On Lacking Discretion

A lot of the things that happened this past week is primarily a result of niggas lacking discretion.

I purposely did not watch the Amara LaNegra interview on the Breakfast Club. And y’know….

I tried. I tried to give them their roses and commend them on a job well done in pioneering this urban radio thing and putting in so much time in the game and what have you. But I looked at that thumbnail every single time I logged in to YouTube and could not bring myself to click it. Deep down, I knew some bullshit was afoot.

They broke it down real nice on The Read and confirmed my suspicions. Like I said, I try to give Charlemagne the benefit of the doubt, but anytime the Twitter-verse is buzzing with his name, I know from past experiences to stand clear.

I still have yet to go back and watch it for myself. I don’t make a habit of entertaining ignorance. I was disgusted by what I heard, to say the least. Somebody brought up Cardi B (Envy, I believe), Charlemagne brought up Issa fucking Rae (boy.), and Yee didn’t say a damn thing because she’s lacking in a spine too.

Offset with this damn he “don’t fuck with queers” bit.

We all know what queer means. I use the word to describe myself, but it can also be a slur. Regardless, the fact that Offset’s dusty ass don’t fuck with me and mine doesn’t bother me personally. Of course, this has implications, socially. This nigga is a prime example of other ignorant folks who aren’t aware of words and their definitions. As a writer, it hurts me to see words abused. And then to have such behavior justified on the most ridiculous of grounds is outright insulting.

The answer is no.

Moral of the story: All the migos have been on my list since the first time I heard of them saying some homophobic shit. I really have to take them all with a grain of salt because I do acknowledge that these are individuals of questionable constitution. But my god, bitch, simple media training will teach that it’s best to say nothing when you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.

And of course, who can forget our dear Agent Orange?

Then there was the whole “shit hole countries” comment and ensuing debacle. And I’m sure he’s said some more nonsensical things in the past 24 hours.

This is really sick. Like really.

So I pose a question: Has everyone just lost their damn minds? Like what’s really good? As far as progress is concerned, it appears that we tend to take a step forward and take any number of steps backward in half the amount of time.

It’s too many people who should know better who are just lacking in discretion. This is the skill that distinguishes humans from the other animals – the ability to use logic to deduce from any given circumstance what they can do to navigate that situation as seemlessly as possible. And yet…

Everybody Has a Breaking Point

The Stanford Prison Experiment. Let’s chat.

Not the real thing, but the movie. I watched it for the first time last night and… woah.

First of all I didn’t even know the shit was based on real life before I watched it. But I did my Googles afterwards. Evidently it won a couple awards at Sundance when it premiered there and that was enough to get me interested enough to watch.

Breakdown: So 24 male college students willingly agree to participate in the Stanford Prison Experiment for two weeks, for $15/day. Peanuts, today, but I guess that was a nice chunk of change for a college student in 1971. They were chosen because they were all supposedly mentally and psychologically healthy, they came from similar backgrounds, and were similar ages – young, white boys of privilege.

One could almost say they were equals – until shit got real.

When you’re an English major, like myself, you read a lot of shit. Thematically, the premise of this story was similar something like a Lord of the Flies (by William Golding) or an Animal Farm (by George Orwell).

The thing with having the “guards” in the experiment wear shades at all times was trippy too because as I was sitting there watching it, I thought about Michel Foucault’s Panopticism and the role that seeing/sight plays on the psychology of “guards” and the “prisoners.”

But I won’t bore you with theory.

The acting in this movie was fucking brilliant.

Fucking Michael Angarano – who plays Chris Archer a.k.a the dude that took that guard shit way too serious with his Captain from Cool Hand Luke impersonation – knocked that shit out of the park. All the actors gave some Oscar-worthy performances.

Moral of the story: absolute power [always] corrupts absolutely.

What started out as an experiment turned into a dangerous example of the human psyche and how fragile it is and once again shows us how if any one of us, if given that inch, can take the whole damn mile.

The experiment was supposed to last two weeks but things went to shit much sooner than expected and was terminated after just six days.

Go fucking figure.

 

 

He’s a Mean One

Your boy Trump did it again and this time it hit home.

