you know how it works. or maybe you don't. it's been a while.

you tell a story, then i tell a story.





and then we compliment each other's lies.




.soufeast San Diego, stand up.

we were runnin' on our knees though
from light pole to light pole
dude knee gave out on him in the first twenty yards
me, i had bionic implants as a toddler since my knees developed backwards
i kneed it in like 9.8 seconds
no lie

...a child is born with no state of mind, blind to the ways of mankind, god is smilin' on you and frownin' too, because only god knows what you gonna do...©melle mel

  

you're a slow motherfucker, man.




i was finna tell that story about the time we saw that dead body in the street over by the chocolate bar, but i didn't know if you wanted to be incriminated like that.



.soufeast San Diego, stand up.

after a second date
no foreplay
no first base
and it was day time.

no conundrum, your bars straight hum-drum
young cocoa butter, something like an old tum-tum
a blocka blocka like grandfather mori tanaka
tatonka, chief rocka © heems

3 months of hell in paradise. me and abt 6 or 7 other dudes all flew from houston or the houston area to MCRD San Diego. a little nervous. a little excited. one mexican dude kept tearing up a little. I was sleeping off a hangover so I slept most of the way. We landed in SD after nightfall. We were told to go to the USO office, where there was a movie playing (planes trains & automobiles), cookies & punch, and a old white lady in a turkey sweater, it was about a week before thanksgiving.

most of the cats had all introduced themselves on the plane, i'd been asleep, so I took that little bit of time to introduce myself. naturally cats were mainly talking abt the marine corps, how we were gonna be in it, what to expect & etc. I didnt know what to expect and had made such a snap decision (early xmas gift to my recruiter defn) that i didnt much care, so i just kind of sat back and listened. my recruiting pitch had been the boot footage from full metal jacket, i was like hell yeah sign me up. dumbass.

so after about a hour or 2, its kind of late, we're a little jet lagged too, a marine comes in, asks for all the recruits going to boot camp. Thats us. so we straggle out to a little yellow bus w/ MCRD SAN DIEGO painted on the side. The marine (i found out later he was a LCpl, 2 steps from the raw recruits we were) was cool w/ us, peel head white dude, lot of zits.

We all loaded up on this bus, by this time there were the guys I had come w/, plus maybe 20 more from other places that had come before or after we got there. So we all load onto the bus, carrying our little luggae, nervously still talking

'man, is he the drill instructor?'
'i wonder how long it will take to get the m 16'
'i heard theres girls on this base'

that kind of thing. the LCpl answered no questions, but he didnt tell us to shut up or anything, so in the 15 or 20 minute ride to the base we got progressively louder & louder. One knucklehead had the audacity to light up a square this was in the mid 90s when you could still smoke on public transport.

I remember thinking 'man this is gonna be cake'

then we hit the gates.

soon as we got waved on the installation, the brakes slammed. the LCpl jumped up and screamed on us
'SHUT THE FUCK UP! DONT SAY ANOTHER FUCKING WORD! SHITHEAD PUT THAT FAG OUT!'

things like that, cats immd clammed up. me personally i felt my asshole pucker to about the size of a pinhead. i was thinking 'the fuck does this prick think he is?' looking @ him, if we were in houston and he dared come out his mouth like that, he'd get his face slapped off. but we werent in houston.

we drove a lil ways more. the inside of the bus was like a tomb. the crying mexican had started back up and for some reason that REALLY pissed me off, like damn why the guys from Houston gotta be the soft ones?

we stopped again, and the doors in front banged open and the biggest ugliest motherfucker you could imagine, like the Swede from Heartbreak Ridge, came on wearing fatigues. giant D.I. brimmed hat. ridiculously diesal. I was about 4 seats back from the front, on the right hand side of the bus, dude came on, the whole damn bus tipped. he jumped up on the bus, looked down @ us, and was like.

'get off my bus.'

very nice. very polite. the first 2 guys in the seats right next to him, got up to get off...and one accidentally banged into him. he mushed that dude back into his seat, slammed him in the face w/ the bill of his DI hat and said something to the effect of

'dont ever touch a drill instructor ever again in your sorry assed life'

then he pointed to the back, the back door wasnt open but somebody back there opened it up, then all of a sudden, out of nowhere a shit load of DI's came and started pounding and banging on the bus

GET OFF THE FUCKING BUS!
GET THE FUCK OFF MY BUS!
GET UP! GET OFF! YOU FUCKING UGLY ASS RETARDED ASS FUCKING ASSES!
GET OFF GET OFF GET OFF!

shit became pandemonium inside the bus, niggas were hopping over seats, trying to squueze out the window, pushing shoving, lugging suitcases, hitting ea. other trying to get folks to hurry up, because the big ass Swede looking dude was coming down the aisle, and was straight mashing cats out his way, on some deebo bitch move shit.

