiritual leader…a man of conviction with suspiciously few convictions…the 43rd President of these United States…George Walker Bush. Or, as the Washington Press Corps call him in a ridiculous attempt to pretend that he’s their friend, “Dubya!” I have another nickname for him.

Dear Shithead,

I heard recently about your shit-for-brains plan to have the NSA keep records of every call made by every American. Respectfully, I can’t begin to tell you how fucking stupid that shit is. You need a more focused approach, King George. Your “plan” would be the equivalent of checking out every book in the library to get a paper done.

You haven’t the slightest fucking clue what that means, do you? You know, I always think of you when people complain about affirmative action.

Anyway, it seems to me that lack of information is not the shit that is fucking up the works. It seems to me that you don’t know what do with the information you’ve already got. (Remember the memo? The FBI warnings that people were taking flight lessons and didn’t seem interested in taking off or landing?) I’ve been taught that intelligence is the ability to process information. I don’t want to call you stupid, but…well…Do with that shit what you will.

So, I think your plan is un-American, illegal and generally fucking dumb. But as a good American I wanted to help out, so I’ll be sending the NSA daily activity logs. That way you can save the manpower it would have taken to keep me under surveillance. That frees up bodies to guard the Mexican border…which would have been protected better had you actually been true to your word and funded the Border Patrol…But hey, who am I to judge?

Here is yesterday’s log:

6:00 AM Wake up

6:01 AM Slap snooze button.

6:10 AM Curse out alarm clock and call it a “lying fucking sack of shit.”

6:12 AM Slap snooze button.

6:21 AM Wake up to alarm. Stare at ceiling and wonder why life is so cruel.

6:22 AM Drag to bathroom. Take morning shit. Wonder if Dubya takes a morning shit. Wonder if he’s amused by the idea that he doesn’t give a shit that he’s shitting on America. Shake head while washing hands.

7:14 AM Watch CNN story about Bush administration obliterating the Constitution. Wonder out loud why Dubya doesn’t just march up Capitol Hill, take a shit on the Senate Floor and wipe his ass with the original copy of the Constitution.

7:15 AM Mrs. NMN explains that “shit” and “ass” are not appropriate words to use in front of the niglets. NMN responds, “Why the fuck not?”

8:00 AM Put in daily call to Donald Rumsfeld’s office. Leave same message as always. “Have we found the WMD yet?” Wait for return call. That shit never happens. Move on with day.

9:00 AM Call Washington DC beauty salons and try to figure out who is responsible for the unfortunate situation residing on Condoleeza Rice’s head. No one admits to any wrongdoing. One queen named Geoffrey suspiciously blurts, “That is classified information!”

12:00 PM Stop at local restaurant for lunch. Watch Mexicans work their asses off. Marvel at their work ethic. Wonder why they all chose to come here just in time for the mid-term elections. That’s some strange shit.

1:00 PM Thrown out of LAPD headquarters after trying, once again, to get help proving that Dick Cheney shot Biggie.

3:15 PM Stopped by kid in street who is walking home from school. He asks why he’s been left behind. I explain that campaign promises are different from actual action and that Dubya never actually funded his education plan. Kid walks away mumbling, “What kind of shit is that?”

4:45 PM Donald Rumsfeld’s office calls. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” I think. An aide explains that phone calls are also covered by the restraining order. I threaten to bust the aide’s ass. He shits himself. I feel a little bit sorry…but not really.

5:30 PM Sitting in rush hour traffic, I wonder how many of the workers around me blame Mexicans for their shit wages and how many of them see through the bullshit and wonder why the national minimum wage hasn’t been raised in nearly a decade.

6:50 PM Watch video that was emailed to me. Shows Dubya playing dress-up under the “Mission Accomplished” banner. Boy, he really shit the bed on that one.

7:35 PM Prepare bottles for kids. Contemplate the fact that formula may be the only fluid that is more expensive than gas these days. Wonder if I can feed the kids gasoline. Won’t help much since, in LA, gas now sells for “pint-o-blood-per-gallon.”

8:00 PM Put kids to bed. Wonder what it will be like for them to watch White people spontaneously combust when the ozone is completely gone. Smile at comedic image until I realize they’ll be dead next. Fight overwhelming urge to find everyone who claims the “jury’s still out” on global warming, rip off their head and shit down their neck.

9:15 PM Enjoy TiVo’d episode of “The Daily Show.” Chuckle to myself at idea that this full of shit administration needs a political enema.

9:17 PM Cry when I realize that the Democrats will probably fuck things up in November and fail to administer said enema.

9:18 PM Call my sister to discuss. She responds, “They got your phone tapped/What you gon’ do/Now all they need is the right word or two/To make it all stick like glue/They got you.” She hangs up.

11:00 PM Fall asleep haunted by the idea that this country is going to shit.

Always Glad To Do My Part…and shit,
A New Millennium Nigga

Is Fat Phat?

2006-05-09T01:08:00.000-07:00

Baritone Voice-Over: You are watching the Nigga Network: Programming That Can't Possibly Be More Troubling Than What's On BET! And now the Emmy-Award eligible news show "Nigga: Confidential."

A New Millennium Nigga walks through slashes of mood lighting toward the camera. He stops. Over his shoulder we see:

NMN: First of all...fuck Ronald McDonald! The introduction was like so many others I had written, but somehow the story would prove to be different. It started out a piece about the obesity epidemic.

It was a story about how McDonald’s now sponsors “Sesame Street.” God forbid kids learn how to count to ten before they get hooked on the hormones, fat and salt that keep Grimace looking so fucking svelte.

It was a story about a President of the United States, a man of leisure, who has seen to it that an entire generation of public school students don’t even get PE thanks to his bullshit education budget cuts. No child left behind?! They’ll all be left behind. They won’t be able to walk if they get any fucking fatter. On the bright side, I guess one way to deal with the Social Security shortfall is to start killing kids.

It started out a story about a lot of things. It ended up a story about a little boy --well, there was nothing little about him -- a great big fat boy who touched my heart, a boy named Tommy. Some of you were touched too.

Heather in Orange County wrote:

“That story about the little fat boy made me really sad even though you can't see it on my Botox-deadened face. I think some formerly fat people like Al Roker should hold a telethon to get all the porkers gastric bypass surgery. That's a universal health care plan I could get behind. Either that or they should puke after they eat. That’s what I do.”

Keep watching, Heather. What matters is what you feel on the inside not what registers on your plastic face.

Some of you were a little more hard-hitting. Tahmel in Brooklyn wrote:

“That story about that fat-ass kid was crazy comedy, son. We was all at the crib screamin' on him, god. That muthafucka was so fat he look like he shit Snickers bars. That's my word.”

Thanks for writing, Sha-kim.

There were others with a range of responses. But one thing was common to them all. They were all impacted by the little boy who ate Quarter Pounders until he weighed a quarter ton.

Cheesy keyboard music plays over the title: DO YOU BLEED BACON GREASE?

NMN walks along a sunny suburban street...pushing a wheelbarrow...with something that looks like a cross between Jabba the Hut and a young Ricky Schroeder wedged into it.

NMN: And that’s the story of Thomas Belcher. So although "Tubby" Tommy weighs 587 pounds, I’d say he’s worth his weight in gold. Goddamn! You are a heavy muthafucka for a 5 year old.

Out of breath, NMN stops walking when he reaches the front lawn of the Belcher House.

MRS. BELCHER: It’s not his fault.

MRS. BELCHER, a scale-tilter in her own right, bends down to “Tubby” Tommy in his wheelbarrow. She feeds him with a soup ladle from a bucket of Skittles. “Tubby” Tommy smiles.

“TUBBY” TOMMY: I can taste the rainbow, Mommy. I really can taste it.

MRS. BELCHER: I know, son. I know.

Fighting back tears, she pours a two-liter Diet Coke down his gullet. The irony is lost on her.

Choked up, NMN turns to camera.

NMN: Sure Tommy’s diabetes may be Type 2, but he’ll always be #1 in my heart. For 'Nigga: Confidential--

“TUBBY” TOMMY: Wait. Can we sing the song…one more time?

NMN: Sure we can “Tubby” Tommy. It’s your favorite.

TOGETHER: (singing sweetly) Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese…

NMN breaks down.

“TUBBY” TOMMY: What’s the matter, Mr. Nigga?

NMN: It’s just that…if we don’t do something about your weight, about all the fat ass kids like you –

BUUUUUUURRRRRRRPPPPPPP. “Tubby” Tommy lets one rip that rattles the windows in the neighborhood houses. NMN's glasses crack.

MRS. BELCHER: Well, they don’t call us the Belchers for nothing.

NMN and Mrs. Belcher share a laugh as “Tubby” Tommy chuckles through his signature fat man wheeze.

CUT TO:

NMN walks down the same suburban street in the rain.

NMN: That was then. This is now.

NMN stops at the Belcher house. The empty wheelbarrow sits on the lawn.

NMN: “Tubby” Tommy died last Friday. I was with him at the time. It’s rare that a nigga witnesses the transition from life to death. It’s a once in a lifetime moment when a nigga actually gets to see a muthafucka explode. All you can eat indeed, “Tubby” Tommy. All you can eat indeed. Mrs. Belcher asked that I deliver “Tubby” Tommy’s eulogy. Here is some of what I had to say about our beloved round mound.

CUT TO:

NMN stands in a pulpit.

NMN: Who knows? If he had lived longer, dealing with his diabetes, eating the shit he was eating, he might have gone blind. He might have needed an amputation. Am I right Mrs. Belcher?

Mrs. Belcher nods in no particular direction from behind her sunglasses. She reaches her prosthetic hand into a bucket of Popeye’s, pulls out a spicy breast and swallows it whole. The IV bag that hangs beside her reads “Kool-Aid.”

NMN: No, “Tubby” Tommy is in a better place now, a place where chairs are wide and doorways are wider. He’s gone on to that great big buffet in the sky. So, in conclusion, I offer this prayer.

May the food there be all processed.
May the sugars be refined.
May the portion sizes be out of wack
And fucking blow your mind.

May there always be ketchup
To drown your super-sized fries
May you never see or never know
Another day of exercise.
Amen.

And now…I ask that you take out your Big Mac and Wendy’s Frosty.

NMN dunks a Big Mac into a chocolate Frosty and wolfs down the whole thing. Everyone in the congregation does the same.

NMN: Do this in remembrance of “Tubby” Tommy Belcher.

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Shut The Door Behind You!

2006-05-01T13:12:00.000-07:00

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Shut The Door Behind You!

Shut The Door Behind You!

2006-05-01T09:44:00.000-07:00

NEW MILLENIUM NIGGA NEWS BRIEF (transcript provided by Reuters)
(credit given to Paul Mooney who introduced the idea of "The Nigga News" years ago)

NMN: And so, if you don't see your Mexican co-worker today, that's why. Today has been declared "Un Dia Sin Inmigrantes" or for you Anglos out there, "A Day Without Immigrants." Or as I like to call it, "Sure Hope Y'all Don't Get Fired and Live To Regret This Day Day."

That's it for this New Millennium Nigga News Brief. And now back to "Mr. New Millennium Nigga's Neighborhood" on the Nigga Network: Programming That Can't Possibly Be More Troubling Than What's On BET!

CUT TO:

MR. NEW MILLENNIUM NIGGA sports a red cardigan. He is surrounded by a bunch of kindergarteners who listen intently to the story being read. He turns the page and shows them all a picture of Lady Liberty standing at the door of a house.

KIDS: Aaaaahhhhhh...

NMN continues reading.

NMN: And the people of the world were all confused. Vicente the Mexican stepped forward and said, "Si, pero what about when you say, 'Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.'"

Then Lady Liberty thought for a moment and said, "Yeah...not so much. Sometimes, once your people have gotten into the house, you have to..."

NMN smiles at his riveted audience.

KIDS (yelling along): SHUT THE FUCKING DOOR BEHIND YOU!

NMN (reading): "Could it be that the house that immigrants built truly could not tolerate or accomodate any more immigrants?," the people murmured. They walked away, angry at Lady Liberty and all that she represented.

