PICTORIAL

A picture is worth a thousand words, they say, so imma let pictures do all the talking tonight.

A month or so ago I had a monumental breakthrough. It seems, like the next guy, that I've always known that animals, birds especially, tend to migrate South when wintry weather threatens to fossilize the North. It had never occured to me to try and follow the birds Southward, just for kicks if not for anything else.

I like to go down South coz to me it's so much better there, not to mention warmer. [I realize that was a double entendre ladies. Take that statement any way you will!] This time though, I'll try and go all the way South. I'll be MIA for the next week and a half or so, fortunately or unfortunately, on vacation. Allow me to describe the predicted sequence of events, in pictorial form.

I've been busting my ass at work lately and I feel like I'm


Lately the weather has been

Led by instinct, tonight I will


....Southward. It's a long ass trip so I just might pass through here


... but ultimately end up here.



Maybe I can go here a couple of times....



... or maybe here.


A week or so later though, sadly, I will have to come back to this


Hope it all works out; wish me luck.

Merry Christmas everyone. Have a great new year. Give any new resolutions a half-hearted attempt, at least!

>d®

BUSHED, RANTING AND RAVING

Why does everyone seems to want something from >d® lately? [At work, I mean] It’s been insane, for real. Everyone and their mama knows when Christmas is, needless to say. Submit all your graphics orders well in advance, damnit!

Why then, pray tell, wait a week before Christmas to suddenly order stuff? Then the customers have the audacity to call me every hour on the hour talking about: ‘Is it ready yet?” Graphic design is serious business and I hate putting crap out there. In a perfect world I’d want any >d® Original Design to induce oohs and aahs from anyone looking at it. I love it when I’m driving around and see a sign I made; it’s gratifying. Some self-proclaimed ‘artistically liberated’ customers force me though to put $hit out there that I’d never ordinarily create and that’s what’s been happening this week, as much as I dislike it.

That’s when the GIGO principle comes to play, the Garbage In, Garbage Out principle. They give me scrawled-out, damn near indecipherable designs and I’m supposed to magically transform them into designs akin to those in the Sistine Chapel? Getouttahere, like mutumia says!

Shoot, maybe I should’ve handed some of these customers copies of the sign hanging over my trash can that reads: Lack of preparation on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part. [The sign hangs over the trash can coz that’s where the order is going if the customer keeps bugging. >d don’t play!]

Hmm…. maybe, with the sign, I should also include a copy of my Friendship Prayer, thanks to CK, that also hangs somewhere in my office. That one brings me nothing but comfort every time I feel my fist itching to go through the drywall. It reads: May the fleas of a thousand camels infest the crotch of the person that ruins your day; and may their arms be too short to scratch. I instantly feel the stress lessen every time I read that one, believe you me.

Now that the bitching session is over, let me be out. Hopefully I’ll revert to my usual, reasonably amicable self by tomorrow; joy had better come in the morning!

GULLY

gul·ly
n. pl. gul·lies A deep ditch or channel cut in the earth by running water after a prolonged downpour.
v. gul·lied, gul·ly·ing, gul·lies
v. tr. To wear a deep ditch or channel in.
v. intr. To form a deep ditch or channel.
Perhaps alteration of Middle English golet, throat, channel.

This isn’t exactly the definition I was looking for at dictionary.com but it’ll do. It depicts some semblance of depth and that’s all I needed it to convey. For all y’all loyal performancefirst readers this word might sound familiar coz I used it at least once in previous posts.

Since I’m adult now and past most of the elementary bull$hit there’s a thing or two I’ve learned here and there. The hormonal levels have stabilized somewhat and I can finally use my brain to make some decisions that didn’t exactly rely on deliberation but more on emotion….. or lack thereof. Right after high school I was only concerned about a few things; I’ll try and group them into 3 categories: college, sex & money. [Not in that order] Some years later the concerns evolved somewhat into sex, money & college. [In that order] Some more years later they evolved yet again into women, college & money. [Notice the sex was replaced by women. I’ll explain later.] These days I can sum my concerns up as: women, career, college and money.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that the opposite sex is very much an influence in Yours Truly’s life. This is true for most men, I daresay. Deny it all you want but it’s true. Much, if not most, of what we do has something to do with a woman. That got me thinking: if women have that much influence over me, then I really should take that very seriously. I’ve seen grown men crying, begging and tore up for months on end over their women and I’ll tell you what, it’s a sorry sight. It’s understandable though, coz a woman has the ability to make you the happiest person on earth or the most miserable, all with a few short words. We’ve all heard/used them at some point. Here are a few examples:

- Let’s just be friends

- It’s not you, it’s me

- I love you too much to be with you

- We seem to be headed in opposite directions

- I like you but I don’t love you

- [a variation of the previous one] I love you as a friend but nothing more

- [or better yet] I love you but I’m not in love with you

Fellas, I know you’ve heard or administered some of those lines and we all know, male or female, that they’re total bull$hit. If you ever hear any of these, the other party doesn’t wanna be with you, end of story. Pucker up and move on.