I did a barrel roll over the seats w/ my bag and knocked some dude out the way so i could get out, and for a split second everything in my system told me to RUN, just get the fuck out of there and RUN

<--- get on my level, hoe

happiness is having power. - f. nietszche

http://www.feastofhateandfear.com/archives.html

Mzungu Aende Ulaya — Mwafrika Apate Uhuru

ft jackson, south carolina. i don't know, though. me and my brother compared notes and what he did at ft knox sounded a lot like what i did at fort jackson.

but what *was* easy, though, was reception. that shit was extravagant, joe. the first night wasn't too fantastic. i got half an hour's sleep in an uncomfortable desk, and before that, a drill sergeant jacked me for my dominoes.

but the next week? steaks. crab legs. naps. all we had to do all day was wait in lines: for haircuts, vaccinations, boots, payroll forms, etcetera.

by about the fourth day, though, i guess they remembered we were a few days from starting basic training and decided we could use a sneak preview.

i was on the far end of a 60 man bay, sitting on a lower bunk and trying to learn how to shine my boots from another motherfucker who didn't know how to shine his boots. in walked a 7 ft drill, black as the hinges of hell,¹ in an immaculately pressed uniform. you could hear the light gleaming off of his boots as he walked. i'm pretty sure none of us had seen him before.

somebody yelled "AT EASE!" and we all straightened up to parade rest.

"what the fuck is wrong with you, private?" he asked the body at large.


somebody stupid asked him what he meant.

"what the fuck do i mean? you better clean my goddamn barracks, private...got trash and shit all over my goddamn floors."

i looked around, and just like i remembered, there wasn't a speck of dust out of place. the floor was buffed. every bunk was tight. or at least it was according to what our standards were then. and i wasn't the only one confused.

he started pacing.

"TRASH! ON MY GODDAMN FLOORS! IN MY GODDAMN BARRACKS!"

and then he walked out as quietly as he had come in.

by then, i was confused as shit. most of the other cats were too shook to speak, but we all kind of looked at each other like, "what the fuck was that?"

by the time we found our voices, he'd come back with a full garbage can--one of those metal oscar the grouch type cans. he tipped it and shook it while he walked and when it was finally emptied, he threw it hard against the ground.

and on his way back out the door, he yelled:

"NOW CLEAN UP MY GODDAMN FLOOR!"






.soufeast San Diego, stand up.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

¹word to zora

They sit you in that room and have you clean out/check your bags...
The line to get measured for your BDUs and shit...
Getting "scraped up" at the barber...
The fucking inoculation gun...
Drinking the polio vaccine...
Fucking "Victory Punch" at the mess hall...

We thought it was gonna be a smooth ride up until they got us on that bus... lol

you're not even that.


you're a recruit.
and you refer to yourself in the third person.


i always thought that was ill.


you had to say "this recruit requests permission to use the head, sir!"

---------------------
do this don't do that.
http://www.myspace.com/thievinstealberg

we were privates in basic but we weren't allowed to call ourselves soldiers until we graduated. it was the same in PLDC. i was called sergeant <badgreen> for at least a month before my stripes got pinned on my collar.



.soufeast San Diego, stand up.



-----------------------------------------------------------------
¹"Treat a man as he is and he will remain as he is. Treat a man as he can and should be, and he will become as he can and should be."

Earlier in the summer I had finally signed up to play some Pop Warner football. Know I was pretty big for a twelve year old and they told me I'd be playing Junior Midgets. So I'm like cool, that doesn't sound too bad.

Fast forward to the first week of August. I'm all hyped up and moms scoops me up from my dads to go to catch the bus to practice. We catch the 7(moms got stories for days about catching this bus) down University up to Fairmount. We then walk up to Rosa Parks elemntary where Balboa is starting their practice up. I go over to where the junior midgets are practicing at and I'm walkin over there thinking to myself, "ahh, I should be straight, I'm bigger than most of them", but then shit starts going bad. I talk to the head junior midget coach and he tells me I'm not on the roster. So I'm like what the fuck. So I go over to Ed Smith, who runs Balboa pop warner and he tells me I'm on the Midget roster. Immediately after he says this I look right over there and these niggas are gigantic. No lie, my heart dropped. I go over there nervous as fuck, and look nothing like a person ready to play football...I got a t-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. Now practice starts an the first hour is straight, I'm not that tired. But when that second hour started, hell begun. Coaches started getting meaner, drills got even harder, and started looking like shit. We practiced that first day for four hours, everybody lower than us practiced for two. I was probably a top 5 worse player out there so coaches and players yelled at me even more. After practice I was tired as hell, could barely walk, and to make things worse I had to walk and catch the bus home, and had to think about the fact that I had to deal with this shit everyday for the next 3-4 months cause moms paid 100+ dollars for me to play and there was no way in hell I was gonna quit.


I could go on and on about my first year of football...