They never knew that the evil Republican politician, who claimed to love Lady Liberty, had been holding her hostage the whole time.

The End."

As NMN closes the book, The Minister of Propaganda walks over to him and whispers something in his ear.

The Minister of Propaganda hurries away.

NMN: There's an emergency, children.

REDHEAD KID: Do you have to go now, Mr. Nigga?

NMN: No. Not really.

NMN sits in the silent classroom for seven inexplicable minutes.

NMN: Alrighty then. In honor of "Un Dia Sin Inmigrantes" or as we say in English "Sure Hope Y'all Don't Get Fired and Live To Regret This Day Day," let's sing The New Millennium Nigga Remix of "The Star-Spengled Banner." Available in stores.

CUT TO:

BACK TO KIDS AND MR. NMN.

KID WITH AFRO: Mr. Nigga, there's no sex in your remix. Why did you use that cover art?

NMN: Because sex always sells in the world of music, Kid with Afro. Just like hate always sells in the world of right-wing politics. Plus, once the Rush Limbaughs of the world peep this remix, a simple little Spanish translation won't seem like the end of the fucking world after all. Now...let's sing.

They all sway as the MUSIC STARTS for "The Star-Spangled Banner."

ALL: Jose, can't you see?
We can't give you rights.
We like Wal-Mart sales.
Of low prices we're dreaming!

It's an election year.
And Iraq didn't go right.
So though nothing has changed.
We'll discuss the border o'er which your people are supposedly streaming!

And we know it's bullshit.
Hate's a disgusting habit.
In '04 it was the gays.
In '06 Mexicans must pay.

And we know it's not fair.
But we don't really care.
Ellis Island's alright.
But how did so many brown people get here?

Jose, please excuse us
for acting like we belong in caves.
From the land of the free...
unless you're a slave!

The MUSIC ENDS.

NMN: Fuck you very much, kids. Fuck you very, very much.

Mr. Nigga waves as he heads out the door.

REDHEAD KID: Mr. Nigga...?

Mr. Nigga pokes his head back into the room.

NMN: Yes, Redhead Kid?

REDHEAD KID: CLOSE THE FUCKING DOOR BEHIND YOU!

The kids all laugh. Mr. Nigga smiles, hands on hips.

FADE TO BLACK...or brown...or red...or yellow...It's all good with A New Millennium Nigga.

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Letters To A Young Colored Girl

2006-04-24T12:04:00.000-07:00

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Letters To A Young Colored Girl

Letters To A Young Colored Girl

2006-04-23T01:20:00.000-07:00

Perhaps it was the audacity of "The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga." Perhaps it was the unadulterated -- yet undiagnosed and unmedicated -- insanity of the rantings over these months. I suspect I will never fully know what led this particular young woman to write to A New Millennium Nigga. But once I read her letter, I knew I had to respond.

Dear NMN,

This afternoon after church, I read a story in the newspaper about a Black woman, a stripper and a student at North Carolina Central, who says that three white Duke Lacrosse players raped her. I'm finding the whole thing very upsetting and was wondering if you would do a "First of all...Fuck Duke Lacrosse players!" entry for all the sistahs out there.

Sincerely,
Sha'quaLanda Jenkins

Dear Sha'quaLanda,

First of all…fuck Black Women! As a member of an "endangered species" – which, by the way, classifies Black men as NOT BEING FUCKING HUMAN! – I am shocked that you would be so selfish and self-centered. We, in the Black community, have always had an understanding. Your worries, your woes, yours trials and muthafuckin’ tribulations as "sistahs" will be addressed if and when we ever get around to restoring the manhood of the Black Man. Helloooooo. Hasn’t anybody ever told you this shit?

By the way, why is your name Sha'quaLanda?

Best Wishes,
NMN

Dear NMN,

Second of all...fuck you, too! My name is Sha'quaLanda because that's what my mama named me.

Now I expect you to address this issue. After writing "Fuck Oprah!" and "Fuck Destiny's Child!" you are skating on some thin muthafuckin' ice with Black women as it is. Do not make me take off my earrings and put no vaseline on my face! I ain't had no pepper under my nails in a while and I would love nothing more than to fuck your bitch-ass up.

Hugs and Kisses,
Sha'quaLanda

Dear Sha'quaLanda,

Alright. Alright. I sure don't want to be faced with a "mad Black woman." I have actually written the words "Fuck God!" and I still wasn't as scared for my life as I was when I wrote "Fuck Black women!" But hear me out.

The Black woman in America has always gotten the shit end of the stick. I guess I'm surprised that you're upset. I mean, White men raping Black women...? That's a Confederate tradition, isn't it? I don't know what happened in that house and neither do you, I'm guessing. But we both know that more than a few massas paid visits to the slave quarters with the smell of tobacco lingering in the still North Carolina night air. That's why this case has struck a nerve, if you ask me...which you did...in a way.

By the way, where are you from anyway? And how old are you? You use a lot of curses. You know, profanity is just a lazy mind trying to express itself.

Peace,
NMN

Dear NMN,

I'm 13. I'm from Brooklyn. And you've got a fucking nerve, Mr. Fuck This and Nigga That.

I think it's bullshit that you expect me to accept the way that Black women are disrespected. This bullshit is why I don't watch the Image Awards anymore. I couldn't believe they nominated R. Kelly for a fucking Image Award in 2003 after he was accused of being a statutory rapist and child pornographer in 2002. And don't even get me started on The (muthafuckin' )Soul Train Awards. They gave the nigga "The Stevie Wonder Lifetime Achievement Award."

Did you know that show aired just two days before this "alleged" rape. Ain't that a bitch? I ain't sayin' that one led to the other, but I'm just sayin', son.

Pissed-edly Yours,
Sha'quaLanda

Dear Sha'quaLanda,

First of all, I hear you on the Image Awards, but it's not fair to pick on Don Cornelius n'dem. They never claimed to be about shit in the first place.

But if you're talking about hideous treatment of Black women on TV, you can not forget BET. I know you think I'm talking about the run-of-the-mill champagne spraying on inexplicably bikini-clad dancers type shit. But I'm not. I'm talking about "BET Uncut." You're only 13 so you should not watch this show. It is basically porn set to hip-hop. Luckily, though BET is on basic cable, they do warn that no one under 17 should watch the show.

That was a real relief for me. I know how kids never watch shit they're not supposed to be watching. And I expect you to stay away, too.

Yours In Decency,
NMN

Dear NMN,

OOOOOHHHHH! That was some nasty ass shit! Did you know that Ludacris' song "Booty Poppin'" is really called "Pussy Poppin'?" Is that what guys like?

Considering Promiscuity,
Sha'quaLanda

Dear NMN,

I never heard back from you on whether that is what guys like.

Anyway, we've been talking so much about how many different ways Black women get disrespected that I almost forgot why I wrote in the first place. Duke Lacrosse. I read today that sales on Duke Lacrosse paraphenalia are through the roof. I understand "innocent until proven guilty" but now it just seems like they are getting extra love for being accused of raping a Black woman. What the fuck is that about?!

Seriously Hurt,
Sha'quaLanda

Dear Sha'quaLanda,

I will have to write back at another time. I am in a bidding war on e-Bay for a Slave Masters All-Stars Throwback jersey. The slogan on the back of the shirt is: Who's up for a little cabin stabbin'?

Isn't that hilarious?

Preoccupied,
NMN

Nigga,

Have you lost your mind? This shit is fuckin' important. Did you know there was an email written by one of the players that they've printed in the newspaper. He said, ""[T]ommrow night, after tonights show, ive decided to have some strippers over. However there will be no nudity. i plan on killing the bitches as soon as the walk in and proceding to cut their skin off."

The defense lawyers said it was "in bad taste." The muthafucka didn't wear white after Labor Day! He didn't chew with his fucking mouth open! He described straight up killing and mutilating some "bitches."

Why won't anybody look out for girls like me? You're supposed to be such a strong Black man. Say something! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!

Exasperated,
Sha'quaLanda

Dear Sha'quaLanda,

Nobody likes an angry Black woman. Try to remeber that.

You want me to say, "Fuck Duke Lacrosse!"? Okay, fine...

FUCK DUKE LACROSSE!

Ya happy now? But I still say that it's bigger than the Duke case. I'm usually not one to turn attention away from shit white people have done, but I feel hypocritical defending this woman's honor, when I see what Black women face every day.

This whole thing makes me think of what 2Pac said:

And since we all came from a woman
Got our name from a woman and our game from a woman
I wonder why we take from our women
Why we rape our women, do we hate our women?
I think it's time to kill for our women
Time to heal our women, be real to our women
And if we don't we'll have a race of babies
That will hate the ladies, that make the babies
(“Keep Ya Head Up”)

Of course he also said:

I wanna be a baller, please
But the bitches and the liquor keep on callin me
(Scandalouz)

So...what the fuck did he know? And for that matter, what the fuck do I know.

What's my point? I don't know. I guess it's that until I can figure out something more, I promise not to fuck you. Not literally (like R. Kelly who I hear is into the young'uns) or with my language. (You know how I like to lead with a good "First of all...Fuck (insert name)!". )

But my problem is that I believe that our community has historically sacrificed our girls and we continue to let you down. I look at my baby daughter and know that somewhere a guy who is already in high school is going to try to pick her up one day. I know that if an article saying that Black boys are struggling hits The New York Times, hands will wring and teeth will gnash. But what about her? What about you?

Who is going to tell you that poppin' yo' pussy is not the only way to go? Who is going to tell you that your "Daddy love me" issues can not be remedied by some grown fucking predator? Who is going to figure out how to structure a world where no Black girl has to strip her way through school?

Whenever, I look at my daughter, I'll think of you. And I'll be wishing you all the best. But I don't think I'll be able to shake this feeling that, even though I promise not to "fuck" you, if things don't change in our community, you may already be fucked. And not just because your name is Sha'quaLanda.

Take Care,
A New Millennium Nigga

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Prophets of Rage?

2006-04-17T10:33:00.000-07:00

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Prophets of Rage?

Prophets of Rage?

2006-04-17T06:33:00.000-07:00

Dear Jesus,

Big ups on the big day! Life after death? That's pretty impressive shit, man. And outside of Biggie I don't know anyone who has achieved it. Of course, for Biggie it was just an album title. But seriously... resurrection?!?!?!?! David Blaine wishes he was you. Am I right?

Anyway, I've been thinking a lot about you and your Dad given the season. And I was struck by a sentiment that shocked me and I'm sure would have my mother turning over in her grave. Well, she doesn't have a grave. She was cremated...which pretty much rules out her pulling one of your three-days-later-How-ya-like-me-now? encore presentations. What was I talking about again?

Oh yeah, you...and your Dad...and the sentiment...That's right. It was: First of all...fuck God!

Okay, okay. Calm down, nigga. (Why would I call you "nigga," you ask? Bronze skin? Hair like lamb's wool? You rolled with a posse that was 12 deep? The only sign you didn't leave was turning that water into Courvoisier.)

It hurts me to say it. But I've been hearing some things about God that just seem downright fucked up and I don't know if I'm down with him anymore.

First of all, did you know that "God Hates Fags"? Those are -- apparently -- His Words, not mine. Yeah, Fred Phelps of the Westboro Baptist Church, has been kind enough as to inform us over the years that God does, in fact, "hate fags." He even went to Matthew Shepard's funeral and informed Matthew's grieving family that God hated him. Not only that, but he also informed them -- again at the funeral -- that Matthew would be going to hell. I, for one, don't "hate fags" and would love nothing more than for God to tell me that it is, in fact, Rev. Phelps who will be going to hell...if there is a hell...which is a whole other shit pile to dig through. But there it is, clear as day, on Phelps' website: "Matthew Shepard has been in hell for 2744 days."

It seems to me that if you die beaten, tied up and left to die that you have already been to hell. Can you imagine dying like that? Oh...Oh yeah...how embarrassing...I almost forgot who I was talking to. But then again, all's well that ends well, huh, nigga? Moving on...

