Photographic Pornography

So Monday afternoon finds me actively procrastinating, BookFacing away while my Legal Ethics book stares accusingly at me, and I come across an interesting picture(the one above). At first, I did not actually know that the picture was of a Congolese man fleeing his home after devastation from war so imagine my slight surprise at the comments that followed what appeared to be an ordinary picture of an African man in the rain....

1. “OMG!”
2. “I actually have tears in my eyes”
3. “....The raw determination in that man's eyes is humbling. For them survival is the only alternative. There is a profound sense of duty and sacrifice. Very Emotive. Thank you for sharing. x”

My first thought: *Blank stare*

Me, secondly: *Er.....Why can’t he just be a man walking home in the rain and thinking “Stupid rain caught me two damn blocks from my house!...Shoot!...Umbrella-less as well....of all the bloody days....!”*

I know that’s exactly what would have had MY face in that mean-mug!


On seeing the picture and comments, I started to think of the relationship between the African as an individual and our depiction in the ‘Western’ media. Not Africa as a whole continent, just us as individual people. The media has done a great job of making all 900+ million Africans(yes, we breed...this is what we do. Get over it) into one big caricature. One suffering-disease-ridden-corrupt-AIDS-wielding-yet-stupidly-smiling-and-suffering stereotype. This attitude of stereotyping Africans and especially sensationalising our suffering trivialises the experience for those concerned. Someone once called it Photographic Pornography (thats neither here nor there, I just always wanted to use those words in a sentence).



And then I thought, do they know who we are?? Do they realise that our history as Africans is littered with Sages, Kings, Warriors, DIVAS, Amazons and Prophetesses amongst others? In Nigeria for instance, long before we were conveniently ‘discovered’, before the English ‘taught’ us representative democracy, we had our ‘Ohia-cracy’ (government of, for and by the people) in the East, the well structured Oyomesis and Bashoruns in the West and the scholarly Emirs in the North. Long before Mr. Mungo Park conveniently ‘found’ the Niger for us, we fished, bathed, washed...for goodness sake we ‘chillaxed’ on its muddy banks daily! Chinua Achebe and the other greats have detailed tales of warriors that drank from the skulls of slain enemies and women that led whole tribes to war. Where are they today? Where are the spirits of our ancestors?

Perhaps in the sultans that rule large villages and command the respect and admiration of their people? The revered herbalists with their alternative medicines? The 28 year old mothers working 10 hour days whilst caring for 2 toddlers plus one 32 year old kid? Or the African boys and girls sleeping in the library daily, working and dreaming of channeling their inner Barack in about a decade? These are todays africans, descendants of warrior tribes and Amazonian kingdoms. But, why don’t we see them on the news about Africa you ask? 

Well, they are the exact same people shown on your TV. But they are unrecognisable when they are reduced to one dimensional characters in the evening news or captured by the lens of modern day Mungo Parks on their gap year prior to university, intent on exploring Africa without attempting to understand the depth of its story. It’s little wonder that the stories and pictures produced therefore inspire “OMG’s!!” and “Tears in Eyes!” comments. The image of the african in the foreign media seems to be threefold only; Stealing & Smiling, Suffering & Smiling, or just Suffering.

Somewhere between the pictures of the African children clamouring hungrily around the foreign photographer’s camera and the last scene of the ‘Indepth Special on Africa’ on one of the popular foreign news channels, the humanity of the African is diluted. The simple joys found in the uninhibited celebration of small mercies, the contentment found in the life without the excessive trappings of wealth does not make it to the final footage shown on our t.v screens. The only thing that is apparent to the viewer at the end of these ‘specials’ is the idea that these people need your pity because they do not have your opportunity, your resources, your life. They do not tell you though, that some of these people don not in fact want any of the trappings of this ‘great’ life. They just want life as it is best lived; simple, unhindered and free.