<--------------------
Black love...right on

speaking of which, i went to morse, right? sophomore year, which was like 93-94, i took spanish 3-4 with ms medina. she looked a lot like silvio from the sopranos except her hair was blonde. and she wore a lot of clothes with shoulder pads in them.

her husband died somewhere at the beginning of year, so we had a long term sub for a while. but i'm pretty sure that losing a husband isn't really something you can just get past in the space of time that we had the sub there, because even when she came back, she spent a lot of time crying at the chalkboard.

they/we were more or less merciless before she'd left, and they/we didn't really calm any after her leave had ended. looking back, i feel a little ashamed that i laughed back then--we should have been a whole lot more sympathetic--but there were some genuinely funny motherfuckers in that class and where they drove her to tears, they drove the rest of us to laughter. it ain't like we laughed *because* she was crying. at least i didn't. it's just that she cried about all the things we laughed at. and a lot of the things we laughed at were a li'l vicious.¹

and some of them were just strange.

there was a cat from east side piru who sat a few rows to my left. he was probably the funniest person in the class, or at least that's the way i remember it.

there was a quiz or a test one day, and while i was scribbling out conjugations or something i noticed, over my shoulder, him standing up. and then ms medina saw him as well.

"sit down," she said, but he would not. instead of sitting, he just stood there. and then, with perfect pitch, he began to sing.


"STAAAARRRRT SPREEEEEEEEEEADING THE NEWWWWWWWWS. I'M LEEEEEEEEEEEAVVVVVVING TODAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY...I WANT TOO BEEE A PAAAART OF IT! NEW YORK, NEW YOOOOOOOOOOORK...""

for most folks, the image of a straight-faced nigga in khakis and a pendleton singing showtunes would elicit laughter, more often than not. but it was all too much for poor ol' ms medina. all she could do was take her familiar position, with her back to the class, and sob into the blackboard.

"THESE VAGABOOONND SHOOOOOOOES..."

he sang two complete verses. when he was finished, he stood still for a few seconds until he was composed enough to sit down. and then he finished his test.









----------------------------------------------------------------------
¹remember that little motherfucker?

WAY early, get em playing competitve fotball asap

in fact, get em into everything, baseball, soccer, football, basketball all that

kids should come home, eat and fall fast asleep, exhausted


<--- get on my level, hoe

Bin "The Bamma Hamma" Lahab

http://www.feastofhateandfear.com/archives.html

Mzungu Aende Ulaya — Mwafrika Apate Uhuru

going shopping while stoned is a terrible idea.

especially a few days before christmas.


but i went into lids and bought a brown tarheels hat. After i took it out of the store, i saw the NC was kind of crooked.

my boys agreed, so while they were in the food court, i went back to the store to exchange the hat.

when i got back with my identical hat, they told me the logo was still crooked.

and i went back to the store.

that happened about four or five more times.

those people at lids hated me because they had to do paperwork every time i brought back a hat.


and that's why i never go into public places after smoking.


man, that's an awful story.

Also, OT that avi is pretty cool -- It looks like Walter Sobchak when he's going with the dude to make the drop to get bunny back from the nihilists.

__________________________________
The man. The myth. The Ruiz.

-30-

the fire next time.

-30-

the fire next time.

i think i'ma have to give Extra Prolific, aka AFRICAN, my login.







.soufeast San Diego, stand up.

-30-

the fire next time.

It was 1973, summertime in Gary, Indiana. MIchael was walking around the house in his custom made Bruno Maggli platform dancing shoes, when Jermaine and Marlon ran into the house fresh from the mall with two pairs of rollerskates. Now despite all that bullshit in the press about Michael being SOOOO sensitive, Mike was actually quite the Don. He told Marlon to take his skates off so he could check them out, cuz Mike was not going to bow down to nobody to look at their shoes. Marlon at first was reluctant, but Mike gave him a look and said "Mothafucka, don't make me ask twice", and Marlon burst into tears, sat down and took his skates off. Jermaine didn't say shit. Mike looked at the skates and decided he wanted them, but he didn't want to take off his brand new Bruno Maggli platform dancing shoes, so he had to find another way to check out the skates. He went outside with the skates and commanded Jermaine to follow him and show him how to skate. Jermaine acted like he was going to stand up to him, so Michael in a fit of rage, ripped one of the pickets off of the fence surrounding 2300 Jackson street and threw it at Jermaine...Jermaine ducked and barely got out of the way, and the board landed on top of Marlons skates sitting in the driveway. Mike ran and jumped on the board and did a james brown spin, and suddenly found himself rolling down the driveway. He got to the end of the driveway and the board fell off the skates, but Mike saw the potential and ran back in the house with the skates and the picket. He had Joe take the wheels off of the skates and attach them to the picket and the skateboard was born.