The transformation from sex to women as a priority was nothing short of revolutionary. Sex is only sex. If you take the time to know who you’re messing with the experience is a whole lot different, a whole lot better. It’s a lot more ‘gully’ being with someone I’ve known for some time than someone I just met, that’s faw shaw.

Which brings me back to the gully issue. After twenty-something years of existence I’ve finally had a breakthrough where the opposite sex is concerned:

I need me a girl that’s gully.

*This is a dedication to The One Girl. She who thinks I’m the best thing that ever happened to her. She who laughs at all my stupid jokes. She who doesn’t trip when I’m out with the boys. She who’s down for whatever, whenever, however. She who knows that I can be a lying, cheating bastard but who doesn’t trip coz she knows I’d never cheat on her with another chick and who also absolutely loves >d2, ha ha! She who trusts me, but also whom I’ve hurt by being afraid to commit.*

What is ‘gully,’ you ask? Like the definition suggests, gully suggests depth, an infinite space that can accommodate whatever. A girl who’s gully is all that and more, as I will detail. Forgive me for hyphenating points two posts in a row but granted, that’s the easiest way to enforce/reinforce the noteworthy.

- She's confident about herself in anything. I realize there are no absolutes so I will re-phrase this point as such: She’s confident enough in anything; confident in her love/like for me, in my love for her.

- She loves a brother and she’s not afraid to show it. I absolutely love a woman who admits that she’s feeling me. Contrary to popular belief, that doesn’t evoke any cockiness on my part. If anything I like her more.

- She trusts me. This covers so many situations: When I look at another girl she doesn’t trip. When I say I’m going out with the boys I’m REALLY going out with the boys. When I’m away for the weekend she’s secure enough not to wonder if I’ll be ‘sowing my royal oats.’

- She can do OK without me. Despite her affection for me, she’s strong enough to do OK without me if I’m stupid enough to mess up. That’s the kind of woman my crazy ass needs. Keeps me on my toes.

- She recognizes and accepts my imperfections. I like to test the limits of endurance. Not only that, but I constantly live on the edge in so many ways. Please let me do doughnuts in icy roads. It’s fun for me as much as it makes you queasy. Allow me to dance to ‘Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer’ at Walmart even though it’s embarrassing. Don’t trip when I ‘feel up’ the mannequins at Victoria’s Secret.

- She likes me for me, not for who she thinks I could be. At the first sign of a chick trying to change me, I’m out. I have and always will welcome constructive criticism, as everyone should. Tell me I need to change something, I’ll think about it and do it. Try and force things and it’s a wrap. Like, don’t throw away my 5-year-old pair of sneakers; they’re comfortable. I have 2 subs in the trunk because I want it, not because I need it. Even though Maroon 5 might be a band that appeals more to teenage girls I still like them, what. Most of my friends are female. I will not cut them off just because you don’t like it.

Of course there’s much more in between the lines but that’s basically what gully is to me. I’m always open to suggestions, so hit me.

PRIMEVAL
Last time I checked, I was a man. [No kidding, right?] Now, everyone who knows me knows that I don’t talk too much about myself. Not that I’m stingy with personal information or I wouldn’t wanna share it with anyone, no. It’s just that half the time the things that go on in my life are inconsequential – to me anyway – and the other half of the time it’s information that, to me, is a little too sensitive to broadcast all willy-nilly. But that’s only if we just met. Sometimes I think I run my mouth but only if I know you, as I’ve learned. All good though, I guess. Most of these reactions come involuntarily and I only wonder about them afterwards.

There are some things I do though that I always wonder about later on and never come up with a satisfactory conclusion as to why I do them. Not that I mean to divulge masculine secrets but ladies, y’all probably know all about them anyway. Keeping in mind that I’m somewhat the typical male, here are some of mine. Though some might be exclusive to me and some, I realize, are not much to brag about, if at all, I believe most are typically male.

- When I’m sleepy I scratch my belly, and I’m not exactly gentle either. It feels good though, go figure.

- I only seem to want to lotion parts of my body that are visible. [That drove my sisters crazy]

- I intensely dislike boxers with a ‘pee-pee slit’ that’s too small. If you gotta go you gotta go; no time to waste trying to pull stuff out.

- Dust is invisible. The only dust noticeable is what’s on my monitor. After all, that’s the 2^nd thing I look at all the time, and women aren’t dusty.