Why does God "hate fags" so much? I mean, I hate to ask you to answer for Him, but that cow's already left the barn. You were always telling people what He thought. But you never mentioned "fags" as far as I can tell. And I've picked up a Bible once or twice. Why would you leave out his central shit and talk about tangential bullshit like "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself." All you had to say was "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself, unless your neighbor is a fag. In that case, hate that muthafucka. God sure does."

Maybe if you wasn't so busy hanging with hos like Mary Magdalene... She was a ho, right? It does say that in the Bible, doesn't it? That's not some shit we made up, is it? ... Maybe if you wasn't so busy hanging with hos like Mary Magdalene, you would have had time to deliver the message your Daddy gave you, you fuckin' slacker.

And what's up with the fucking natural disasters? Take Katrina...please. (Sorry, that's inappropriate humor.) But seriously, take Katrina. That storm killed people, destroyed homes, ripped families apart. I sat and wondered why God would let that happen. I accepted that I can not possibly understand the ways of God. I turned my attention to the phenomenon of global warming and wondered if that could have anything to do with the fact that these storms are becoming a muthafuckin' bitch.

But then, as I was wasting my time thinking, Ray Nagin, Mayor of New Orleans explained that which I found depressingly inexplicable. "Surely God is mad at America. He sent us hurricane after hurricane after hurricane, and it's destroyed and put stress on this country," Prophet Nagin shared. He also declared, "Surely he doesn't approve of us being in Iraq under false pretenses. But surely he is upset at black America also. We're not taking care of ourselves." Wow! No wonder it was such an ass-kicking storm. That's a lot of shit to express. It takes a lot of hot air -- the storm, not Mayor Nagin's statement, which was clearly relayed verbatim, straight from God -- to express displeasure over a war in Iraq AND the state of the Black community. Seems like a goddamn shame -- so to speak -- to slam the shit out of people who are already not "taking care of themselves," but who am I to question the wisdom of God...and Mayor Nagin?

"This city will be a majority African American city. It's the way God wants it to be. You can't have New Orleans no other way. It wouldn't be New Orleans," the Apostle Ray would say later in his MLK Day Sermon on the Mound of Rotting Bodies. Now see, God needs to get his shit together. First, he sends one hurricane to address two completely separate issues. That's confusing. Then, He destroys mostly the Black communities, leaving niggas to die in a giant cesspool because He wants to give those very niggas the city? Huh? Is your Pops senile? It's not easy to deal with, J.C., but it's something that we sometimes have to face. The Old Man isn't making much sense these days. And frankly, He seems a little ornery lately. I mean, why would He slam a bunch of niggas in the Gulf Coast to show His displeasure about America being in Iraq? Bush didn't live in the projects down there. And, generally speaking, niggas don't vote. And if they do vote, they generally don't vote Republican. So, why pick on them? This ain't their war. Crawford, TX is way west of there. I hate to say it, but could it be that God's aim is for shit? Something weird is up. I am sure that Katrina was a punishment for Iraq. An honorable man like Mayor Nagin would never just make some shit like that up.

But I'm confused by something else. I thought that Dubya prayed about the War In Iraq. Wouldn't it have made more sense to just tell Dubya not to engage in a preemptive war that couldn't be won than to displace the citizens of New Orleans to make that point? You should tell your Pops that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Like 9/11, now that was a clear, unambiguous message.

As Rev. Jerry Falwell clearly stated, "The abortionists have got to bear some burden for this because God will not be mocked. And when we destroy 40 million little innocent babies, we make God mad. I really believe that the pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People for the American Way, all of them who have tried to secularize America, I point the finger in their face and say: you helped this happen." And here I thought it was Osama bin Laden and al-Qaeda...and the United States since we sort of helped to create Osama, the terrorist, back when he was fighting the Soviets. But it was the pagans all along. FUCKING PAGANS!

I would ask Rev. Falwell to explain further, to verify that he was sharing the Word of God and not his own small-minded, hateful rantings, that he wasn't pulling that revelation straight out of his presumably virgin ass, but he explained on another occasion that "Christians, like slaves and soldiers, ask no questions." I thought that weird since 1 Thessolians 5:21 reads "Test all things and hold fast to that which is good." But like Ray Nagin and Dubya, Jerry Falwell is an honorable messenger of God who would never stoop so low as to invoke God's name to add weight and authority to a personal fucking opinion.

So, I'm left to believe that it really was the pagans...and the abortionists...and the gays...and the lesbians...

Personally, I think the Twin Towers being destroyed was the lesbian part. They were, after all, two giant phallic symbols and lesbians hate men...which means they hate dick...which means they hate phallic symbols...See where I'm going with this?

Hey, I think God is starting to talk to me now. Sweet. But which part was about abortion? Why would God kill all those people to convey a message about the "sanctity of all life"? (And could you explain the whole "sanctity of all life" thing, 'cause there wasn't nothing too sanctified, as far as this nigga could tell, about a bunch of niggas rotting in the Superdome while Dubya pulled his fuckin' pud up in D.C.)

So, in conclusion, "God hates fags" which is why Matthew Shepard is dead and/or why 9/11 happened and/or why Katrina ravaged New Orleans. Unless Katrina was actually God's way of saying that we should not be in Iraq. Unless, as Dubya has told us, we are doing God's work in Iraq. And then there's the pagans. FUCKING PAGANS!

Your Father is a confusin' muthafucka, man. He got more ghostwriters than a rap star.

Wait. God is talking to me again. He said to read Matthew 7:15.

That's weird. That scripture says, "Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves."

Seems like a weird time to tell a nigga to look at that verse, just when I was exploring the words of his modern-day disciples.

Amen.

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Big Head Niggas

2006-04-10T09:16:00.000-07:00

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Big Head Niggas

Big Head Niggas

2006-04-10T05:59:00.000-07:00

First of all...fuck Terrell Owens! That nigga is in desparate need of a T.O.. Sure, he got his big deal in Big D. But, in the end, he'll fuck that up too. Why? Because when you're that gassed...and your head is that fucking big...it's hard to keep your feet on the ground. It's hard to believe that the sun doesn't rise and set on your ass. It's hard to understand that you are such a miserable muthafucka that a team would rather pay you millions to go the fuck away than force you to honor your contract. Alright, let me slow down. Not everybody loves football (though everybody should!).

Quickly, here's the history of Terrell Owens in the NFL...in a nutshell. He started out in San Francisco where he developed into a miserable muthafucka. There, he attacked his quarterback, Jeff Garcia. Professional that he is, he even resorted to the 3rd grade classic "He's gay!" That's class. Never mind that it's T.O. who insists on prancing around practice in tights...not that there's anything wrong with that. So, despite his being arguably the best receiver in football, San Francisco said sayonara to Terrell.

Now, there may be no 'I' in team, but there is one in paid. And that's what T.O. figured he'd be once he became a free agent. One small problem. His agent fucked up the paperwork and he didn't become a free agent. So, San Francisco seized the opportunity to fuck T.O. (figuratively, of course) and shipped his ass off to Baltimore, the wide receiver equivalent of Siberia. Terrell stamped his feet. "They're picking on me," he said. He got his way. He signed a big free agent deal and went off to Philly where his ass would be catching balls from Donovan McNabb. (Seriously, I'm not trying to make this sound gay.)

Then, in Philly, T.O. turns on Donovan McNabb, who may just be the most likable guy in sports. (And that's coming from a Giants fan who hates the fucking Eagles.) This, despite the fact that McNabb had his back when he got to Philly...even described him as a good teammate...with a straight face! All of a sudden, McNabb, who made it to the NFC Championship Game three straight years throwing to guys with the nicknames "Trash" and "Stinkston", sucked.

Robin Harris used to tell a joke about a kid asking him what two humping dogs were doing. Not wanting to blow the kid's mind, he explains that the one in the back hurt his leg and the one in the front is helping him out. Then the kid turns to him and says, "Ain't that just like a friend. Try to help them out and they'll fuck you every time." I'm guessing Donovan McNabb gets that joke.

Alright, so the football-challenged among you are caught up. Almost. What price did T.O. pay for proving to be an absolute asshole? The Dallas Cowboys signed this miserable muthafuckin' malcontent. They will be paying him big fuckin' bucks. He got his way...again! And the shit makes my blood boil. I heard that his jerseys are the top sellers in Dallas already. That makes me sick. It just goes to prove what hypocrites sports fans can be. A guy could be caught jerking off into the empty skull of a baby he just boiled, but if he might help your favorite team get to the Super Bowl then he's A-okay. (see Kobe "Room Serviced" Bryant)

This country is upside-fuckin-down. It seems like the best thing you can do is be the worst possible person you can be. Then you get paid the big bucks. Then you get the reality show. That's right. The makers of "Trading Spaces" are producing a reality show on T.O. Apparently, they are in on the conspiracy to make me go all Michael Douglass in "Falling Down".

The more of a piece of shit human being you prove to be, the better off you are. If you're the infamous Omarosa and lie and cheat and cost a muthafucka the job on "The Apprentice" (and act like you cute...when you are as ugly outside as you are inside...and that's pretty goddamn ugly!) you get a Burger King deal. You show up on other TV shows. And if I heard right, somebody pays you to write a book. What the fuck is that?!

The more of a cocksucker you prove to be, the better off you are. If you're Paris Hilton, Barbara Walters interviews you for being...I don't know...the most popular ho on the internet. And though she's not an athlete -- unless chintop billiards has been declared a real sport -- this shit is all related, man. Do you know that I saw a clip of her mother on "I Want To Be A Hilton" advising young women on how to be ladies?!?!?!?!?!?!?! Are you fucking kidding me? Where do you get off, "lady"? (We already know where your daughter gets off...in front of a camera.) You have no idea how many hours of prayer it took to mend the vein that ruptured in my brain at that moment.

But back to big head niggas and the cities that love them. Am I the only one who is sick of Barry Bonds, the King of the Big Head Niggas? He was chosen as king because he is LITERALLY a Big Head Nigga. Goddamn! That muthafucka is walking around with the Rock of Gibraltar balancing on his thick ass neck and he expects us to believe that he wasn't juicing. Even he can't say that shit with a straight face. He sued the writers of "Game of Shadows", a book that outlined his steroid use, not for libel, but for some backdoor bullshit about how they got their information. That is the equivalent of this marital exchange:

HUSBAND: Are you fucking Harry?

WIFE: Who told you that?

Any answer but "no" means "yes." If she ain't fuckin' Harry, she's going to say, "No!"

And now, predictably, "Bonds on Bonds" is brought to us on ESPN. Barry needs to get around the prosecutors and persecutors and tell his side of the story. What's your side, Barry? That you didn't feel you were getting your love, so you cheated. That you are determined to break Hank Aaron's record and you don't care if you've taken so much horse hormone that you gallop and neigh your way around the bases when you do it. And now you have the nerve to say that you are being singled out because you're Black.

Barry, they say that patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel. Well, one nigga to another, I tell you that racism has become the last refuge of a Black scoundrel. O.J. Michael Jackson. You. Everybody gets real fucking political when the shit hits the fan. Hank Aaron had to go through some real shit. Death threats. You're upset because people ask you an obvious and simple question. Did you use steroids? The answer is as clear as your Incredible Hulk-like growth spurt. But we'd like you to answer the question...honestly.

Instead you play like you're Jackie Robinson or Larry Doby breaking the color line. You ain't, muthafucka. The line you crossed is a simple one. You cheated. There's not a kindergartener who doesn't know that cheating is wrong. But why should you care? You'll break the record and you'll cross the only color line that matters to you big head niggas--the one you cross over to get to the green.

I would say, "If the cap fits, wear it." But who the fuck can find a cap big enough to fit you big head niggas?!

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: So, You Want To Start A Revolution?

2006-03-27T08:54:00.000-08:00

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: So, You Want To Start A Revolution?

So, You Want To Start A Revolution?

2006-03-26T23:26:00.000-08:00

A GAGGLE OF REPORTERS gathers outside of New Millennium Nigga Headquarters (aka his house, aka the crib).

NMN emerges. Cameras click over the buzz of the gathered crowd.

NMN: Thank you all for coming. I asked you all here to say...