Marlon had to go back to the mall to get another pair of rollerskates, and the rest is...you know.

eye luff yew

______________________________________

amazin they ungrateful after all The Game I gave away

http://i30.tinypic.com/e9x4xi.jpg

Going thru a block myself.
Anyway.
True story.
Here in Sudan,when someone ends up in a hospital,everyone has to go visit.Frequently.Neighbours, in-laws,immediate and extended family and those weird folks you only meet at weddings funerals and such.
So,a motherfucker who has terminal cancer might ask how come his second cousin so and so only came to visit once.So and So better have a good excuse too,or else they get blacklisted.
Anyway.
I have an aunt whose been in the hospital for about a month now.Cesarian gone wrong.
Official visits at the hospital are from 4-6 pm. and they enforce that shit pretty strictly-so as not to end p with a gang of folks walking the corridors,picnicing in the grass and screaming on nurses at all times of the day.-.
My problem is,I don't like waiting in line to squeeze thru a tiny ass door and buy a ticket to go in -and that 4 pm sun is no joke-.
So I borrow my homegirls labcoat,faketalk on my cellphone-throwin a couple big med terms in,and bam,I'm in.
This tecnique has worked so well in the past,I seriously considered investing in a coat myself.Hers was kind of the smallish size.
But all good things come to an end.
So this fine day-approx 3 weeks ago-,I pull my routine-except it was a private hospital--.I'm walking in with quick strides,umhmming into my phone,when this hating ass security guard stops me.I looked at him like he had just knocked on my front door,like what?.
He said,finish your phone call.
Mayne I knew what was gonna happen and I hate being embarrassed in public like that.
So I hung up,dialled a non-existent # and chewed them out for having dumb ass guards-of course I'm walking off at this point-.Dude was laughing too,he caught on to my hustle.
My homegirl-owner of the magic hospital key- said medical staff used the back door at this hospital.

http://perspectivesudans.blogspot.com/
instagram:@3rdworldview
Blessed be the Lord /who believe any mess they read up on the message board

_

shakin your block with a 6 million dollar bop

_

www.davidevanmcdowell.com

That's gangsta.

__________________________________
The man. The myth. The Ruiz.

i was bailin' through the hood, boppin' down 54th, passed the FAM-mart parking lot, said peace to the incense man, and stopped right before it turned into euclid avenue, just before the spot where the bow-tied sell bean pies and final calls. to my far left, a man in red was yelling loudly at a man in blue.

"this fo' seven blocc, cuh," the one said. "fuck that, nigga. this piru, nigga," the other replied.

to my immediate left was a bank. at the edge of the sidewalk was a knee-high hedge that split the distance between me and the bank building. at the base of the hedge was a human head, that despite a glaring need for a shape-up, was in immaculate shape, and it was looking up at me. there was no neck and there wasn't any blood where the neck should have been. just a head, perfectly perched upright and looking at me.

looking at me.

so i looked back. i took a step towards it and crouched to close the gap between us.

no sooner than i bent my knees, it parted its ashy lips and spoke in a creaky voice that was too low for me to understand.

i asked him to repeat himself, and he did. but the noise over my shoulder drowned him out.

"you're gonna have to speak up," i said.

he cleared his non-existant throat.


"stop snitching," he said, clear as day.


"nigga, i ain't no motherfucking snitch," i told him.


"stop snitching," he repeated wearing an even expression.


"nigga, i don't even look at poleece. ask anybody. 'does jesse badgreen talk to poleece?' you know what they'll tell you? 'hell nah, nigga. he don't even look at poleece. ask anybody. they make his skin itch."

but all he said was, "stop snitching."


"nigga say some new shit," i said, rising to my feet, "or im'a kick yo' little ass in the head."




he paused for a second, and then, with the same blank look, he said it again.






"stop snitching."


now, i wasn't really gonna kick his ass in the head. i just said that because i was getting frustrated. but then it came to me that, one trick parrot or not, i had to show somebody.

i looked around. nobody in bow-ties. nobody around, period, except for mr red and mr blue, who were by then engaged in full blown fisticuffs.

i didn't want to interrupt, but somebody else had to bear witness.

"SAY, NIGGAS!" i shouted. "HEY. HOLD THAT SHIT DOWN RIGHT QUICK." by then i'd caught their attention. "lemme show y'all niggas something."


they reluctantly hopped the hedge to where i was standing.

"nigga, that's just a ashy ass head," said mr blue. mr red said nothing and started to shadowbox to keep his body warm.


"wait, wait," i said. "watch this."

"I...THINK...I'M...GOING...TO...CALL...911...YOU KNOW...JUST...TO...TALK," i said, loudly and clearly enough to be sure the head heard me.


and then...nothing.


mr blue stirred, but i raised my palm as if to command patience.


"YEAH," i continued, "IF ANYBODY KNOWS SOME COPS, I HAVE A LOT OF ILLICIT ACTIVITIES AND CRIMINAL UNDERTAKINGS TO REPORT."





nothing. not a peep. not a blink. not a whisper, not so much as a tick.