Just remember the next time you are tempted to sensationalise a picture of an African that these are people like you. People living real lives, worthy of respect not just pity, fun loving, ordinary, happy and PROUD people. Just like you. I wish the media could learn to leave Africa to dance to the beat of its own drum or maybe tell our stories from our own eyes. Or just stop speaking for us and for goodness sake STOP translating when we are speaking English! The Texan accent is arguably as heavy as the Ghanaian yet they insist on using the 'invisible subtitles' for the Texans when they are interviewed on CNN. Lol! Ridamdiculous!

So, leave Africans to find OUR bliss if we choose not to pursue yours, after all who defines poverty? Who determines what suffering is? Maybe dancing in the rain (whilst watching the backdoor for signs of your mum’s arrival) is the new swing set? Or lying on a mat in the moonlight listening to grandma's stories is as good as a GossipGirl Fest? Who knows? Happiness is individual, like Africans. Our way of life is not less important or valuable or good. It might be simpler, easier, and freer....but never less.

In the immortal words of the Queen that is Kanye West “Let me be great, WHY WONT Y’ALL LET ME GREAT?????”...lol....I ask, “WHY WONT THEY LET AFRICA BE GREAT Y’ALL!?!!!!!!!?!”

*steps off soapbox and returns to studying*

One Night In Oakland.

Gademm!!!! The soul is weak and the brain is tired oh!!! For the last few weeks I have been forcing my brain to cram page after page of mind-numbingly boring information...after so many years of minimum activity, its almost painful to have to actively utilise my brain cells to maximum capacity....and I can tell my brain does not appreciate the effort, I can just visualise the NASTY(or nEsty, if you’re P-Square) looks it must be giving me as it stares accusingly in a state of shock at receiving all this boringness, it must be thinking; “O girl take style calm your blood oh! Wetin be this one now?!?! After 22 years of pushing all sorts of sweet gist and laughter inside here na now you want make i begin dey memorise this kind nonsense as if I no get better thing to do! Stop am oh because if to say I come vex like this hhhmmmm you no go like am.....*pulls imaginary ear like a Nigerian mother*” Oh, if our parts could speak. 

Seriously, my brain is  saving more information than it has EVER had to and its reflecting in the way I reason. Yesterday I met up with some of my best girlfriends (and if hip hop is to be believed, Ma Dawgz.... BET must be cut from my diet STAT) one of them was talking about a club that had to close in NYC because a bouncer mistakenly killed a man in the process of separating a fight the man was involved in.  And  in the midst of all the OMG’s and gasps, all I could think was, “What kind of homicide would that be??1st degree?2nd? Aggravated?Manslaughter?....In Multi-state? And in New York??!!...then become secretly panicked when I wasn’t sure of the answer. Its disgusting, I swear I used to be cool. No, really. Lawyers are liars. 

Today I didn’t get any real work done, the reason is two fold. 1. My mind is tahhhd!!! Oooo child, mama tiiiired!! Secondly *whispers shamefaced* I went out yesterday. Yes. Audacious and true, but I studied until the very last moment & I finised Contracts yesterday so a celebration was in order me thinks *tries to fight her guilt* Anyways, I went to celebrate one of my best mates last night in Cali...and all sort of foolery commenced because...(you guessed it), we went out in Oakland....yes, I myself do wonder from time to time, “Am I a masochist?!”

Before now, I have only once gone a-partying in Oakland....intense self-preservation and a general aberrance of hoodrat hoetivity keeps me away from that area after the clock's gentle fingers tenderly stroke the hour of 6p.m. Partying is strictly restricted to San Francisco...where I know the craziest people aren’t really checking for me like that...now if I were say, a young metrosexual man, the chances may be higher....Seriously, what other city do you see a ‘Suitable Suitor’ (as my bff calls men of the appealing variety) and immediately assess the following; 1. Who did he come with? 2.Are his friends wearing v-necks? 3. If yes to 2, are said v-necks of the tight, body-hugging variety? 4. Are said friends holding hands...or moving with a distinctly feminine gait?....Yup! Ooooh hell!!

