Summer Blockbuster

Reminisce with me. Last time we kicked it, I was gassin’ you up on the joys of summatime. Some of you might have interpreted it as me complaining about a life wasted. Not really the case. Or maybe it was. Regardless, consider this diatribe the counterpoint, the latest whatever in my never-ending thirst for an eternal summer.

When I think of June, July and August, a long-ass movie plays in my head. Been through a few calendars now, so I’ve racked up ’nuff memories to fill a screenplay (hint!). For example, there were those summers when the older kids (some in their 20s and 30s, I suspect) would crank the fire pumps open and set off a block party, damn near. Couldn’t make it to the swimming pool? Open up la pompa, and hear the action: Kids laughing; teenage chicks screaming from involuntarily joining the wet-T shirt contests; empty soup cans being scraped on the wet sidewalks (don’t know? ask somebody); and the naively cocky chump or two, cursin’ us out after we’d promise not to spray his car when he drove by.

One summer, me and Lou would live, eat, breathe, and of course, play baseball like we were tryin’ out for the Yankees. Sheeeit, in our minds, we were the Yankees! Now-ow-ow…batting-ing-ing…Reggie-ee-ee…Jackson-son-son… All day, e’yday, it was Taft school yard, Claremont or Crotona, gettin’ our Pro Keds plenty dusty.

Then there was that summer when I went to live with my aunt in Douglas projects in Manhattan, and spent my days learnin’ how to play b-ball with my cousins. I never did get a handle, but that summer gave me my first hands-on experience with weed, wine and women (well, more like girls, but I’d lose the alliteration).

Another summer I spent with my pops down in Miami, way before South Beach became SoBe and the winos and dopefiends (pre-crack, those days) strutted their stuff up and down Ocean Drive. Talk about a flick! Picture Boyz N Da Hood meets Fast Times At Ridgemont High. Also rocked a coupla shows at long-gone spots like Video Powerhouse and The Beat, and learned invaluable lessons from hangin’ around with Skate, T.K. and other older dudes (even if they were only like 19 or so).

The summer I first Peter Panned it down to Philly, me and m’mans Boo, Kadism, Baby Rock, MA, Spel, Kape, Far, Karaz and a whole army of others went on all-out missions to bomb the shit outta the City of Brotherly Love. If we weren’t breathin’ fumes in what little bit of subway tunnels Philly has, we were walkin’ long-ass bus routes and scalin’ walls like Spider-Man, gettin’ up like they was givin’ away prizes for the most hits. (They were; ask the Anti-Graffiti Network).

And then I grew up.

And all of a sudden-like, summatime, though still fun, got a lot more serious, too. G-stacks-wrapped-in-rubber-bands-serious. She-ain’t-my-girl-but-now-she’s-pregnant-serious. You-have-the-right-to-remain-silent-serious. Most of all, dead serious.

Lotta money in those summers, when we gave up baseball in empty lots and Hot-Peas-And-Butter, and started playin’ big-boy games with big-boy toys. Lotta BMs, Ninjas and 4-wheelers. Lotta fun.

Lotta heat, too. And R.I.P. murals and young girls’ bellies popped up a lot faster than a mufucka’s self-esteem.

Yep, one long-ass movie, whenever I think of summer. And with Summatime 2005 very soon upon us, new scenes are being shot even as you read this. Don’t play too much baseball nowadays, but I am teachin’ my lil’ man how to win the triple crown. Still ain’t got ball handle, but I got a nephew who runs me into the ground whenever I try to D-up on him. As for my adventures in Miami, well, it’s been a minute, but whenever I do get to make my rounds again, wifey demands wingman status or I don’t even get on the plane, dig me?

Good thing I copped an extra roll of film…


**originally published (minus modifications and updated info) a long-ass time ago, at a plantation, far, far away...**

Glory Days

There has to be something wrong with me if I can get nostalgic about a time when all I did was get nostalgic about times previous to that one.

Follow along, it’ll make sense…

The Summer of ’95: I couldn’t down two screwdrivers without getting all teary-eyed and shit, crying about a life that—at the time—I really didn’t know that I never really had. Most of the time I wailed about missing my moms, but somewhere down a back staircase in my mind I knew that what I was really complaining about was my own fucked up decision-making.

You know what I mean. Those little decisions that don’t mean shit at the time, but can wreck your whole chassis a couple years later. Shit like I better pull out before I cum, but gottdamn this pussy is good and next thing you know, you’re registering at Toys R Us. Or everybody’s favorite: I’ll just sell a few bricks to get caught up on my bills, then I’ll quit. That’s a popular one in the TV room.

Yeah, meng, those minor little decisions that turn out to be not so minor and nowhere as little after all. They call it the Butterfly Effect, I think. Anyway, that.

I was just bitchin’ about the fact that (steeeerike!) I’ve swung at some pretty bad pitches in my at-bat here on Mother Earth’s dusty sandlot. And that summer, me being fresh on the bricks after a nickel in the feds, that long, hot summer felt like I finally got the chance to sit back and admire my handiwork.

I was not impressed.

Re: verse

Hmmm... Didn't realize these posts are gonna pop up anti-chronologically. (Made that shit up, in case you didn't notice).

Anyway, so now you know. If you're as interested in digging a little bit into how my brain-cells do their thing, read the verses from bottom to top. (Not line by line, but you knew that. Right...?)

That said...

Excuses, excuses...

A month already?! Shazam...!

Reminds me of my journal-keeping habits.

What a month it has been.

R.I.P. Eddie-Ed aka Chick-Chick. We'll miss you, cuz.

Same to you, Just-O. Rest easy, pop. You left a legacy.

Sigh...

Been kinda busy with real life to drop anything in here.

Nevertheless, here I is right now.

As per my convo with Boots, this seems the ideal place to keep some of my favorite run-off-at-the-mouths from my days at the old plantation. Why not? Nobody reads magazines from four and five years back, let alone remembers editorials. (And who reads those anyway?!)

So...

I'll set it off with a couple of ice-breakers, just to set the tone. Or something like that.

Enjoy.

Up, Up and Away...

So... here I is. NOT writing what I'm supposed to be writing and whatnot...

Been reading/hearing a helluva lot about this blog thing. Thought I'd give it a spin, see how she handles corners...

Don't mind me.

Or do.

On you.