"li'l nigga, you made us stop scrappin' to watch you talk to a dead ass, ashy ass head?"

"yeah," mr red agreed. "nigga my time is valuable. i should make you just like *that* nigga."


"hol' up though, this head was talkin' to me a minute ago," i pleaded. "watch--say something!" i commanded.



and, silence.


by then, their collective patience was well-worn. with one sharp movement, mr red drew a heretofore unseen machete and separated my head from its comfortable resting place.

"ha!" said mr blue as he kicked my head under the hedge that was beginning to form quite a collection.

"nigga, i told you. my time is valuable," said mr red as he stepped over my body, laying (what should have been) face down on the sidewalk.

and i was astonished to find that i still had the faculties to wonder what had gone wrong.

"what happened?" i asked my hedge-mate. "why didn't you say anything?"

"nigga," he replied, "i *told* you. stop snitching."










.soufeast San Diego, stand up.

I laughed.

http://perspectivesudans.blogspot.com/
instagram:@3rdworldview
Blessed be the Lord /who believe any mess they read up on the message board

.soufeast San Diego, stand up.

.soufeast San Diego, stand up.

to your reply up there about the well being dry.

http://perspectivesudans.blogspot.com/
instagram:@3rdworldview
Blessed be the Lord /who believe any mess they read up on the message board

about a three weeks ago and was like:

"yeah i saw that post they made about you changing your screenname. i just want to thank you for not giving up on me. i know my music has been faulty lately, but people like you keep me motivated to bring that fire. so what's up, you trying to meet?"

then i replied:

"yeah you know i'm digging you too, but i gotta man."

then he said:

"but what that gotta do with me? lol"

then i replied:

"hahaha, you're so crazy. you know you're right. let's have sex now."

***************************************

AVY: only the greatest show ever.

"Only actions guided and shaped by belief and knowledge will save you. Belief initiates and guides action, or it does nothing." --Octavia Butler

lmao!

that was a good story actually. lmao!

_

shakin your block with a 6 million dollar bop

_

www.davidevanmcdowell.com

hehe.

***************************************

AVY: only the greatest show ever.

"Only actions guided and shaped by belief and knowledge will save you. Belief initiates and guides action, or it does nothing." --Octavia Butler

tawnbout:

You the motherfucker that got niggas callin' me a seamonkey?
From: TalibChickwee
Date: Dec 02nd 2005

.

I break, You take.

I grew up in the suburbs outside of Philly.

Every year, my mother has Christmas at our house. I play Santa for my younger cousins, we eat a lot of Polish food, and have a great time.

But the festivities usually end at 10 pm. Most've the time my mom is too tired to go to midnight mass, so my parents go to sleep. So, I call up my boys, and back in the day, we'd go to someone's house and hang out, now we usually go out to the bar. Not to get too fucked up, but just to have a few beers together and chill. A lot of the time, we go out to the diner afterwards, just because.

So there's one diner that we know about that's open on Christmas Even night - the Tom Jones Diner in Chester, PA. Funny aside, the singer Tom Jones tried to sue the diner to change the name, because he thought they were using his name without his permission to sell more blue plate specials (Two eggs, two sausage, two bacon, toast, and coffee for $2.99). Little did he and his representative's know, the diner's owner was named....Tom Jones.

Anyway, so we're there at about 1 AM Christmas morning - me and about 4 friends. At the table across from us are three people. The first is a white woman, bleached blonde hair, around 35 but looks 45, weighing in at about a buck eighty five. Trouble is she's probably 5'1" - and the extra weight is not going in the right direction. Her two companions are these rail thin, White trash muthafuckas with mullets, porn stashes, and Members Only jackets (this is circa 1998-99). They say little, save brief blasts of hysterical, tweeker laughter.

So this woman gets on one of the guys cell phones and starts panting into it, making all kinds of sex sounds, screaming "Give it to me baby...GIVE IT TO ME!!!!" in the middle of the restaurant. Nobody really bats an eye, except for my and my buls, who are cracking up. This goes on for about 2-3 minutes and she hangs up the phone. On cue, my buddy Tony leans over and says, "Hey, maybe I can call you some time?"

She looks him dead in the eye and says, in the perfect Philly accent, "HEY, YEW CAN CALL ME ROIGHT NEEEOOOOWW!".

Then she licks her lips.

Actually, it wasn't really a lick, but was more like a snake flicking its tongue before it attacks. A fat, sexy (in her own mind) snake.

Tony, who's the guy in the crew who's never at a loss for words, turns back to us in silence. We crack the fuck up.

So we go back to bullshitting and drinking coffee. The trio sits for about 5 more minutes, then gets up to leave. But before they do, sexy snake comes over to the table, looks at all of us and informs us:

"Oi'm gunna geo heome roight now...take it up the aiss...nothing youse can dew about it."