Anyway, it was for such a purpose, i.e dancing our worries away, that Friday evening found us in Oakland around the witchly hour of midnight....we arrived in LBD’s that comfortably balanced class with style and a little sprinkling of Diva Dust...shameless self-promotion.....mais c’est vrai.  In other words we looked distinctly out of place in a small Oakland club reminiscent of a 'mama-put-joint-conveniently-converted-to-a-club (where stale Star beer, Guinness, fresh palm wine, and you suspect Nkwo-bi, will be plentiful).  So in we strolled, stared around....and proceeded to clutch our pearls and purses simultaneously as we accessed the caliber of people. Using the strict standards taught to us at the Elite Club Of Advanced Snobs a.k.a On Mama's Lap. It was a disappointing array of all that is wrong with the world....seriously, there were men without teeth there. Make of that what you will. (I should qualify that 'without teeth' extends to those missing a substantial number of incisors as well as those the jury finds guilty of the dreaded ‘aluminum foil masquerading as grillz’ foolishness. All toothless negroes to me.*shrugs* ).

Regardless of the fact that the ‘club’ looked like a cross between said Nkwo-bi joint & native doctor shrine; with its faded red curtains and corresponding green and red light bulbs, we decided that as we had arrived past midnight due to watches set to the internationally criticised CPT (Coloured Peoples Time; +2 to +4 hours depending on the Noirs in question....Nigerians are honourably categorised in the +4 to +6 hr category due to our ‘Effizy’ and love for excess, which were all in evidence last night), we decided that we might as well stay. The fact that the drive from Stanford(from whence my friends started their missionary journey) to Oakland is at least an hour (all in the name of dancing!) also meant that our designated driver wasn’t set on driving anywhere soon especially not with the current recession-defying gas prices!

So after sizing up the crowd as a mix of fun-lovers, hoodrats and people whose where-abouts the United States Immigration Department would dearly love to be informed of, we decided to throw caution to the wind in a ‘life gives you lemons, you best gets to squeezing...and shaking....& skanky-legging’ move and we headed to the dance floor.

So into the sweaty, rather smelly crowd we went...I did say that this ‘club’ was the size of a maggi cube right? And everyone and their play cousin had come to squeeze, shake & skanky-leg. Well, not 10 minutes after we had perched our purses on the nearest table and begun to dance, a sudden scrambling began, raised voices were heard, anxiety was sensed as we spotted a lady, poised in an Amazonian stance, bottle raised atop her head as she prepared to go for the jugular of her worthy opponent. 

Ok that was an exaggeration.

 Two women...or two cliques, it wasn’t really clear, were about to tear weaves and fake lashes from each other with fake nails. WE weren't interested in getting a bit of acrylic in our eye or some gel on our dresses... we didnt even wait to understand what was going on, once people started shouting, all Reps of the E.C.A.S picked race....the next few seconds found us outside with mean mugs, once again clutching to pearls, purses & each others phallanges, promising God that if he rescued us from any ghetto crimes(The term Ghetto Crimes refers to crimes involving gel & bad weaves, acrylic nails longer than 4 inches, stabbings with broken bottles....you see where I'm going...), we would never again be found on the grimy streets of Oakland when resident GoodGirls were in bed.

Well as the story goes, the party quickly continued as if nothing happened...prompting the suspicion that this is the standard for Oakland parties...???....I bet if there was no fight people would have gone home like “Man that party was wack!! Not ONE broken bottle?Niggas came in and left WHOLE, NO injury, NO ambulance...NOTHING?!I mean WTF?!?!” Anyways, soon we were left with other chickens outside looking around a-scared. Upon realising our chicken was showing, we channeled our inner Gangsta and headed back into the club on a ‘Nothing Do Us’  deez.....with hearts secretly beating fast.