- I constantly have to remind myself that even though a girl smiles at me she really might hate my guts.

- There’s something comforting about grabbing the crotch. [I know I’ll catch heat from my sisters for this one] It’s not that I do it all the time. Shoot, it could be a couple of times a day in the comfort of my own house but it just happens. I could be watching TV or talking on the phone and I’d do it without thinking about it.
*My little cousin who’s 7 does it too. It’s not like he learned it from me coz I don’t do it in public, no. That type of readjustment is in the genes ladies; get used to it. Sorry.*

- Spitting-nasty habit. Thank God I don’t do it. Did you know when spit hits the ground it eventually vaporizes and becomes part of everyday air? Nasty.

- Yes, I like my eyebrows untrimmed. Think of it as Samson getting a haircut – won’t do it.

- I’m hopelessly attracted to tomboys. Maybe that’s not the right word, but a girl who can hang with the boys – and enjoy herself - is off the chain.

- It takes conscious effort to put the toilet seat back down. I do it though.

- I like basketball. I like you too, girl. You come first, though. [??] I don’t need to try and make time for both of you at the same time. Wait your turn.

- If there isn’t any visible dirt on the garment and it smells reasonably fresh, it can be re-worn. Jeans never get dirty.

- I see you looking at other guys. I realize they probably look better than I do - look all you want. Why get mad if I look at other girls? We both appreciate beauty, apparently.

- Week-old pizza is entirely edible. Warm it long enough to soften it up, but not too long to make it crusty.

- Honesty isn’t always the best policy. Please stop asking how many people I’ve been with. I wanna know how many you’ve been with though.

- After doing the deed, make me a sandwich. [Just kidding]

- A couple of pairs of jeans and a gazillion t-shirts and sneakers is all a man needs for his wardrobe.

- A car is only as important as how fast it is and what size speakers you can fit in its trunk. Two 12” subs usually do the trick. Ask Mose.

- Inside every man is a little boy that breaks loose from time to time. Please allow me to act a fool sometimes.

- I sleep only because I have to. I’d rather be awake.
*If you live to be a hundred and sleep an average of 6 hours a day, you’re only left with 75 years of consciousness.* [It’s 2.15am right now. Hmm, maybe I should go to bed. Gotta get up by 6]

Alright, I HAVE to go to bed. But only because I have to, don’t get it twisted! Feel free to add to my ‘typically male’ list.

REMINISCENT

Just got back home; was out of town for the weekend. How was it, you ask? Let’s just say I’m still hurting from whatever went on over the weekend. Had another Henny encounter – not pretty. I didn’t sleep that much either. Had to get over last weekend somehow and I must admit I overdid it this weekend, but it’s all good – gotta let loose somehow. [Click here if new to my page and here when done with the first link – you’ll see what I mean]

On the drive back tonight I was doing some serious thinking. I could do that this time around because I was well within the limits of the posted speed[s] [for once] and didn’t have to keep glancing at the rearview or down and up-shift or swerve in and out of traffic or any other need-for-speed activity that requires considerable concentration. I was thinking about my life in general. In addition to hanging out with the boys I spent considerable time this past weekend with G.R. - my sister from another mother who’s often undercover, who’s wanted by many brothers but who can be replaced by no other - talking about everything and nothing. [Wsup G.R!] I’m not gonna say exactly what we were talking about that made me start thinking coz that would be a violation of G.R.’s and my ‘confidentiality agreement’ but I can sum it up as such:

To any girl that I’ve ever hurt, knowingly or unknowingly, in the past or present, I’m sorry. [To all my boys: yes fellas, I said it.] Not that there’s a lot of girls, no. I’m just now growing up and I regret, and wonder, why I did some of the stupid $hit I used to. It sucks getting hurt, and doubly so when the other party doesn’t give a $hit.

Now that that’s off my chest, l’m out. The same dreary work cycle reverts tomorrow and I need that shuteye. One.

‘UNBLOGGABLE’

It’s probably not customary for a blogger to reveal too much about themselves. I haven’t seen any blog yet that divulges a decent amount of information about the author, which is completely understandable. In this day and age of rampant phishing and pharming it is necessary to protect oneself from people out there that make a living off identity theft and stuff. Besides, in blogville anonymity is what makes the whole experience interesting, receiving comments from complete strangers and perusing other people’s sites at will. Due to these reasons and more, my name will remain >d for all intents and purposes. Everyone knows me as >d anyway so it’s not my alter-ego writing all this $hit. I’m always gonna keep it real here, hate it or love it. I hope you love it though, I can’t lie!