Translation for those of you not from Philly:

"I'm gonna go home right now...take it up the ass...nothing you guys can do about it."

And with a flourish, fat sexy snake left, with her giddy speed freaks hysterically giggling, secure in the knowledge that the 6 dollars they had spent on her two blue plate specials would not go to waste.

It was a merry Christmas for all, I guess.

__________________________________
The man. The myth. The Ruiz.

we had a lil scheme going on.
basically what we did was we convinced our fam to send us disposable cameras stashed in boxes and cans of gatorade. we'd get the camera, take photos and break the camera, take out the film and send it back off to our family. then a few weeks later, we'd get the photos back.

and of course, the drill instructors didn't bother with the photos becuase we all got photos, who cares, you know?

this had went on up until the time of this story.

this was after the crucible (this is how old school i am. the fucking crucible doesn't even exist anymore i think) and we were on our downtime, polishing boot, snipping irish pennant, ironing trouser. and i look across from me and i see this dumbass across from me, looking through all our pictures we took here.

if you didn't know by now, it really wasn't legal for us to have that because it's listed as contraband, along with cigarettes, cd players, alcohol, drugs, etc.

the same second i noticed this, our senior drill instructor saw the pictures and looked through them. i shit my pants.

anyway. our senior DI took everybody that he saw in the photos and gathered us all in his office and told us that he was sending us back to processing (basically, we'd have to go through bootcamp again). we all started crying like little girls because we were like 4 days away from going home.

we packed our shit and he called us back into the office.

the senior DI said he didn't feel like doing the paperwork and it was almost time for chow, so he gave us back the photos, told us to never take them out while we were there, and let us stay.

we all felt relieved and shit. i coulda really shit my pants at that point too.

---------------------
do this don't do that.
http://www.myspace.com/thievinstealberg

i went in looking like Neck-Bone, the long lost member of them thuggish ruggish niggas. when i sat down, my hair was prolly six or eight inches long. 5 seconds later, i stood up with a bald and bloody scalp. folks who complained about getting nicked up got it worse, but i was on the quiet end and got away with just a few scrapes here and there.

the barbers had long memories, too. they knew the faces of the complainers and made sure to give them something to complain about every time they sat down. the rest of us were cool after that, though.

yet and still, when i found out some cat in another platoon was slangin' bootleg haircuts for cheaper, i threw my name up on the waiting list.

the opportunities to actually get that cut were few and far between, though, so it took until the end of the cycle before my name finally came around.

i went down the hall to their room. they had one cat watching the door, the barber, and another nigga moving around ceiling tiles to get to the clippers and other contraband. and their bootleg game was incredible. they even had a nigga slangin nicoderm patches. but dude cut me up lovely and i snuck back to wherever the rest of my platoon was.

but i didn't really think that shit all the way through. next formation, one of these kids was not like the other. the rest of platoon was bald but i and the folks who'd pulled my coat to the bootleg shop all had fresh fades.

the drill sergeant walked to where i was standing and just sort of glared at me.

"private <badgreep>.¹ you got a fade."


i gulped. "drill sergeant. yes, drill sergeant."

and then he walked away. he never brought it up again.





.soufeast San Diego, stand up.




¹he serially mispronounced my last name

i wasn't really happy with eating somewhere i was so unfamiliar with. so all i'd eat was a piece of toast and a glass of milk in the morning. a salad for lunch and maybe a little bit of meat for dinner.

so one morning, i wake up and i'm mad weak, my bones hurt and and i was pale faced. after a few fellow recruits commented on how much i looked like shit, i requested to go to the sick bay.

i get to the sick bay and the friggin navy corpsman goes "well, i haven't seen this in so long, but you have skurvy."

skurvy? i asked.

yeah the sickness pirates used to get because of lack of vitamin c.

i felt more like shit after realizing i got a sickness that hadn't probably been seen in years by any given person. i might as well have polio.

he gives me a jar of vitamins and sends me on my way with a light duty chit for the next week.

i tell the DI that i had skurvy and he made me end every sentence with an "argh" everytime i spoke. and instead of "this recruit" i was "this matey".

it sounds funny now. but it was hell then.

---------------------
do this don't do that.
http://www.myspace.com/thievinstealberg

.soufeast San Diego, stand up.

i came to boot overweight for my height, so i was like 195, and had to get to 190. soon as we get in, they weighed us, im over so they put me on an immd. diet.

so i was eating like plain oatmeal, baked chicken, green beans, just plain ass shit, & thats it. no snacks, no nothing. and in that 1st week, i dropped like 10 pds, so im down to 185 after the weigh-in.

so i think, cool, im off my diet. i line up to get the regular chow that everyone else had been getting, freckle faced sgt woods (never liked red skinnt niggas w/ freckles ever since) sees me, calls me out in front of the whole chow hall:

'cook! get over with the rest of the fat asses!'

im sitting there, like 3 dudes away from that smothered steak, those mashed potatoes...no way im missing out on this shit, this is my reward, fuck that...