Lets just say the rest of the night just got more entertaining, I have not seen so many toothless men, swaggerless gremlins, grilled out fellows or indeed midgets in one place at one time. The d.j was obviously stuck somewhere in the early 2000’s with his selection of African music, and his interruptions with “BAD-DAY shout outs to the celebrants....” ....and the last number of the night which he announced to be ‘BAD-DAY SESSSS’ ('Birthday Sex' to English speakers) had us side-eyeing this negro like it was HIS bad-day, all night. Add this to the fact that one particular midget negro almost killed us with laughter and you see it was a rather 'interesting' night.

After approaching us in his body-hugging black shirt that would make Herve Ledger rather jealous, stylishly matched with free flowing white HIPSTERS....*pause* and getting promptly Nexted!, this hombre proceeded to strike a pose and watch us dance for the remainder of the evening. Upon being recognised for the swaggerless being that he is and promptly ignored, hombre looks at us like “WAIT, YOU DONT KNOW WHO YOU’RE DEALING WITH...I WILL SHOW YOU!!!”...Now we are all slightly curious and wary as he slipped his hand into his pocket....and pulls out the DARKEST sunshades known to mankind! After that grand gesture, he puts on the glasses, poses, then slowly turns and looks at us....and I can actually hear him ask us one question in his mind.....“Who’s Bad?” I.Almost.Died.

"Houston, We Have A Problem!!"

Before going to bed yesterday night I decided to unwind by taking a look at some blogs to keep abreast with the world of celebrity goss. Oh! necolebitchie.com showed me something that boggled my mind, chastised my spirit and frustrated my soul…twas a video paying tribute to the man that the world no go let quench, Michael Jackson.

Now, I got over the death the day it happened because well, we weren’t friends like that if you know what I mean*side-eyes self* But apparently, some*does air quotes* people are refusing to let things go. That’s how I came across this video staring Boys II Men, The Boxer That Could (Chris ‘Breezy’ Brown)……and The Game.*blank stare*

So I pressed play and watched with my face screwed up in the often imitated ‘What The Hell?!?!’ position like so:

Fascinated and horrified in equal bouts by the opportunistic use of someone’s death for money making & fame whoring! Two good things came out of this video though. First, Boys II Men. Need I say more?!?!Anything that can bring them back together making melodies is a-alright with me homie!!! Granted I’m awfully biased seeing as the ‘Nathan Michael Shawn Wanya’ album…was the soundtrack to many laughter-inducing high school memories…… AND the fact that I am still holding out for a man that will sing ‘I do’ from that album to me on my wedding day, I was more than happy to hear Boys II Men harmonizing for whatever cause, in this ‘tribute video’

2nd good thing, Chris Breezy. With all the madness surrounding him lately, I almost forgot I actually like his sound and the music he makes. Although the fact that this negro could engage in a full blown fight with an island girl(Yeah I said it! You have heard before now that black women are all sorts of crazy [no matter how civilized we act in front of company, don’t be fooled!]….but I believe a special place is reserved in negro heaven for women from the Islands….Rumour has it that they are the modern Antieneria race that historians thought had died) Antianeira literally translates to ‘Women who fight like men’...this made me question Chris Brown's own self-esteem, mental state and general love for himself. I mean, why do that to yourself?!

So yeah, I am slightly in awe of Breezy's audacity in taking on an Island gyal, lawd knows one of them looks at me like ‘What nigga???!?! What?!?!’ and I’m shamelessly begging for forgiveness. Immediately. On the other hand his antics had me reading the news with an ‘Oooh I wish a nigga would!!!’ look on my face. Seriously if a man beat me I don’t even know what I would do! I suspect it would involve bleaching clothes, scratching cars, rat poisoning, prank calling bosses at random hours and leaving threatening messages from your phone….all while crying like a woman in a Craig David video and softly singing Emotions, Irreplaceable or other such Destiny Child man-eater inspired songs. In other words, I would go Angela-Bassett-crazy on you. So don’t do it…..But I digress. I was saying the song reminded me that Chris can indeed carry a tune in a bucket.