First of all...Fuck John McCain! I used to think he stood for something but if he could get in bed with the likes of this piece of shit administration...Let's just say that somebody's senior thesis at Arizona State should be, "When Good Men Sell Their Fucking Souls: The John McCain Story (with foreword by Colin 'Please Don't Make Me Go To the UN and Say That Bullshit' Powell)."

And while I'm at it, I'd also like to say...Fuck Hillary Clinton! Where ya at, Hillary? You can't be more Republican than the Republicans so you might as well start sayin' some shit that makes some goddamn sense about this war and stop bullshittin'. Yeah, we know you voted for the war. Ya fucked up. But ask Slick Willie, the worst thing to do after you fuck up is run from it. Face the music. It'll be better that way. But you won't. And even if you did, you won't win. Word is a lot of people really hate your ass...and not just on the right. Hey, don't get mad at me. I don't make the news. I just report it.

See, I hadn't expected to have to make this decision this soon. But it seems that Presidential campaigns, much like the Christmas shopping season -- excuse me, 'holiday' shopping season -- are starting earlier and earlier these days. I mean, we're not even to the mid-term elections and John McCain is all set to cash in on his deal with the devil. Not only that, but Hillary Clinton is out talkin' shit about video games or some such matter of national, nay international, nay interga-fuckin'-lactic importance. God, I hope the Democrats run her. That ought to be pretty fucking entertaining. But I digress.

Today, I, A New Millennium Nigga, am announcing my candidacy for President of the United States.

REPORTER #1: Given the social climate of this nation and the force with which the FCC has struck in recent history, do you think there is much hope for a candidate who hurls the F-word about and who is known as A New Millennium N-Word?

NMN: First of all...fuck you, man. I'm a grown-ass man and I can use any words I goddamn well please. Now, I'm A New Millennium Nigga. N-word is some shit white people started saying during the OJ trial so that they could pretend on TV that the word "nigger" was absolutely foreign to them. Second. I plan to make "Fuck" the national word. And Michael Powell can go fuck himself if he don't like it. We have a national bird...now flip it. Fuck's already been used on the Senate floor and frankly if it ain't made fuckin' acceptable this muthafuckin Presidency shit probably ain't gonna work out for a muthafucka. Besides, there are a lot of people in this country who will want to call the first Black President a nigger. This way, I can pretend they callin' my name and continue on my merry muthafuckin' way.

REPORTER #2: Tell us about your agenda. Where do you stand on social issues? on the wedge issues?

NMN: I'm glad you asked. First, I will nominate Star Jones to be a Supreme Court Justice.

Star Jones steps forward and waves to the crowd.

NMN: You may remember, she is a lawyer. How could you forget? She sure ain't shy about reminding a muthafucka. But more importantly, she is clearly in favor of gay marriage. Though it is true that the idea is to have gay people marry each other, Star's heart was in the right place...somewhere in the vicinity of her shifting breasts.

Star smiles sheepishly.

NMN: Also, Pro-lifers will be forced by law to adopt babies. And if you think it's scary to take in some unknown teen's baby, li'l Miss Southern Baptist, wait 'til you get a load of the baby daddy. Muthafuckas on the street don't call him N-Sane for nothin'.

REPORTER #3: Some might suggest that you will be overly-focused on Black issues. Are you in favor of reparations?

NMN: White America could never repay the debt they owe. So, to me, the whole reparations thing is bullshit. But, I also think it's bullshit when some white parent bellyaches that their kid who had the best schools and a fuckin' SAT tutor "lost their spot" to some mythical unqualifed Black kid. Damn, with all the shit that has gone down, you would at least think that folks could adopt a "tie goes to the runner" mentality.

But don't worry, America, I got plenty of beef with Black folks too. Like the baby daddy's out there. Fuck 'em. They probably don't vote anyway. Black deadbeat dads who go around collecting baby mamas and not paying child support will be forced by the courts to be locked in a room with Black men who take care of their kids. The rooms will have no windows. The door will remain locked for 10 minutes per neglected child. Believe you me, the checks will start flowing in immediately. Let's face it, something has to be done about these serial baby-makers. Eventually their kids are going to start inadvertently procreating. And the only thing more embarrassing than realizing that the armed robber who's leading the eleven o' clock news is Black is realizing that the nigga has three arms.

REPORTER #4: What about flag burning?

NMN: If it's the Confederate flag, I'm all for it. Under my administration there will be no more Confederate flags. Look, I'm Black and I hate the sight of the Confederate flag. The truth is that for me it represents a bunch of slave owners and the poor white people they duped who wanted nothing more than to keep niggers in bondage. But that is not why we should be rid of the flag. Here's why we should get rid of it. They lost. THEY FUCKIN' LOST! Since when do the losers in a revolt get to keep their flag?! They're lucky they got to keep their heads. It don't end so nice in all revolts. Picture this...It's the end of the Super Bowl and the losing team grabs the boxes of T-Shirts behind their bench and start walking around with shirts that say that they are Super Bowl champions. It doesn't work. We would never do that. We ship those T-shirts off to third world nations like Bangladesh so that the children have something to wear as they make the clothes Americans buy cheaply at Wal-Mart.

REPORTER #5: How about The War on Drugs?

NMN: In my administration the new head of the Department of Agriculture will be Snoop. 'Nuff said.

Snoop's hand emerges from a cloud of smoke next to Star Jones.

JEFF GANNON: So, you have smoked weed?

NMN: First of all, I don't know who invited you Mr. Bulldog, The Gay Prostitute. But you talk slick to me and I will muthafuckin' Valerie Plame your little Brokeback boyfriend who got you into the White House all those times.

REPORTER #6: Have you ever smoked marijuana?

NMN: Look, I'm not going to play the gotcha game. Y'all let Dubya get away with that bullshit, so why not me? I mean word on the street is that Laura sold weed -- no joke -- so maybe you should ask her if she remembers me. Here's the thing, whether you smoke or not, I can't see any good reason why weed is illegal. How many college rape stories include alcohol? Now, the truth is that when muthafuckas get high all they're lookin' to ravage is the fridge.

Star Jones snickers.

NMN: Snoop, did you smoke Star out? I told you not to smoke her out.

SNOOP: I can not tell a lizzle, my nizzle.

NMN: She can't get the munchies. She had that gastric bypass shit.

STAR: I did not.

Everyone looks at her increduously.

STAR: I'm not gonna play the gotcha game either.

REPORTER #7: Mr. Nigga.

NMN: Don't get fucked up today.

REPORTER #7: But that's your name.

NMN: I'm just sayin...watch your tone.

REPORTER #7: What about the budget?

NMN: You know how the financial gurus explain that when you buy a $50 sweater with a credit card it can end up being a $500 sweater because of the interest. Well, Dubya, with his tax cuts ... and his war ... and his welfare handouts to Halliburton, et al, has bought this country a $3.4 Trillion sweater (estimated, through 2015). That's a lot of cash-mere, niggas. Break out your abacuses -- abaci? -- and do the math on that shit. I wrote and asked Dubya to explain his fiscal fuckin' irresponsibilty, but he didn't get the memo...again.

Here's my policy. If you make a lot of muthafuckin' money, you gon' pay a lot of muthafuckin' taxes. And we are adopting a "don't start none, won't be none" foreign policy. This pre-emptive shit is expensive...and stupid. Even a li'l nigga from Flatbush could have told these muthafuckas that you do not pick a fight with muthafuckas who ain't got nothin to lose. You know why? 'CAUSE THEY AIN'T GOT NOTHIN' TO LOSE!!!

REPORTER #8: So you would pull out of Iraq and let the country fall into Civil War?

NMN: As opposed to...

REPORTER #8: As opposed to staying the course.

NMN: Look, the Civil War is already on and poppin'. The people of that region are pissed and they are only gettin' more pissed every day. A friend of mine told me that he was taught when guests arrive to scope out how much underwear they've packed. That, he was told, is a clear indication of how long muthafuckas are intending to stick around. Well, when we start building bases and puttin' up golden arches and shit, the Iraqis see that as a whole shitload of underwear. And they want us the fuck out. I like to call this The War of the Roses, seein' as how we were supposed to be greeted with fuckin' flowers and all. Well, the only fuckin' flowers we'll be seeing will be on the graves of the estimated 33,000-38,000 (possibly as high as 100,000) dead Iraqis and over 2,300 US troops. All that and Osama is probably playing backgammon with Michael Jackson as we speak.

STAR: I'm hungry.

Star runs into the house. NMN shoots Snoop's cloud of smoke an angry look.

NMN: That's all for now. Thank you all for coming. Vote for A New Millennium Nigga in '08.

NMN flashes the victory/peace sign and walks inside with Snoop.

NMN: I told you not to let her hit that chronic. She liable to get at those Fritos and pop a staple.

They disappear into the house.

From inside the house, Star screams.

NMN: Is that Chunky Monkey?! Call 9-1-1!

Artwork courtesy of The Minister of Propaganda

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: The March 24 Edition

2006-03-20T06:45:00.000-08:00

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: The March 24 Edition

The March 24 Edition

2006-03-18T01:13:00.000-08:00

First of all...FUCK MY KIDS! And I don't just say that because I've learned that some pre-schools in LA cost roughly $15K per year. Oh, yeah...Did I mention they're twins? That's thirty-fuckin'-grand to learn all the verses of "The Itsy Bitsy [Fucking] Spider." But that's not why I curse the day they came into my life. I'm not even going to get started on the fact that I now need two weeks notice and a fuckin' UN resolution to see a movie with my own wife. And what's the point of discussing how much I hate it when they cry as I change their diaper? "Hey, pal. I'm the one who's elbow-deep in another muthafucka's shit. What the fuck are you crying about?"

Even as I write this, their picture sits on my desk. I look into those innocent eyes, those cherubic faces, and I am struck by the realization that I HATE THEIR FUCKING GUTS! Seriously...fuck them! Damn, I love them!

See, that's how they get you. They get you cooing to them to catch a glimpse of one of their first smiles. They touch your cheek. They rub their tiny hand back and forth on your arm as they down a bottle of milk. They lay on your chest and relax completely into a restful sleep. And the next thing you know, you love those little shitheads more than you love life itself. Beware! It could fuckin' happen to you. It fuckin' happened to me. And I should fuckin' know better.

Once, back when A New Millennium Nigga was just a little niglet, a friend teased me about my middle name. (You may be thinking, "Hey NMN, 'Millennium' is a strange name for a nigga to have." But I remind you, dear reader, that New Millennium Nigga is not my government name.) "That's my father's name," I shot back. See, I would joke around about a lot of things, but not my father's name. It was his gift to me. And it was on the short list of shit I just didn't find funny. Period. I loved having my father's name...mostly because I loved my father.

One reason I loved my father was our trip to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY. I think back on that trip and now realize that it was a real sacrifice for an electrician to use up his vacation time to take his son to "sunny" Cooperstown. I now realize that he piled my little sister, who had no interest in baseball whatsoever, into the car, too. I now realize that motels...and gas...and food...and that souvenir glass I just had to have all cost money. That trip meant a lot to me. And I now realize that he did all of that for me, that he did other versions of that for me throughout my life.

Friday, March 24, will be his birthday. He would have been 79. He's been dead for five years.

And so I say...fuck him too! See, he neglected to warn a nigga that all those good memories boomerang back and do their best to take your fucking head off. He never told me that one day a tumor would take hold in his fuckin' brain and he would fuckin' die on me. And then...to top it off...as I wandered through his apartment after he was gone, holding my shit together by a thread...you'll never guess what that muthafucka had the nerve to do. Well, I went into the kitchen for something to drink. I opened the cabinet looking for a glass. And there it was...25 years after he bought it...the souvenir glass from our trip to Cooperstown. I guess that trip meant a lot to him, too. I lost it. That shit hurt. What a fuckin' asshole!

And you know what? On the morning of March 24, I'll pick up my phone to call him -- why should this year be any different? -- and then it'll hit me. It'll feel like an uppercut to the gut. "He's gone, nigga. Put down the phone."

As fate would have it, March 24 will also be the first anniversary of my mother's cremation. That coincidence is evidence that if there is a God, he/she/it's got a wicked sense of humor. Those two hated each other's guts.