'sir, this recruit is no longer on a diet, sir.'

DI's came from ALL OVER THAT BITCH, lol, niggas jumping over tables, ran from out the kitchen, it was like i had knocked down a bee hive full of DI's

all of em surrounded me, the recruits in front & in back had bac(d)dafucup (onyx), started pummeling me w/ that damn hard ass DI hat

sgt woods came over snatched my tray and was like...get out.

no food for me

i remained on a diet for the rest of the 3 months, i came home, & my big mama burst into tears when she saw how skinny i had gotten

i was like 160

them niggas honestly tried to starve me to death, imo

THOSE WERE THE DAYS - archie & edith

i got my fuckup rep EARLY in the game in boot, the started calling me a shitbird like...in reception. i had never learned how to make a rack, never learned how to shine shoes, came in big as hell, but flabby, i had on glasses, i was one of those sarcastic types, etc, so within a week of dropping to the actual platoon, i was recruit shitbird, in fact there was me and a couple other guys who were shitbirds.

mentally, i was near my breaking point, my recruiter really hulled me by not discussing the mental shit, the physical he went into (not nearly enough) but the mental shit he totally left out. the DI's talked BAD abt my mama (which is a weak point of mine) i mean they found whatever it was that turned you out and twisted and twisted until you were ready to snap. when i fucked up, they pulled that everyone into the pit except the shitbirds routine, that kind of shit, so that that night in the head...cats would be butt naked, grilling me & shit, it got to the point where i felt like if anybody laid one more hand on me (besides the DIs of course) i was just gonna choke em out. fuck it

so, needless to say i looked forward to sundays like a mugg, time alone, time to read the paper and pretend i was a human being, etc. this other guy, same company different platoon..middle eastern cat, wouldnt go to church, but also got half of friday afternoon, off. I was like how is that, he told me he was muslim and they left the muslims go on fridays because thats their holy day.

SHAZAM! i went to my head DI, aka Daddy, and was like 'this recruit was unaware there are muslim services and wants to be in them.' like soon as i found out, 2 minutes later i was talking to dude. he asked me some questions, i remembered a little about islam, that kind of thing (autobiography of malcolm x came in handy right here) he wrote me up a chit, and off i went.

basically the muslim service was 5 or 6 recruits and a muslim guy from SD somewhere, he'd come in ask us what we wanted to talk about, and when no one answered he'd just go extempo. for about an hr & a half. fine by me. i slept.

after a while tho, i started listening, and i dug the differentness of it...then my DI's picked up on it...and started calling me Recruit Allah

now, for real, i wasnt muslim. and i had picked the shit up to get out of service for a minute, but by this time, i felt mentally unbreakable, and my body had long since gotten w/ the program, so that struck me as the height of disrespect. so i wouldnt answer em.

a DI would be @ 1 end of the squad bay, get a bug up his ass and call out 'recruit allah to the quarter deck', all the other recruits would hear him, repeat what he said...i wouldnt answer him. cats would be like 'yo! thats you, you know thats you'

id say bullshit call me dick head, call me recruit sucks cock for a living whatever, but dont disrespect god, thats not cool and i really felt that way, what was he gonna do, make me do push ups? side straddle hop me to death? fuck that

the DI, the light weight one, youngest of em, came back, reeking of chew, I SAID RECRUIT ALLAH come to the quarter deck, shitbird, didnt you hear me

i told him i had but was not going to respond to what i felt was disrespectful to god, and he got all sarcastic 'ok, recruit BINLAHAB, is that better? come to the quarterdeck, and pick out 5 of your friends to come with you'

fuck it. i did it, that night one of em woke me up for a parlay abt shit, and that was cool too

i got some respect for that shit from the DI's and from myself too

got punished on the quarter deck often but like i said, by that time i was volunteering to jump on the quarterdeck w/ cats

they had to start sending me back

that was some good times


<--- get on my level, hoe

Bin "The Bamma Hamma" Lahab

http://www.feastofhateandfear.com/archives.html

http://www2.tech.purdue.edu/cgt/courses/cgt411/covey/48_laws_of_power.htm

Mzungu Aende Ulaya — Mwafrika Apate Uhuru

one of the measures is bounded by the instances that i caught my mother crying. the second time (out of a total of three) was when she told me that my uncle russell had taken his own life.


i was 12 years old, i think. that particular measure, the passage of birthdays, i haven't done too well with keeping up. but i remember exactly when it was in time and where i was in space.

the entire house was dark except for the bit of light that seeped through the curtains from the streetlight outside, and that was just enough for me to make out my mother sitting on the floor just outside of the kitchen, sobbing into the telephone.

she'd long since trained me not to talk to her while she was on the phone, so i sat beside her and waited. finally, she hung up.