BUT, all of this goodness did not distract me from the fact that The Game looks like an Aba merchant or that he seems like somebody with body odour or indeed that the song deserves a MIGHTY side eye. I mean, I knew it was going to be problematic when The Game started his rap with the words, “I’m Michael Jackson, you’re Michael Jackson.” Er,no negro, I aint. And neither are you so stop this foolishness and go back under your rock of irrelevancy.

Watch the video and see how serious he is taking this whole thing, like his name is Sir Game Jackson…actually at some point he does in fact say ‘We are all Jacksons’*sigh* Seriously, why?...why though?

I guess I should know better, after all this is a man with tattoos on his face.I strongly believe any homo sapien of adult age and the capacity to reason, who tattoos his face IS actually as stupid as you suspect they might be when u first see them…because it shows a lack of foresight….which in turn shows a propensity for foolishness(e.g. Nigerian leaders; shortsightedness is directly proportional to gross acts of foolishness. Tried, tested & trusted baby!!). So The Game is stupid.....If you look stupid( tattoos on his face, Michael Jackson tattoo on his arm….seriously, a tattoo of Michael at the graveyard scene of the Thriller video where he looked corpse ugly??!!Really though??), you sound stupid(spewing forth phrases like “….we are Michael Jackson”)…then by golly, you ARE stupid!

Long story short, I understand where Boys II Men are coming from with this song, they were famous at the same time as MJ in the early 90's and probably met him a few times. Brown is obviously influenced by Jackson as he has said wayyyy before now, and did in fact meet and perform with him. But The Game?….is an irrelevant pseudo-thug opportunist who has jumped on the band wagon and is like that person at the funeral who hardly knew the dead yet cries even louder than all the family members. He is a Professional Mourner.

But You Know Its Uncalled For.....

I tried not to talk about Oakland again. I tried. I really did….but the place and its inhabitants just continue to provide fodder for an active imagination! Its ridick! It’s like they send out a secret memo that I’m coming and EVERYONE should be on their most worrisome behaviour for my benefit. I mean, HOW else can you justify the foolery!??! It can’t possibly happen on the daily, no economy could survive with this foolishness….(hmmm, actuaaaaallllyyyy the American economy isn’t surviving…..I think I just might have found the answer to the recession. Clever Barbie. *beams*).

I understand that there are wondrous parts of the city of Oakland but lawdy lawwwwd, there are some nefariously ghettoised homes and homebodies in this place! I mean what business does a grown man have sitting without fear or favour on the train, staring around with nary a care in the world….and wearing butterscotch coloured Timberland boots with the Louis Vuitton logo printed in every free space on those size 42s?!!...Worse, this stylistically challenged fellow dared to authenticate this foolishness with a gold buckle around the calf of the ‘designer’ shoes proudly emblazoned with the print “Louis Vuitton, est 1852”. Negro Please! Aint nobody believing those shoes came from The Malletier himself when on the other side there is a little palmtree masquerading as the Timberland logo. *Shakes head* You need more people my friend because we (that is, THE ENTIRE WORLD!!!)aren’t buying what you’re selling, NEXT!

So today, I was on the train to my salon for a touch up(in the name of studying I have morphed into a mini Chantal Biya) when I encountered Mr Timb Vuitton, thinking this was the last straw, I got off the train at my stop and ventured, out into the street. Bad. Move. There she was, standing before me…. a paragon of nastiness. I am sorry but what are some people thinking when they step out of their houses?? "HMMMM, what can I wear today that will make people offended…??...theres that orange House of Dereon velour suit….with my blingy Apple Bottom denim face cap…..and that matching Baby Phat denim jacket with rhinestones?!?HA! I WILL KILL THEM TODAY!!!!”…This is the type of discussion I can only assume most of Oakland’s population have with the kneegrow in the mirror before hitting the streets to, appropriately, kill us.*Sigh*