If you didn’t know, I work at a certain Mexican restaurant. I’ve been there for nine months and I have to say, in that time, I can say without a doubt, it’s the best job I’ve ever had. Truly and honestly. 

But I digress. 

I’m quite fond of my boss. He manages to piss me off at least once every two weeks but he’s a cool mother fucker when he wants to be. He moved all the way here to Oxford to be the GM because he loves his job and the company we work for. He just had a kid too. 

The other day he announced jokingly, “Well, in a few days, I’ll officially know if I’m getting deported.”

Me, an intellectual: whet? 

“Yea, they’re voting to repeal DACA.”

Me, an intellectual: whet?

I clocked out a couple hours later and didn’t think much of it once I left because who thinks about work after they leave work. Lets be real. 

Fast forward to yesterday and I find out y’alls president actually managed to get that shit repealled. 

I keep our work GroupMe on mute. I only check it because they post the schedule on there, but I just happened to check it the day that the news came out and that’s where where I saw it. 

“Well guys, I have until June 2019.”

Y’know, I really didn’t expect to be as hurt by it as I was but, bitch, I was. 

I felt like swinging at the air like Tre in Boyz in the Hood after that cop put the gun to his head.

Up until now, I’ve managed to remain unbothered by the bullshit, political and otherwise but that shit really hit me. Once again, fuck Donald. 

He’s a liar. He’s dusty. And he’s fucking shit up in a major way. 

Story Time: Mischief Managed… Barely.

Bout 7:45 p.m.: Wading through a sea of people, trying to get between stages in time to see Solange. It was hella niggas and for a minute, the traffic was standstill. If I wasn’t high I probably would’ve had a nervous break down. Crowds were never my thing.

So after making it back to the Green Stage, Reuben and I opted to just stay there. Neither of us were willing to go through that crowd again to go back to see SZA. Fuck it.

We smoked a joint and waited for Sampha.

He’s a helluva live performer.

Bout 8:00 p.m.: Sampha wraps up. Now it’s time for Solange, who’s set to come on at 8:30.

Sidebar: We only had Saturday passes. I had to be in class on Monday and Reu had to go to work. We bought bus tickets to head back to D.C. for 1:30 a.m. My flight was at 8:30 the next morning. The bus ride is four hours long. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Bout 8:20 p.m.: Bill DeBlasio rolls his ass up on stage and from the way the crowd was acting, he ain’t too popular with the black folks of New York. He talks for about five minutes about how Afropunk is “the best event around,” and leaves. Mind you, he comes on right before Solange, I’m guessing, for maximum nigga viewing potential. The crowd wasn’t here for his Hoover vac impersonation.

I don’t know much about Bill’s political goings on in NY, but that was a political stunt if I ever saw one.

8:45 p.m.: Solange still isn’t on. Technical difficulties.

Reu and I still have to Uber back to Williamsburg, get our things from the place we were crashing at, and catch the subway back to Time Square where our bus is leaving from.

9:00 p.m.: Solange finally comes on. We only have time to stay for two songs before we have to fight through the crowd again to beat the rush of people leaving and blocking up traffic.

At this point, my phone is dead. Reuben’s is on like 10%. We still need to order the Uber.

9:45 p.m. Our attempts to beat the crowd and miss the traffic failed. Barry Commodore Park is surrounded on all sides by bumper-to-bumper traffic. Reu’s phone: 5%. No Uber. My phone’s still dead.

10:00 p.m.: A good, albeit shady, samaritan whips a charger out of his fanny pack and lets Reuben charge his phone so we could order the Uber.

Bout 10:25 p.m.:Back in Williamsburg. But bitch, where’s my phone? In the fucking Uber.

We call him. He’s picked up another passenger already.

We wait.

In the meantime, we gather our shit so that when the Uber driver brings my phone back, we can hit the subway. Time is of the mother fucking essence.

11:00 p.m.: Uber guy pulls up, returns my phone, and we power walk to the next subway stop.

Bout 12:15 a.m.: We finally make it to Time Square with an hour to spare.

BITCH.

That morning we rolled four joints. We smoked three at Afropunk. Reuben kept the forth one in his sock. God knew we would need it.

We found the bus stop, got some food from McDonald’s, and found a nice lil spot off in the cut to smoke that last J.