My mother taught me lots of things. She taught me to say "Please"...to say "Thank you"...and to "always use the bathroom before you leave." She was practical like that. The one thing she didn't get around to teaching me was how to make her chicken lasagna. I loved that shit. And whenever we were together, she made it for me...special, for me. Sometimes she would tell me bits and pieces of how it was made. "A little of this and a little of that." Well, guess what? I've searched high and low and there are no measuring devices marked "a little." Not only that, but "this" and "that" are, apparently, not actual spices. So here I am, a year after she fuckin' died on me, fiendin' for some fuckin' chicken lasagna and I can't fuckin' have any. That shit hurts. Well...Fuck her too!

See, that's what muthafuckas do. They get you all comfortable. They get you likin' dey fuckin' chicken lasagna and shit and then when you ain't lookin' they fuckin' dip on you. Niggas be out! And they leave you with bullshit souvenir glasses to remember them by...as if that shit is supposed to be good enough.

So, I say...Fuck my kids! My wife, too! And fuck every muthafucka who has had the muthafuckin' nerve to weasel their bitch-ass way into my life, into my heart. If you are among that number...

Fuck you...for real. Fuck you for every time I dread the thought of losing you. A friend -- more like a brother really -- told me recently of some health problems he's having. If he doesn't handle it, the shit could get "catastrophic," he explained. I looked that nigga dead in the eye and told him -- 99% serious, 1% joking -- "Nigga, if you die on me, I will fuckin' kill you." Fuck him, too!

Fuck my son for ending up in the ICU after he was born. My stomach hurt for four sleepless...endless...days straight. Fuck my daughter for falling off the bed when I had just stepped out of the room for a second. I can still hear that gut-wrenching thud. It rings in my ears. It haunts me. Fuck my wife for every single time she hasn't answered her cell phone and I have had to spend the time between my call and her call back imagining every horrific goddamn thing that could have happened to her, imagining the hole in my soul that would be ripped open if I ever lost her. And fuck the realization that...sooner or later...death does us all part...and there ain't a goddamn thing I can do about it.

I feel like now that I've brought up my mother, I should behave the way that she taught me to behave. So to all my loved ones...

"Say 'Please.'" - Please be careful out there in this crazy ass world.

"Say 'Thank you.'" - Thank you for making my life all that it is.

And...

"Always use the bathroom before you leave." - In conclusion, if you have managed to matter to me...PISS ON YOU, MUTHAFUCKA! And I mean that with all my heart.

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: It's Elmo's World?!?

2006-03-13T09:27:00.000-08:00

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: It's Elmo's World?!?

It's Elmo's World?!?

2006-03-13T00:26:00.000-08:00

NEW MILLENIUM NIGGA NEWS HOUR (transcript provided by Reuters)
(credit given to Paul Mooney who introduced the idea of "The Nigga News" years ago)

[A Tickle Me Elmo commercial comes to its gut-busting end.]

A NEW MILLENNIUM NIGGA turns to camera.

NMN: "He's yellow." There are contexts in which "dem's could be fightin' words." But when you're talking about Big Bird, it is simply a fact. He's tall. He's yellow. And if you've been a child, had a child or even known a child on Earth anytime in the last 40 years, he's the man...or more accurately, as I would learn, the bird. A New Millennium Nigga News Hour brings you this special presentation: "Flippin' the Bird".

NMN walks down Sesame Street alongside Big Bird.

NMN: First of all...Fuck Elmo!

BB: Here on Sesame Street we don't fuck our friends.

NMN: Not even if they're fuck buddies.

BB: What's a fuck buddy?

NMN: Friends who fuck.

BB: We visited a farm last week and we learned about chicks being hatched. I guess you could say they're our cluck buddies.

NMN winks.

NMN: I get it...you be messin' wit dem chickenheads.

BB: No they had chicken bodies too.

NMN: Huh?

BB: What?

NMN: Chickenheads. Like chicks who...never mind. Stop getting me off point.

BB: What is your point?

NMN: My point is that it's Elmo's World.

BB: (singing) La-la-la-la, la-la-la-la/Elmo's World.

NMN: No.

BB: You don't know the song.

NMN: How could I not know the song? Of course I know the song. I have two kids. I hear that fucking song in my fucking sleep.

BB: It is catchy.

NMN: That's not the point.

BB: What is your point?

NMN: My point is it used to be YOUR world, Big Bird. What happened to you? You used to be beautiful, man.

BB: Well, it's everybody's world. We need to share--

NMN: No, no, no. Don't tell me you've started to believe all this "share, share, that's fair" shit you've been shovelling these kids, dawg.

BB: I'm a bird.

NMN: What?

BB: You must be confused. You called me a dog. I'm a bird.

NMN: Are you getting fuckin' smart with me?

BB: Here on Sesame Street we try to get smarter and smarter every day.

NMN: Well, if you're so muthafuckin' smart, how come you let that nigga, Elmo, snatch your show right out from under you.

BB: Sesame Street?

NMN: Yes, nigga, Sesame Street! For a muthafucka who be teachin' kids shit, you are one slow cat.

BB: I'm a bird.

NMN: What?

BB: Huh?

NMN: Look, man, I'm from Flatbush. And if there's one thing I know it's that you can't be lettin' muthafuckas run up on your block punkin' you. You come off lookin' like a bitch.

BB: Did you watch Sesame Street as a child?

NMN: Of course, man.

BB: Then why don't you know your animals? I already told you...I'm not a dog.

NMN: Are you gettin' fuckin' smart with me?

BB: You said I look like a bitch. But I don't look anything like a dog.

NMN: No, not a bitch like...Never mind. That's not the point.

BB: What is your point?

OSCAR THE GROUCH pops up out of his garbage can.

OSCAR: Oh...it's you. New millennium, same ol' asshole.

NMN: Fuck you, nigga. That's why you live in a garbage can.

OSCAR: Your mother.

NMN dives at the garbage can. Oscar shuts the lid just in time to catch NMN's hand. He pulls away shaking his hand.

NMN: Damn. That shit happens every time.

Big Bird looks on confused. NMN turns to him.

NMN: Look, this right here. This is your shit. Where does Elmo live? In Elmo's World? You live ON Sesame Street. YOU FROM THE STREETS, NIGGA!

BB: You're right. I mean, I never thought of it that way, but Elmo doesn't know what's going on out here on Sesame Street.

NMN: That's what I'm sayin'. But then why aren't these kids askin' for Tickle Me Big Bird dolls? Tickle Me Elmo?! You know what I'm'a buy Elmo for Christmas? A Blow Me New Millennium Nigga Doll.

BB: You have your own doll.

NMN: Yeah, it's cummin' in December.

NMN laughs at his own joke. Big Bird doesn't get it.

BB: I don't get it.

NMN: See, it's a Blow Me...Never mind. That's not the point.

BB: What is your point?

NMN: My point is that you are reppin' the real Sesame Street and that nigga Elmo is stealin' your shine.

Big Bird sits on the curb. NMN sits down next to him. Big Bird hangs his head.

BB: You're right. But what do I do about it?

NMN shakes him.

NMN: You can act like a man.

BB: I already told you. I'm a --

NMN: You're a bird. I know. I know. But here's the question. Are you gonna soar like an eagle? Or are you gonna let Elmo treat you like a duck?

BB: Technically, I'm not an eagle or a--

NMN slaps Big Bird's beak.

NMN: Focus! You go reclaim your show. Reclaim Sesame Street!

BB: You're right. I'm gonna reclaim Sesame Street!

Big Bird stands and storms away. NMN pounds his fist to his chest.

NMN: Sesame Street for life, nigga!

OSCAR pops out of his can.

OSCAR: Move it along, nigga. You're drivin' down the property values.

NMN: Shut up, man. That's why you stink.

OSCAR: I live in a garbage can. What's your excuse?

NMN dives at the garbage can. Oscar shuts the lid just in time to catch NMN's hand. He pulls away shaking his hand.

NMN: Damn. That shit happens every time.

Back in the studio, A NEW MILLENNIUM NIGGA turns to camera.

NMN: As I'm sure you know by now, Elmo was shot just hours after this interview. Both B.I.G. Bird and Snuffy are wanted for questioning. We here at the New Millennium Nigga News Hour certainly hope that there won't be anymore violence. Good night and good luck, niggas.

NMN puts his finger to his earpiece.

NMN: What the cops wanna talk to me for?!

VOICE-OVER: New Millennium Nigga News Hour is brought to you by Brace Yo'Self Elmo. Kevlar vest and life-like "nine milly" sold separately. They shot him five times. Really puppets don't die. Ya heard?!

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Katrina (The Remix)

2006-03-06T09:00:00.000-08:00

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Katrina (The Remix)

Katrina (The Remix)

2006-03-06T05:50:00.000-08:00

Some people say that George W. Bush is always fucking lying. That's not true. Sometimes, he's fucking sleeping. And sometimes when he's awake, he isn't fucking speaking. But the rest of the time...when he parts the lips that form that smug fucking smile...he is one lyin' ass muthafucka.

Now, let me put something out there right up front. When I decided to write this "Musing" a couple people half-joked that I should be careful. I thought about it and for those who would warn me that I will now be on some government list... I’m a Black man who graduated from Yale and particpated in a protest or two while there. I’m guessing I’m already on some fucking list. Besides, what the fuck can this government do to me ain’t already been done? So you can warm up my cell at Abu-Ghraib, Dubya. Or you can just ship my Black ass off to Gitmo. But before you send me, you should know this. I ain’t afraid of menstrual blood nor my own, so in your own words, “Bring It On.” Greater is he that is in me than he who is in the Oval Office!

First of all...Fuck George W. Bush! I know he was a cheerleader back in the day, so let me put this in terms even he could understand.

Fuck George W. Bush!
Fuck him in his earhole!
Fuck him in his eyehole!
Fuck him in his
lyin’-ass piehole!

Didn't he specifically say that he didn't know what was happening as Katrina lashed the Gulf Coast like a runaway slave? Wasn't the popular response to criticism of the administration's response, or lack thereof, that the left was trying to blame Dubya for the weather? [Well, from what I'm told Bush and his cronies can take a little credit for the weather since the severity of these hurricanes lately has been linked by some to the very global warming this administartion insists "needs more study." (Translation: We're gonna keep farting this shit into the sky. Fuck the fucking consequences.) But that's another rant for another day.] Well, now it comes out. He was far more responsible for that catastrophe than he was saying. And in our law and order country, I'd like to know why no one is calling for the death penalty.

I, for one, don't believe in the death penalty. But I know that many in America do. So, if Tookie can be put to death for killing people why not Dubya? I assure you Dubya had more choices in life. 1,300 bodies found in Katrina's wake and nothing. Bad approval ratings?! That's the kind of "time-out" level punishment this murderer gets? I mean, I heard Tookie described as an animal. I'm pretty sure that he didn't kill 1,300 people, so how much more of an animal must Dubya be? And that's to say nothing of Iraq and it's 25,000 American casualties (a number put forth by Gary Hart on "Real Time" last week) and 2,300 dead American soldiers. How many people died in 9-11 again? What does this guy have to do to generate the kind of anger Janet's tit did? out a CIA operative? I don't want to actually say how I think the death penalty should be administered in this case, but suffice it to say it involves that smug fucking smile and a smidge of K-Y jelly.

But back to the tape. Not since R. Kelly has somebody been caught so red-handed fucking people on tape. He was told about the levees. He was told what would happen to those people...my people. No questions. No nothing. Who knows what that "beautiful mind" was mulling over? May be he was contemplating the intricacies of a "Rocky & Bullwinkle" episode he had once seen? Or he could have been wondering if that coyote ever caught that pesky road runner. Or may be he was wondering if Fred Flintstone ever got strawberries on his feet, using them to brake like that. Or he could have been sorting out how they get the filling into Twinkies. Or why people park in driveways and drive on parkways. I have never been an idiot. I don't know what he was thinking. But I do know this. The nation got it's collective panties in a bunch wondering if Clinton fucked Monica. Where's the outrage at the fact that Curious George and his crew are fucking us all? It comes as no surprise though that this was kept a secret for so long.