So back to this paragon of nastiness, I’m waiting at the traffic lights, and this lady stands next to me in a tight bright yellow vest (bear in mind that this is a well endowed Team Chunk representative I speak of), tiny denim mini skirt (with rhinestones blinding passing drivers, Oh Kimora Lee when will you stop creating stupidly hazardous styles?! When?), yellow cycling shorts…*meditate on that, cycling shorts…with a lace trim, in yellow*, carrying a matching yellow bag and….no, im not finished, wearing yellow slippers with her long witchlike toenails, waaay longer than said slippers, actually grazing the granite as she walked!! I was weak. Oh and I forgot the multi-coloured face cap stylishly tilted to cover one eye! So you know, even if all the matching did not tell you, that this Badmamajama definitely got dressed in a conscious state, in the presence of a mirror and with every intention to come out looking like she did. At this moment I bow my head and ask…nay, BEG for direction and a cease to this foolishness. I mean it isn’t even 9.30am yet and buffoonery is already the order of the day!?!?!!No, please.

Anyways, I weakly cross the street and get to the salon only to find my hairdressers watch is set to Coloured Peoples Time today, I call her and she says she is ‘round the corner.’ Right. I sit there waiting in the shop with the only other occupant being the barber. Now, this salon is EXACTLY like the one in The Barber shop movie, all the workers have their personal chairs and just pay rent to Tha Boss…or Boss Lady in this case, a feisty Jamaican with red hair. So I sit quietly as the barber proceeds to talk to himself, loudly and argumentatively, while I’m sitting there wondering if I should fade before he decides to do something crazy.Before I can decide, these two men come into the salon and the three of them begin the most entertaining conversation I have heard in ages! One of them is explaining a recent shooting he survived and the others are dropping comments about their own 50cent style escapes from bullets (exaggerated numbers et al). In fact, Crazy Barber insists, his brother got shot in front of Ronnie’s liquor store and “That Niggah woulda been dead but he too fat to die! Shiiiiiiiiit, bullet got lost somewhere in the fat around his arteries”. OK, L.O.L…please which doctor told you that one?!

These men discussed everything under the sun from Lil Wayne “….dawg, he been doing hoe shit since he wuh 14!” to Kobe “….maaaaaaaaaaannnn he a hoe!” to the local…ahem, ‘Sperminator’ with his 6 babymommas and their epic plan to bring him to justice by arriving at his work place to collect his cheque. And his plan to elude them which turned out to be an epic fail, prompting the following words from Crazy Barber “ ….tell you this, hell hath NO fury like a black woman suspecting her kid’fatha be a trifling niggah, mm mm mm that niggah be playing like Lebron thinking he can fool 6 b*tchs at one time! And they ugly too. You know ugly women angry all tha time!” This met with much agreement and mutterings of “Oh I know!” and “...truth son, they some frog-faced sistahs! ”

All while I sat there trying to control my laughter and be invisible. In white jeans (the jury’s still out on them by the way. I felt so conspicuous wearing them, I’ve hated coloured trousers since the Feb 14th that I, not realizing the date, ventured out in red jeans looking like Cupids chokehold herself …don’t judge me, 2004 was one fashion faux pas after another).

FINALLY my hairdresser comes in. A really beautiful young woman (with the required tri-syllabic ghetto name though) and tells me that ‘…what had happened was…’ she had locked her keys in her car when she went to drop her kids at kindergarten. Her morning consisted of getting all the kids at the playground to "...help Deshawn and Nay Nay’s mummy look for her keys". That is, until she realized she’d locked them in the car. Apparently, one of the kids had to climb in through the sun roof to open the door for her.

Hard to believe but it seems someone’s morning was more ‘interesting’ than mine!

THIS foolishness right here.....

So when I speak about Oakland as the place where decency goes to die, everyone thinks I'm taking the piss.....Urban jury, I invite you bear witness to this unadulterated foolishness displayed by grown ass folk.....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BJSyKiLVh4s
[Ok the video has been removed but id you so desire, type in 'Oakland Salon Fight' on google/You Tube and cringe at middle aged women shamelessly wrestling]....

...And all because of some kneegroe...some broke-ass, sperm-spreading-numerous-babymama-having, lotion-immune-probably-ashy, kool-aid sipping, durag-and-Timbs-wearing kneegroe. Just plain NASTYdamus!