1:15 a.m.: We board the bus to D.C.

Nigga, we made it.

Bout 5:45 a.m.: We make it to D.C. Reuben calls an Uber to take him to his apartment. I call an Uber to take me to the airport.

Mischief Managed. Barely.

 

 

Whose Mans Is This?

You know… I went to sleep on November 8th confident that Hillary Clinton would be my next president. Then I woke up the next morning, saw the headlines, and thought, “Well, this ought to be fun.”

And y’all, what a ride this has been.

Whose mans is this? Can somebody get him before he kills us all?

I don’t look at the news anymore because that would be a frivolous exercise. But from what I’ve seen and heard through the streets and via twitter, this shit’s going downhill fast.

Y’know, I had a class with a guy who was an avid Trump supporter, last semester. When asked why, the only thing he could give me was that “Hillary is liar.”

And so is your mammy – for telling you that you were special as a child.

I’ve been fighting the urge for the past six months to track him down and ask, “How’s that working out for you?”

Before General George put the presidency down after two terms, he specifically gave this party system the side eye in his farewell address, essentially telling America that this party shit is cool or whatever, but don’t let that shit distract you from the real issues.

And now, some 230 years later, we’re suffering from the very thing he warned against – hyperpartisanship.

Donald Trump is the poster child for putting party before country and look where that shit’s got us.

America when will you learn to learn from the past? In the grand scheme of things, 230 years ain’t that long and in those 230 years, America has probably done more irreversible damage to this earth than the thousands of years of war, famine, and plagues that came before.

This man is single-handedly dismantling all the hopes and dreams of the leaders that came before… and ya mans did that.

 

 

Brain on Drugs #2

Bitch. I’m on probation.

Piss tests for four months. Six months to pay these fucking fines.

And all this legal bullshit has me thinking about what bullshit America’s drug laws are.

Consider opium. A plant used to make morphine, a powerful analgesic drug used in hospitals.

It’s also the one thing you need to make heroin…

You can also cook with the white latex-y stuff that comes out of the flower when you scratch it.

One is legal and one is not. But if we’re calling a spade a spade, it’s the same goddamn thing. The United States has a deep history of picking and choosing its holier-than-thou moments and it’s enforcement of drug laws is no exception. As of now, opium and its derivative opiates are “Schedule II” drugs under U.S. Federal Law. Can you guess what marijuana is?

Schedule I.

That’s right. In the eyes of the law, marijuana is more dangerous than heroin. But nobody’s ever over dosed on weed before. Like ever.

I’m gone play along with this probation bullshit for now. Because jail is a real thing.

But I’m screaming “Fuck the system,” every step of the way.

 

 

Dammit, Yachty!

I really want to like ya boy, Yachty.

After that whole Joe Budden situation and the way he handled it, I thought to myself “This is a cool ass dude.” If there’s one thing I admire, it’s composure. Check.

From what I’ve seen of his interviews, he’s awkward as all hell, but it’s endearing. There’s really a genuineness to the way he carries himself. Boat has never been shy about his intentions to just make music and have a good time and that’s exactly what he’s doing.

I don’t have a bone to pick with the boat. He seems smart (check), honest (check), and true to self (check, check, check).

As the self proclaimed “King of the Youth,” he doesn’t make music for me. These kids today out her wildin’. It’s not for me and that’s okay. He has a bop here and there. I really like when he collabs. I liked “iSpy.” I liked “Broccoli.”

I even milly rocked to “One Night.” But I really couldn’t even get past the first song on this new record. That shit was trash.

Peek a Boo” is atrocious. And that lyric about his bitch blowing his dick like a cello” and him blaming it on his A&Rs on rap genius was kind of a let down. All I could think was C’mon, Yachty, damn! I was rooting for you!

A product of eliminating arts in public schools, no doubt. Y’all see why this is important? So that people know the difference between a cello and a fucking flute (of which Squidward has nothing to do with)

Screenshot 2017-05-31 09.31.40

He’s alright with me, though.

I am by no means an old head but I’m not one of these teeny boppers either. Objectively speaking, I really don’t see the harm in him. He’s here to have a good time and make this money – and for that the culture welcomes him.

But my god, man. Get your shit.