Dubya, people like you have a long history of keeping your jaunts across the proverbial tracks…to say nothing of down to the slave quarters…pretty goddamn quiet. Congrats on fucking all those Black people. And in a twist, this time unwanted (at least by your administration) children died instead of being born. (To think, Essie Mae Washington-Williams could have inconvenienced good ol' Strom. Good thing she knew her nigger place, huh George?) And all those dying Black people means fewer Democrats. Talk about your win-win situations.

Let's be real. This Katrina shit is, at it's core, racial. I mean, Kanye missed a little of the point. ("George Bush doesn't care about Black people." is another check in the "I Love Kanye" column for me.) Dubya, et al don't care about poor people. Now, when you discuss Black people, you will eventually deal with poverty. And when you deal with poverty you will eventually deal with Black people. To be sure, Dubya doesn't give a fuck about Black people, but I remember seeing Brett Fahr-vruh trying to call his mother in the aftermath of Katrina and there won't be no crayon drawings of him goin' up next February. It's bigger than race. Here's how you know if you matter to this administration. Ask yourself, "Did I get a tax cut?" If the answer is no, you know they don't give a fuck about you. And yes, that includes the lemmings who voted based on the need to keep boys from marrying boys and girls from marrying girls. News flash: Gay people didn't want to fuck you, but Dubya seems to love puttin' his Wonka right up our collective chocolate factory.

It's fitting that they're called red states, because those who put this asshole in office have blood on their hands...and lots of it. This is not about Democrat versus Republican. This is not about liberal versus conservative. This is about right versus wrong. What happened in New Orleans was wrong and I want some satisfaction. The War in Iraq was wrong and is wrong and I want to know who will have to pay for the crimes (against humanity) that were committed. I want Cheney to be treated like a muthafucka who had alcohol on his breath and in his blood and shot somebody. Vice President, I would apologize for my language, but I heard how you talk on the Senate floor. You can take it. You're a big boy...to say nothing of being an evil fucking man.

And if this ever reaches you, John Kerry, I hope you're smiling. I hope you're agreeing with my assessment of this administration and feeling secure that you have an ally in me...because then I can picture the shock when I say...Fuck you, too! Fuck you and every plastic-spined, pussy-footin’ equivocatin’ member of your joke of a fucking party. The Democrats--or as I refer to them, The United Ankle Grabbers of America--have given this country away. Don’t blame those who voted for Nader. Neither election should have even been close. I have been a registered (and loyal) democrat for my entire voting life. But you should know this. I’m not voting for another fucking Democrat until I see that they stand for something. At this point, a stand in the great Coke vs. Pepsi debate would be an improvement over the hand-wringing, deer-in-the-headlights debacle we’ve been forced to endure.

You bumblin’ bastards couldn’t find your assholes with a flashlight and a road map and I’m not throwing my vote your way anymore until you earn it. I’ll vote for Nader. I’ll write in “None of the a-muthafuckin-bove”. I’ll vote for Tyrone-fuckin-Biggums before I cast another "lesser of two evils" vote. Fuck you, John Kerry, for being the kind of pussy who would “go hunting” but not carry the kill. You don’t stand for a goddamn thing and that’s why you fell in defeat to an incumbent who was an unabashed, unmitigated failure in every sense. The economy was a mess. An elective war had gone wrong. The man had publicly admitted that he doesn’t even read the newspaper. Fuck! What else did you need? A picture of him butt-fuckin’ a 12-year old Mexican border crosser who had been caught by the infamous militia men. Now you've got balls?! Stop emailing me. Too little, too late. You remind me of the guy yelling, "Hold me back" after the shit has already gone down, after the fight is over. You make me sick. You doomed us to this with your bullshit.

Moving on...

Dubya, I'm reminded of a time when I was a young boy. I don't remember how old I was, but I was young enough to still be playing with crayons. I know you still play with crayons -- How else would you pass the time as people read you boring memos entitled things like, "Bin Laden Determined to Attack Inside the United States"? -- but the rest of us put aside our childish ways after a certain point. Anyway, my mother called me into her bedroom and pointed to the back of her door. "Did you write this?," she asked pointing to the crayon scrawling on the back of her door. I denied it. She pointed out that it was my name. I was a bad liar. I was punished. My mother taught me that it was wrong to lie. I know that your mother doesn't soil her "beautiful mind" with trivialities like the loss of American lives, so she may have also been above sullying her consciousness with the fact that her son is a fuckin' pathological liar. So, I'll tell you. It's wrong to lie, George. Some might even call it --gasp! -- a sin.

But I don't share this story to point out that my mother seems to have been a better human being and Christian than your mother. I'll leave those judgements to the ultimate judge. I share the story to point out that you are a horrible liar. The mission in Iraq is far from accomplished. Many children have been left behind. And you did know that the people of New Orleans were doomed. Is this the "honor and dignity" of which you spoke when you ran in 2000? Is this the compassionate conservatism that was the way to a better America? Is this the Christianity of which you so freely and frequently speak, alienating millions of Americans who do not believe in Christ and frightening those of us who do, but who generally try to utilize the gifts of reason and intellect as well?

To use a phrase you once butchered beyond fucking recognition...Fool us once, shame on you. Fool us twice, shame on us. And we should be ashamed that the self-proclaimed greatest country on Earth could not find a leader better than you, a man who had been mediocre on the best days of his privileged life. You couldn't run baseball, but the country...Wow! That says a lot about the political process. Apparently, you were helped by the fact that people felt they wanted to have a beer with you. I've had a lot of drinking buddies in my day...hell, I've had a lot of drinks...but I wouldn't necessarily want some of those drinking buddies calling the shots for the free world. I'm just weird that way. But far be it from me to tell people how to waste their vote.

Anyhow, what's done is done. Well, not exactly...The tax cuts will cost several generations after ours money they never decided to spend. But other than that...Well, there is this pesky swamp of a war in Iraq. We won't be pulling out of that quicksand anytime soon. But beyond...Oh yeah...They're still waiting for the clean up to happen in New Orleans.

I did hear they had Mardi Gras though. So, may be next year we can all have a drink with you down in New Orleans. Don't mind the dead bodies. I'm sure somebody will clean the mess up eventually. May be, for ol' times sake, Laura will let you get shit-faced with a bunch of us American citizens you relate to so fucking well, you Washington outsider, you. And if we're lucky, we can all jump in a car and have a drunk driving incident that nobody ever talks about. Shit, we can rip a page out of Cheney's book, hit somebody and make them apologize on national TV for being in our way. I'm starting to see the genius of this whole "I'd like to have a drink with him" philosophy. I'm getting all excited, just thinking about us stumbling down Bourbon Street drunk as Noah himself. Now, that's the kind of drowning in Hurricanes I'm talkin' 'bout!

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Why I Won't Write This Musing

2006-02-28T11:24:00.000-08:00

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Why I Won't Write This Musing

Why I Won't Write This Musing

2006-02-28T10:02:00.000-08:00

Recently, A New Millennium Nigga found himself discussing potential "Musing" topics with a friend. "Don't do Michael Jackson," she opined. "It's too easy." I thought about it and she was right. The jokes are all out there. And in the end, Michael's a living joke. So, what's the point.

I mean, I could have started out with some standard jokes like:

Q: How do you know it's bedtime at Neverland Ranch?
A: When the big hand's on the little hand.

But could there possibly be more to say. Maybe if...Here's the thing... It would feel good to say, "First of all...Fuck Michael Jackson!"

I mean, as far as I'm concerned, it seems pretty clear that he's a sexual predator...alright, alleged sexual predator. And with his fascination with Peter Pan, it seems odd that so many of the boys who have spent the night with him refer to him as "Captain Hooks To The Left" but I have better shit to do than sit around cursing Michael Jackson.

Now, those goddamn parents...They need a good cursin' out. What kind of bullshit pimp-fuckin'-ology is this? "So...you want me to stay in the guest house, being waited upon hand and foot and you'll spend the night in here, in your bedroom, having a sleepover with my pubescent son? Well, I don't see what could possibly be wrong with that. Sounds great." I think each and every one of those maternal madames and paternal pimps should be tossed in prison where their new cellmates can help them re-enact what probably happened to their kid. "Hey, J-Bo, is it alright if we don't play 'Sing Into My Mic' tonight?"

But, nah...I'm not going to do it. I could unveil some new jokes I'd written like.

A pop star, a lunatic and a child molester walk into a bar. The bartender looks up and says, "Hey everybody, it's Michael Jackson."

But where's the fun in that? I mean, as we've all heard a million times he never had a childhood. Of course, by extension of that logic, you'd have to empty out most of America's prisons, but hey...

It might have been fun, though...

NEW MILLENIUM NIGGA NEWS HOUR (transcript provided by Reuters)
(credit given to Paul Mooney who introduced the idea of "The Nigga News" years ago)

[A Just For Me commercial comes to a sing-songy end.]

NEW MILLENNIUM NIGGA: And we're back. We head back to my exclusive interview with Michael Jackson. He never had a childhood, ya know?

CUT TO:

MJ: I never really had a childhood.

NMN: And that's why you recorded "Have You Seen My Childhood?"

MJ: Yes.

NMN: Well, I ain't seen your muthafuckin' childhood, but I'm pretty fuckin' sure you ain't gonna find it up some twelve year old's ass.

MJ: That's just ignorant.

NMN: What? You think you will find it in some twelve year old's ass?

MJ: You're making it sexual. Just because a grown man sleeps in the bed with boys and those boys keep saying--

NMN: Michael, do you really think it's a good idea for a nigga to be havin' sleepovers with little niggas even after said nigga has been accused of playin 'Back Door Pokey Karaoke' with other little niggas?

MJ: That's just ignorant.

NMN: What? 'Back Door Pokey Karaoke'?

Silence.

MJ: My shoulder hurts.

NMN: What?!

MJ: I'm in pain.

NMN: Whatever nigga. Let's talk about your music.

MJ: Good.

NMN: Is it true that 'Beat It' is about a slumber party?

MJ: No. That's just ignorant.

NMN: You wrote 'Pretty Young Thing.' Great song.

MJ: Thank you.

NMN: Just how pretty and just how young do you like them?

MJ: That's just ignorant.

NMN: I've heard that Webster's momma caught you trying to check into a hotel with him, claiming you was his pops. Any comment?

Silence.

NMN: Is it true that was when you wrote 'Heartbreak Hotel?'

MJ: That's just ignorant. I'm leaving.

Michael removes his mic and storms off the set.

NMN: One more question. Any truth to the rumor that you are the spokesman for NAMBLA's 'Leave No Child's Behind Behind' Program.

Michael exits the studio. NMN chases after him.

NMN: Is it true that you will be collaborating with R. Kelly on a song entitled 'Jesus Loves The Little Children...And So Do We'?

NMN bends down and grabs something in the parking lot.

NMN: Wait! You dropped your nose.

Michael's caravan disappears into the distance.

Back in the studio, A NEW MILLENNIUM NIGGA turns to camera.

NMN: I would ask if Michael's excuses smell fishy, but with the whole nose thing, my lawyers thought that could be viewed as an indirect barb. So, I'll leave it at this. Michael, you will eventually pay for what you have done.

NMN puts a finger to his earpiece.

NMN: ...for what you have allegedly done. Who the fuck do you think you are? The Catholic church?

NMN puts a finger to his earpiece.

NMN: What do you mean I'm off the air?

VOICE-OVER: New Millennium Nigga News Hour is brought to you by Jesus Juice. If it's in a can, it must be alright to drink it, little boy.

Yeah, I could'a done that. But I'm glad I didn't. That would be ignorant.

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: I Am Not Real

2006-02-27T04:43:00.000-08:00

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: I Am Not Real

I Am Not Real

2006-02-27T04:13:00.000-08:00

It is rare in life that a nigga creates something before he exists. But that might be the case with the poem "I Am Not Real" and A New Millennium Nigga. It is unclear whether A New Millennium Nigga created "I Am Not Real" or "I Am Not Real" created A New Millennium Nigga. What is clear, in this "chicken or the egg" scenario, is that their births, their beginnings, are inextricably linked.