How do I know the man in question is all these things? Our wise forefathers say "If you lie with dogs, you will get up with fleas." Thats why the mantra of flea-infested women remains "ALL MEN ARE DOGS!!"

LOL! I really have no idea what the last sentence means but it was fun to write. OK, my Evidence book won't read itself. Au revoir!

Ridamndiculous!

Oakland, Oakland, Oak. Land. Mm-Mm-Mm. What to say??? Where to start??? My adventures in the west coast of America would have been incomplete without a trip to the notorious Oakland area. On my first ever trip to this geographical location, I was accosted by a man in a T-Pain inspired top hat attempting to chat me up with a mouth full of what I was forced to conclude was aluminum foil masquerading as ‘Grillz’. Oh Hip-Hop, our children will judge you. Harshly. My short sojourn in the land of plenty, ‘God’s own land’ in the words of many immigrants, has revealed several mind numbing truths to me; I’m starting to believe that America is really Fools’ Paradise and I'm beginning to doubt the potency of the American dream, but I digress from today’s tale biko, that discussion is a serious matter for another day and maybe another place too.

We resolutely forge ahead. So, after bar class, I am standing at the bus stop. Waiting for my chariot to drive (do you drive a chariot? Or ride it? Or race it??) me home. Due to construction work at school we have all been forced to take classes for the bar in Oakland. This plan sucks, in fact I have to borrow a Nigerian slang I hate and declare that this plan “IS NOT BUNZ!!!!’ Who thought it would be a clever idea to have a whole group of Anglo-saxons crashing into one of the dingiest and dodgiest areas around San Francisco bay to take classes daily. Not the cleverest of ideas. I am black and even I don’t feel safe!

But I digress, standing at the bus stop awaiting my chariot. A certified crack-head comes up to me and proceeds to chat me up….[chai! see my life!]....How do I know he was a crack head? The Harlem-shake-neck-twisting-movements coupled with the scratching, kind of tipped me off. He stood there twisting his head and shoulders like he was listening to an invisible ipod.*hiss* Anyways, he goes on to tell me that he is turning 50 this year and is looking for a ‘wifey’. *le sigh* I proceed to inform him I am not a day over 16. He quickly asked when my birthday was and upon providing a fake month, he leered and happily told me its only a few months before I become an “adult of 17 then we can….”. YUCKITY YUCK!!! [R. Kellys of the world should be jailed]. I proceed to ignore him after favoring him with a dangerous ‘you-disgusting-amoeba- wither-and-die-post-haste' look. Then I turn around and pretend a deep interest in the granite. After a few minutes of talking to the back of my head, I hear him turn around and utter a scream!!!

Now in these here parts, on these grimy Oakland streets, someone screams and I automatically do 2 things, dive to the ground in a bid for cover or run as fast as my Veet-enabled pins can carry me! No stopping to check for the proverbial ‘shi-shi’. So Crackfiend screams and I’m about Usain Bolt my way from there but as I turn around, dear lawd, I too screamed..……in laughter!!!!

Alas urban jury, lo and behold, before my very eyes was a real-life pimp!! Live.In.Living.Colour! The jokes just wrote themselves from that point on! This fake-ass-gangsta-pseudo-pimp was garbed in the most entertaining outfit. ALL GREEN. Green. Top to toe. Every sickly shade of green you can imagine was on this clowns’ body as he marched down the street looking as proud as sin.*sigh* He had a dark green hat…complete with feather, mint green shoes with the matching mint trousers, olive shirt, dark green jacket AND to make it rain on you kneegroes and gentlefolks, this brother had a light green pimped out cane!!!!MAKE OF THAT WHAT YOU WILL!!!!!looooool!!!! I ALMOST DIED OF LAUGHTER! And of course trust that the scream emitted by the 50 year old Crack-Don who wanted to “Hola at me right quick” was a scream of welcome to his friend Veggie Pimp. Mon Dieu! America the great!