"why are you crying?" i asked. and this is what she told me:

her sister had called. russell shot himself in the head, she'd said. with what? she asked, repeating what i'd asked. with a pistol.

he'd caught a welfare fraud charge. he was innocent. there'd been a trial, but no verdict yet. he'd been convinced that he'd be convicted and he refused to go back to prison.

his body was found surrounded by tissues. his right hand clutched a note that was smeared with blood and tears. this was on a sunday.


the following morning, the jury reached a verdict, not knowing that he'd never hear it.





he was acquitted.







.soufeast San Diego, stand up.

I break, You take.

.soufeast San Diego, stand up.

we wasn't the only kids on the block though. i'm not sure if our neighbors on Calimesa Street just didn't want they children playin with us Section 8ers or if they was worried about skin cancer. either way, we brought that Africa to Vegas: a pack of shirtless, skinny bushbabies running wild in the unrelenting sun. i even had the malnutrition popout belly. it was only seven of us (Kennyman, Bug, Adrian, James, Tonio, Darriel and me), but the street felt like it had more porchmonkies than porches.

the whitefolk on the block was almost all middle-aged Nellis Airforce Base retirees. the lunchlady who worked the register at our school lived on Calimesa too, but it ain't like she recognized any of us because we was all freelunch niggas (thank you Panther Party). her house always smelled like venison because her husband spent the autumn of his life bangin BK (Bambi Killa) all day, e'y day. they kept deer skeletons on display in their front yard like an unimpressive archaeology exhibit.

one day niggas was in the field behind our row of houses throwin rocks. niggas ain't have nothin to throw at, and ion't think we was havin a contest or nothin, but the act of throwing the rocks was fulfilling in and of itself. we wasn't throwin in the direction of the houses, and i'm not sure why, cause we was some rougish ass niggas who woulda got off on that.

li'l niggas with rocks can unnerve people though. a photo of us that day prolly could have been mistaken for one of a West African rebel army's frontline. which is prolly why The Deer Hunter felt it necessary to pop up from behind a cinderblock wall with a pistol to end our ruckus before it turned into governmental overthrow.

"PUT THE FUCKING ROCKS DOWN, NOW!" he commanded as he cycled his aim at the five of us out there that day. i did as Goliath ordered, imagining five childsize sets of niggabones standing in as lawn gnomes in his yard....

we was thinkin about ways to get him back for pullin out heat on us, but we couldn't think of nothing better than stealing his trophy deer. but what a nigga gonna do with a stag skull?

he won the battle and the war...

to this day i wanna wave a gun in his face.

-30-

the fire next time.

Not youngins either.
Certain tribes in Sudan eat them as a snack-a lot of placesin Africa I guess-.
My boy-whose tribe had a ball when locusts came,since they ate them and didn't farm-,asked me to try some.
I'll eat pretty much anything at least once,but I was kind of jumpy-no pun intended- about this culinary experience.
I had nothing even vaguely similar to compare it too.
So I said fuck it and dug in.
It was a big bowl of them,some smoked some fried.
It actually tasted good.
The closest I can come to describing it is day old dry fries.You know the little slim dry ass fries you find at the bottom with the oily crumbs an such.

http://perspectivesudans.blogspot.com/
instagram:@3rdworldview
Blessed be the Lord /who believe any mess they read up on the message board

when I was in school in ATL, I lived in the hood my sophomore year. The house was two blocks off of Stewart Avenue in the SWAT (South West Atlanta). To get there, I had to leave school, go up the road to the West End Marta station, walk through the station, and then cross the railroad tracks to my street. Now, there were other ways to get there, but this was the safest, since the other routes usually meant walking or riding my bike down unlit streets. Crackheads had stolen the wiring out of the base of most of the lights in the West End, so the Marta station lights were a rare beacon and safe haven for pedestrians at night. The one caveat to my route was often, late at night, long freight trains stopped on the tracks behind the Marta station, making it a dangerous shortcut. More than once, I had been crossing the tracks at the point the train began to move....also, the freight cars provided cover and transport for opportunistic gafflers; fortunatley, I had avoided them up to one fateful night.

It was one am. I had left my girl's dorm room after curfew and hoofed it back through West End. It was a warm fall evening, so I was able to keep a nice pace running (not to mention being fueled by an evening's worth of yeahyum from ole girl). As I neared the Marta station, I winced as I heard the whistle and rumble of a freight engine nearby. I was hoping that it was far enough away to beat it across the tracks. I shifted my bookbag and began to pump my arms like Ben Johnson (roids be damned). I was too late. The whistle blew again and I got to the tracks in time to watch and feel the four engines roll past and shake the hood. Now it was just a matter of whether or not it would stop or continue through...I was hoping for the latter...and got the former.


To be continued manhana....