In an unorthodox move, NMN dedicates today's entry to...in the interest of not puttin' a brutha's bit-ness in the street, let's call him JGo...a brother who is standing tall in the face of man-sized grief and adversity in this everyday struggle called life. As a matter of fact, this goes out to all those unsung brothers who give all they've got to do right by their families, their communities and/or themselves. You are my niggas, my brothers! And that's my word! (Unless, of course, you don't like to be referred to as "nigga," in which case the vocabulary changes, but the sentiment remains the same.)

I AM NOT REAL

I am not real.

Allow me to explain
what I’m sayin’.
No, I ain’t lost my mind.
And no, I ain’t playin’.
I’m just sayin’
what I realized
when I looked at the mirror
into my own eyes
and hypthesized
that...
I am not real.

Even as a child
as my moms and pops
each went their own way,
nobody gave a fuck
what I had to say.
I spent my whole life
trying to find my voice,
my way.
Then I realize
nobody gives a fuck today.

See, they want to hear
what real niggaz
is talkin’ ‘bout.
And when they sayin’ “real niggaz,”
Let’s be real, niggaz...
they leavin’ me out
because...
I am not real.

Real niggaz sell drugs.
Real niggaz got guns.
Real niggaz wear jewels.
Real niggaz got funds.

I been workin’ at a job
since I turned fourteen.
And I kept my record clean.
Know what I mean?
A quarter million in tuition
invested in the shit I know.
But most of that was student loans-
No silver spoon for the bro.
Shit, my intellect is brilliant as afterglow.
Yet it’s like I should feel ashamed
for fuckin’ up the status quo.
Hell, no, I ain’t been to jail!
Was I supposed to go?!
My bad.
I forgot incarceration
was a part of the deal.
But that’s simply because...
I am not real.

Even on TV
I do not exist.
I check all the networks
and it gives me fits.
Either you got modern-day coons
displaying dim wit
or you got niggaz like Cosby
talkin’ dumb shit.
I’m lookin’ for me
and none’a that ain’t it.
When the revolution’s televised
I won’t even be missed
because...
I am not real.

I rocked the SAT
and can write a bad-ass essay, b.
But in LA even the Mexicans
won’t “ese” me.
And though I used to chase ass
to the Nth degree,
I’m settled down now,
but I don’t get no articles in Essence, b.
‘Cause the community
just refuses to see
that there’s a lot of real niggaz out there
just like me.

But even though I ain’t real,
I know I can’t quit.
But I am gettin’ real tired,
‘cause this is real bullshit.

And that’s real.

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: A Word From Our Sponsor

2006-02-24T08:57:00.000-08:00

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: A Word From Our Sponsor

A Word From Our Sponsor

2006-02-24T08:22:00.000-08:00

Tired of the same old diet solutions that never seem to work? Would you like to experience an ecstasy equivalent to a 10-minute orgasm? Feeling overly burdened by your Earthly possessions, a condition commonly known as "golden handcuffs?"

Well then, ask your doctor about Krakrox. Relatively inexpensive and colossally effective, Krakrox have been changing the lives of Black Americans for years. Now that glorious goodness is available to you over the counter. Whether taken via inhaler, capsule or by classic pipe, you can "Beam up to Scotty" in the tradition of Pookie in "New Jack City." ("It be callin' me, man.")

And for a limited time, Endahude Pharmaceuticals is offering Pink Tops, the most effective Krakrox available on the market today. Those other pharmaceutical niggas got garbage down the way, son. We guarantee that Pink Tops will get you so fucked up that you willingly betray your friends, your family and even yourself...or your money back. (What the hell? We'll get it eventually. We get niggas on the comeback.)

But that's not all! The first 100 customers who respond to this offer will get a special introductory rate of 2 for $5. You heard right. You can lose that pesky weight...your dignity...your teeth...and your appliances...for the low, low introductory price of $5. That's only a fraction of the cost of the clothes and jewels you used to use to feel better about yourself. And at some locations, you can even trade your clothes and jewels for...that's right...MORE KRAKROX!

So shed that excess weight...around your waist...and in your wallet! Leave your kids at yo momma's, grab your VCR, head down to your doctor's office and ask him to prescribe Krakrox: the temporary fix to the inner-city blues.

This message is brought to you by the CIA...(allegedly) the original Krakrox pushers...I mean, suppliers.

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: THE AGONY OF VICTORY?

2006-02-23T11:25:00.000-08:00

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: THE AGONY OF VICTORY?

THE AGONY OF VICTORY?

2006-02-23T11:24:00.000-08:00

I watched a lot of sports as a kid. I even watched the Winter Olympics, which is more than most of America (including me) can say in our 2006 American Idol-run world. I particularly remember watching the 1980 Lake Placid Games. You know, The Miracle On Ice…that Olympics. I even remember Eric Heiden winning race after race in speed skating. I didn’t know shit about ice skating, but if it was anything like the sock slide I was doing in my tighty whities across the splintery wooden floor in my living room in Flatbush as I imitated him, I was the shit at it. Anyway, long story short…ice is cold…and only found in cold places…so I did my laps of the living room, did my “U.S.A.” chants and a fortnight or so later I went back to watching Knick games on channel 9 (Remember when sports events came to us on regular TV? That was the shit. What was I talking about again? Oh yeah…)

Anyway, that’s about as much attention as the Winter Olympics ever got from me. And from what I understand that was more than could be said for most Black people. Lots of snow, ice and cold? That ain’t the forecast that’s gonna entice the descendants of the sun people to come out and play.

So, 26 years later, I hear about Shani, a brother from the South Side of Chicago that is supposed to be the shit at ice skating. Then came the controversy that leads me to say…

First of all…fuck the “U…S…A!”

Fuck the chant. Fuck the flag. Fuck the entire muthafuckin’ farce.

I’m sorry, Shani. I’m sorry that even the oft repeated promise of the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat must be added to the long ass list of unkept promises that this country has reneged on when it has come time for the Black man to get his. You are a gold medalist. A gold fuckin’ medalist. It ain’t summertime! This ain’t track! But there you stand…or more accurately, glide, the absolute picture of athletic prowess. You should be negotiating your Wheaties deal. Instead you have to defend yourself for focusing on a dream you’ve had for longer than I’ll ever know. I’m sorry that they shit on your moment, Shani.

Please know that I’m proud of you. I’m embarrassed that I’m proud. I mean, in 2006, I still find myself tuning in to game shows and rooting for the Black person. I scratch my head as Art Shell has to wait a lifetime to get another chance to coach as the NFL shuffles white mediocrity from sideline to sideline, season after season. I root for you…even though I don’t know the first thing about your sport. I root for you, for the same reason that I rooted for Tiger to win the Masters and I root for Venus and Serena to win everything. There’s still that gnawing feeling in me that something is being proven, that if you win, maybe the next Black kid who turns to something besides football or basketball won’t be seen as a freak of nature. But more importantly, I root because I know that somewhere some racist just had a bad day. That makes me smile.

My father told me an anecdote I suspect you can appreciate. A White co-worker confided in my father that he cried himself to sleep the night that Hank Aaron broke Babe Ruth’s record. What was my father supposed to say to that bullshit? “Sorry that a Black man now holds the most precious of American sports records.” No, he just told me the story years later and we got to enjoy that even through death threats, through any hardship, it is possible to succeed, to excel at the highest levels. I hope that man is still crying. I hope he dies crying. Fuck him.

So, apparently all this fuss is because you weren’t willing to put your dreams on the back burner for some White boy. You see, I hate that it was expected, but I understand. He thought he was in some movie…you’ve seen others like it…Let’s call it “The Legend of Nigga Vance” (no disrespect to Will, who handles his business, so far as I’m concerned). This is the basic plot. A Black man with knowledge, wisdom and skill subjugates himself and serves to make some White man’s dream come true, to make his life better. (The real version goes like this. America asks the Black man to go someplace he may or may not have heard of to fight and die for democracy while denying him any at home. See: WWII, Iraq.) You didn’t help to fix anybody’s swing. You chose to win for yourself. America hates that. I love it.

You ain’t got to smile, neither. I don’t know what it was like to be the Black boy from the South Side in the world of speed skating, but I imagine that was some lonely shit. I went to Polytechnic Preparatory Country Day School for high school, Yale for college and USC (aka the University of Spoiled Children) for film school and that lily white reality must have been like an afternoon at Freaknik compared to what you had to deal with.

So, congratulations, Shani! I’m proud of you. Maybe by the next millennium a nigga won’t still be feelin’ good about the first Black (fill-in-the-blank), but today that is my reality. And you may not get a Wheaties deal, but this morning I salute you and all that you’ve accomplished, all that you must have endured.

I don’t feel much like chanting “U.S.A” the way I did when I was 8.

I’ve got no punchline to wrap this up. This shit ain’t funny to me.

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: A Thin Line

2006-02-22T10:44:00.000-08:00

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: A Thin Line

A Thin Line

2006-02-22T09:48:00.000-08:00

First of all...Fuck Kanye West! Well, not really. I mean...the music is hot. But no, on second thought, fuck him! Wait...

See, here's my problem. There's a thin line between love and hate and, for me, Kanye hopscotches back and forth over and all along that muthafucka.

There's the issue of the arrogance. Not only does this nigga act like his shit don't stink, I'm half-expecting to log on to eBay and see that he's trying to auction it off as sculpture. Boy, oh boy. I've never seen anybody who wasn't a yogi or named Ron Jeremy be this far on his own dick. I listen to him talk and it brings out the hater in me. I sit there thinking, "I hope his next single ain't shit. That nig-- (The song comes on the radio.) Dammit! That shit is hot. This muthafucka keeps hittin' with straight heaters and it makes me sick!" Drats!

"Okay," I thought after "College Dropout" (more on that later), "He had his one hot album. But there's always the sophomore slump. There ain't no way he can do it aga--("Gold Digger" drops.) Nooooooooo! I'm even feelin' the name of the album, 'Late Registration.' Building on the whole 'College Dropout' theme, huh? Foiled again!" The second album was arguably hotter than the first.

But my main beef with Kanye runs much deeper than the fact that he acts like the sun rises and sets on his ass. It goes back to the message of "College Dropout." Throughout many of the songs and skits, Kanye basically rails against the very idea of education. In character, he quips in a nerdy voice -- you know the one used on Black sitcoms to signal that the nigga speaking has actually read a book with more words than pictures -- that he may not have any money, "but he can count up the change in your purse really fast." In the "Li'l Jimmy Skit" he assumess the persona of a Black homeless child who laments the fact that his well educated father left him nothing more than a stack of degrees that are good for nothing more than burning for heat.

Sure, based on listening to the nigga's lyrics, that he knew better, I got pissed at Kanye. Yeah, that's right Kanye. That's the problem with the Black community. Too much education. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!?! Are you really advising kids against going to school, against staying in school. Well, let me join in. Here are some other things that kids can aspire to, other than being a platinum artist like you, if they want to make good money without an education:

1. Professional lottery player - Every morning check with friends and family and ask if they had any peculiar dreams. If they did, all you have to do is figure out what number is going to play based on the image of Nana Jenkins riding an elephant down Flatbush Avenue and you are on easy street. Sure, the odds are millions to one, but at least you won't have to talk in that nerdy voice that all educated niggas are contractually obligated to use.

2. Pro Athlete - This is a popular one. Next time you're in the hood, swing by the basketball courts. See all those niggas playing and waiting for next? Ask yourself how many of them will be Lebron James someday. On a percentage basis -- wait, you don't understand percentages? because you didn't go to school? -- Well, that's alright. I'll break it down for you. You have a better shot with your dollar and your dream and going with #1.

3. Wish - When you're collecting bottles to pay for your lottery ticket...seeing as how you can't get your demo to anybody that matters and the market for 5'7" point guards isn't what you thought it would be...rub each and every bottle. May be some ghetto genie will pop out and will grant you three wishes. Be careful, though. You might want to spend one of those wishes on a financial planner or you might end up like Mike Tyson or MC Hammer, having made and lost the gross national product of a small nation. (What does gross national product mean?! Ask one of those nerdy voice niggas. I got other shit to do.)

I first heard it expressed by Malcolm X that Black kids grow up in poor areas with poor schools where they get poor educations that force them into poor jobs that pay poor wages that force them to live in poor areas where their kids get poor educations. The cycle has to be broken and Kanye is not helping...not one tiny little muthafuckin' bit with his stupid-ass skits.

"I hate Kanye. It's settled," I thought as I considered the bullshit he was serving our kids. Then came the Grammys.

"Got ya, now!" I was excited to see him in his Kool Moe Dee shades...inside. It was Michael Jackson-esque. At last he was going to play himself for good...and on the biggest stage music has to offer. He even showed up with his shirt open and his "taco meat" showing. (NMN has been informed that "taco meat" is what the folk in the beauty shop are calling those lovely little naps that reside on brothers' chests.) "Who are you supposed to be? You're going down, Mr. West. Once and for all." A sinister smile spread over my face. "I hate Kanye West."

Then came the performance. On a night when it was clear that video killed not only the radio star but also the live performance, Kanye, with the help of Jamie Foxx, ripped it. There I was alternating between nodding my head and shaking it. The marching bands. The stepping. The performance was the highlight of the night. DAMN YOU, KANYE WEST! I love that nigga, Kanye West!

No...I hate Kanye West...Well, I guess I love Kanye West!...No! Definitely hate. I hate--

This shit is giving me a fuckin' headache. To quote "College Dropout"...

"You know what, Kanye. You's a nigger. And I don't mean that in no nice way."

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: TVMA - LSV

2006-02-21T09:06:00.000-08:00

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: TVMA - LSV

TVMA - LSV

2006-02-21T09:04:00.000-08:00

If you can't fuck...shiiiiiit.
And if you can't shit...fuuuuuuck.
- Redd Foxx

I've heard it said that profanity is nothing more than a lazy mind trying to express itself. Well, that's just... just... that's... just... THAT'S FUCKIN' BULLSHIT, MAN! There are some great words in the English language, to be sure, but none more versatile, more agile...none more exquisitely simple and impactful than my favorite word...fuck.

You don't agree? Who gives a fuck?! See there. It fits almost any occasion.

Ladies, help me out. Tell me that in your lifetime you or a friend hasn't been fuckin' some fuck who didn't give a fuck and realized, "I'm fucked."

Fellas, tell me you've never heard a story about a "guys night out" that included something like this: He was so fucked up, he fucked with this guy and got fucked up. It was fucked up.

Try writing those sentences using some other word in place of fuck. It doesn't work. Recognize the power, the glory, of the mightiest of four letter words.

But my favorite employment of the f-bomb is the compound word. Sure, if someone does something you can't believe you could say, "Unbelievable." But there's a cathartic quality to saying, "Unbe-fuckin'-lievable." If you've never tried it, you should. Other favorites: Un-fuckin'-real. Whatso-fuckin'-ever. Fan-fuckin'-tastic. It really does work with anything. As a matter of fact, as you read this you may be thinking, "This is ri-fuckin'-diculous!" That's the spirit!

I've found that the average spell check does not even recognize this titan of profanity. Believe you me, the word gets learned quickly when I'm at the keyboard. It has so very much to offer.

I was but a boy when the following cautionary tale was shared with me. It opened my eyes in more ways than one and I'd like to share it with you.

DON'T WORRY

There's only two fuckin' things to worry about
Either you fuckin'
or you ain't fuckin'
If you ain't fuckin',
you ain't got nothin' to worry about
But if you fuckin'...
There's only two fuckin' things to worry about
Either you fuckin' one person
or you fuckin' more than one person
If you fuckin' one person,
you ain't got nothin' to worry about
But if you fuckin' more than one person...
There's only two fuckin' things to worry about
Either they don't find out
or they do
If they don't find out
you ain't got nothin' to worry about
But if they do find out...
There's only two fuckin' things to worry about
Either they gon' be cool about it
or they gon' fuck you up
If they cool about it
you ain't got nothin' to worry about
But if they fuck you up...
There's only two fuckin' things to worry about
Either you'll be okay
or you'll fuckin' die
If you okay, you okay
you ain't got nothin' too worry about
But if you fuckin' die...
There's only two things to worry about
Either you'll go to heaven
or you'll go to hell
If you go to heaven
you ain't got nothin' to worry about
But if you go hell...
You'll be so fuckin' busy comparin' notes with muthafuckas who did the same fuckin' shit, you won't have time to fuckin' worry.

I love that one.

But A New Millennium Nigga isn't getting any younger. May be I should stop all this cursing...After all, I'm a father now...Not a baby daddy, but a father...and I should set a clean-cut example...you know...clean up my act...

Nah...I'm just fuckin' wit ya!

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Gettin' Real with Bill Maher Time

2006-02-17T10:57:00.000-08:00

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Gettin' Real with Bill Maher Time

Gettin' Real with Bill Maher Time

2006-02-17T09:41:00.000-08:00

Tonight on HBO, Bill Maher returns. I'm excited. I think "Real Time" is a great show and with TiVo pauses and rants it takes me and the Mrs. about 2 hours to watch a one-hour show. It also serves to scratch my counter-cultural itch to watch Bill Maher succeed on HBO after he was absolutely fucked by ABC, as they folded under the pressure of those who claim to love America but who hate the very notion of free speech.

Most importantly, though, I respect Bill Maher. But I am left to wonder why that muthafucka insists on disrespecting me. A New Millennium Nigga does not like to be disrespected and that's why I must greet the return of "Real Time with Bill Maher" with a hearty...

First of all...Fuck Bill Maher!

Do I say this because he made the news after being sued by his ex, Coco, a skanky little number who was so starved for fame that she named herself after the fucking lead character from the movie "Fame"? No. Of course not. Apparently, Bill likes them Black...and he likes 'em skanky. I give him his props though. There's no keep it on the D-L, Strom Thurmond-type creepin' in his game. No. Bill will walk down Main Street with these chicks. Now, that's keepin' it real. I am confused, though, when I consider Bill's love of realness, that he was feelin' those tits. Oh well. Life is full of contradictions.

Anyway...No. That's not my beef. My beef is that he is always insulting people who believe in God. Let me be clear. I didn't say the Christian Right. I can't stand the Christian Right...mostly because I don't think they're very fuckin' Christian. But Bill, I don't want to be associated with Pat Robertson any more than you, as a comedian, want to be associated with Carrot Top. (Seriously, how is that muthafucka funny? I don't get it.)

I don't know why Bill Maher insists on forcing his atheism on me. I don't want to force my Christianity on him. (Yes. A New Millennium Nigga is a Christian. I know that may be baffling to those of you who hold a narrow view of Christianity...and of A New Millennium Nigga.) I've heard him argue that these "fairy tales" we believe have caused wars. Well, they've also caused peace. But even beyond that, is Bill Maher really going to give up everything that causes war? That would mean giving up money, because Halliburton ain't doin' their thing in the name of Jesus. They're doing it to serve the Almighty...Dollar. So, he might as well return those HBO checks to sender. And then how popular will he be with the Black Skank population, huh? Tell me that.

And what about pussy. Pussy has caused wars. And I don't just mean pussy in the sense that Dubya is a pussy to be declaring war when he wouldn't go then and when he won't be sending anybody he knows or loves now. (I mean, the only shots his daughters ever deal with involve tequila.) No, I mean Helen of Troy-Hey Bathsheba, I'm gonna give your husband a promotion-type pussy causes war situations, where lust leads to blood being spilled and lives being lost.

And I know that Bill doesn't want to give up sex...not when he's now getting down with Superhead, the infamous "Video Vixen." I mean, let's face it. The woman didn't get her nickname because she wears big hats...or because she was the star of the Math Olympics in high school. She is nicknamed Superhead because, by all reports, the only woman to blow harder than her in the Black community was Katrina.

Here's the real. The only ones who have a rational leg to stand on are the agnostics. They take the reasonable, if painfully unexciting, stance that whether or not God exists is an unanswerable question. They say something that many of us might want to try out now and again…”I don’t know.”

But I have faith that there is a God. My faith is a belief in things unseen. It's not rational and I can't prove it. But, Bill, we've each chosen to believe something that we can't possibly know for sure. Seriously, you can't really mean to say that you can prove that there is no God. Besides, if there's no God, we're the highest beings around. And I'd rather not believe that one of the highest beings around is bedding down skanks I wouldn't fuck with Ann Coulter's dick.

Either way, we don't have to agree. We don't even have to agree to disagree. But I'd like to think we can show each other some basic respect. I don't want to have to stop watching your show. But when you disrespect me and my beliefs it makes me want to slap the Holy Ghost out of you. And...so help me God... I don't want to have to take the time to kneel down and do that.

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: A Barback Love Story

2006-02-16T10:26:00.000-08:00

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: A Barback Love Story

A Barback Love Story

2006-02-16T09:37:00.000-08:00

Having wasted so much of this Valentine's week railing against Flav, I've truly lost the loving spirit of the season. Some have even challenged that I don't know what love is, that I have no heart. And so...to prove them wrong...to prove that A New Millennium Nigga does have a heart...I'd like to share "A Barback Love Story" with all of you.

It was the summer of '91 -- Damn, how old am I? -- and I was looking for a job. I had graduated...with a certificate and everything...from the Columbia University School of Bartending (or something like that) and I was hitting every bar and restaurant in New Haven, CT looking for a job. Then I walked into Fat Tuesday's (not a part of the chain -- I always thought it was a McDowell's/McDonald's situation). I didn't look like I would rob the place blind and I spelled everything right on my application so I was hired on the spot. Little did I know that my life would change forever.

It was the end of my first night of work and my boss, having paid me five bucks an hour (+ ten percent of the tip jar), turned to me and said, "Good job. Get yourself a drink." I turned and there he stood...dressed in black...his golden visage as beautiful as anything I'd ever seen. That was the night I fell in with love...with Jack...Jack Daniel's.

He was smooth...so smooth. And the minute he touched my lips...I got a warm feeling in my chest. My heart was filled with joy. We spent a lot of time together that summer. And, oh, how he made me laugh. "Nigga, you're drunk," my friends would say. "You're just jealous, because we have a special bond. Jack swept me off my feet." "You landed on the sidewalk," they would shoot back as they walked away. "They don't understand us, Jack," I would say. He had my heart. Who had time to care what our love was doing to my liver?

But then things took a turn for the worse. We spent the night together. When I woke up, he was gone...every drop. I had a splitting headache. "Damn, man, I said touch me in the morning...I ain't say to beat me over the head with a Louisville Slugger, then just walk away." Then...I...felt..Oh no...I'm gonna...

I ran down the hall to the bathroom. As I threw up, I wondered, "Am I pregnant?" My doctor assured me that I was not. I was relieved. Then he added, "You...can't get pregnant." "Oh no! Why me?!?!?!," I exclaimed. "Are you drunk right now?," he asked. "Maybe...," I responded, "Ask do you why?"

We'd see each other now and then after that summer -- Barback Summer I call it -- sometimes for birthdays or New Year's or days ending in "y". I saw him just the other day. "It's been so long," I said. "Too long," he smirked. Then it was like old times. The two of us...together...again. "I can't do this," I cried as I ran outside. A friend came after me. "Are you alright?," he asked. "That depends...Are you Siamese twins?" The looks of pity on his faces suggested that he wasn't. I cried as my friend walked away.

I sat out on the porch for a while...by myself...waiting for it to stop rocking like a fishing boat...waiting for Jack Daniel's to go away. Eventually he did. I got in my car and drove on home. As he shrank down to nothing in my rearview mirror, I wiped away the last of my tears and muttered, "Jack Daniel's...sometimes I wish I could quit you."

Are you happy now? There's your muthafuckin' love story!

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Courtroom Sketch by Damani

2006-02-16T09:33:00.000-08:00

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Courtroom Sketch by Damani

Courtroom Sketch by Damani

2006-02-15T23:13:00.000-08:00

Click for article/The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Flava Slave, Part Deux

2006-02-15T10:53:00.000-08:00

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Flava Slave, Part Deux