I feel good tonight coz the weekend’s here already so I’ll tell you what, imma tell a little about myself now coz it may never happen again. All my friends complain they don’t know anything about what’s going on with me and stuff so you are one of the lucky few to get to know a little about yours truly. [Not that I think I’m that interesting, no. Shoot, if my life was a book I might not even wanna read it!] Alright, here we go:

I already said I’m Kenyan, right? I am, just for the record. I’m Kikuyu and I’m twenty-something years old. [Hey, I very well can’t tell it all now, can I?!] I was born and raised in shags; I’m a true country boy. As in back in the day when I was a young’n I used to get up early, feed the cows/goats/chickens/pigs etc. before I even had breakfast. Breakfast, if that’s what that was, consisted of scalding tea in a tin mug – the ones that had a tendency to get a little rusty at the lip. [You know what I’m saying, shags people?] That was it for breakfast. That’s all I needed though. Lunch and dinner was, for the most part, githeri. That was OK too.

When I was in Standard one through four I attended this local school which, luckily, was only a mile or so away from home. I’d leave the crib, take my shoes off and leave them by the gate behind some bush then proceed to school. Back then 98% of all the students at that school didn’t wear shoes – they just didn’t have them. I was fortunate to have a pair or two but I like being inconspicuous so I too went to class barefooted. [My Ma doesn’t even know this, I don’t think. I sometimes went home with cuts and bruises on my feet and I’d be hiding the contusions from her coz she’d know I’d been walking around barefooted. Aha, I got you with that one, didn’t I, Mum?]

The classroom, if that’s what that was, was nothing but walls and roof. There were gaps in the walls though and these served as entrances and exits, either or. To this day I still don’t know which was the door; they all looked the same. The desks were the type that you’d share with 2 other people, the wooden joints. The floor was earthen - no cement, no nothing. When it rained the floor was all mud and when it was dry it was all dust. Wow.

The main thing that made the classroom experience unbearable for me had nothing to do with the way the classroom was built or the absence of the simple comforts of a regular classroom, no. It was the presence of some near-microscopic creatures called jiggers/Tungum penetrans. See, I even remember the little buggers’ genus and species names, that’s how much they terrorized me! They were everywhere in the classroom and seemed to love my toes – some of the other kids never suffered from them. After they burrowed under the skin and strategically positioned themselves right under the toenail they opened up shop and got comfortable there, engorging themselves on my much-needed blood. My body would, fortunately or unfortunately, recognize the alien presence and reject it, making the toe infested by the varmint swell up, throb and itch unbearably. The only way to find relief was to literally dig ‘em out with one of my Ma’s safety pins or something of the sort and, after attempting to disinfect it with methylated spirit or GV [remember GV, the purple stuff?], I would begin the surgery. It hurt like hell, needless to say. When I finally dug through the layers of skin, stabbed right through the mofo and pulled it out there sometimes would be a virtual crater left where it had been – I kid you not. This is the fun part – I’d then glare at the critter that caused me so much pain and curse at it. And even though it was skewered by the pin and probably dead I’d light a match and hold the flame under the bugger and watch it vaporize into nothingness.

I apologize for the momentary flashback. I’ll try and stay focused.

Oh, I didn’t mention I’m from Murang’a, did I? Or is it Mulang’a? I still don’t know why I elicit surprise every time with that confession. Most people say I don’t seem to be from there, go figure. Murang’a people seem to have this infamous repertoire for shrubbing – especially with the ‘R’s and the ‘L’s which for them are interchangeable – and for an abundance of discolored teeth from the Fluorine that they say flows freely in Murang’a water. I’ve also heard the wisecracks about Murang’a guys being shao and all. Now, I’m not supporting nor refuting those allegations but that’s where I’m from so hey, all that could be me! I don’t think I shrub though and I guess I didn’t drink enough Murang’a water to tarnish my teeth, but what do I know.

Another thing – I was taught to read and write in Kikuyu Std. 1 through 3. I’m dead serious. I was even tested and graded in the subject, for real. For some reason that stuck with me to this day and I can still read and write in Kikuyu. Ninjui mureciria niguthaka ndirathaka ngimuhe ng’ano ici. Maundu maya mothe ndiramuira ni ma. There. Convinced now? Could you even read it? lol

I’ll try and summarize the rest of it – I can perpetuate tales sometimes. Std. 5 found me in a new school though, a boarding school. I was in boarding schools from then on till 4^th form. Came to the U.S. of A a year and a half later and I’m still here – sometimes I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. All good though coz the U.S. has a way of turning boys to men, girls to women. Feels good to be grown up too. Here I am now, working and studying and getting locked up in the good old USA! I’m now fully convinced anything can happen, for real.

Let me be out before I divulge any additional info I might be kicking myself for later. Now you know me a little better – hope that little bit helps. Keep on blogging!

KEYSHIA

Seems like these days everyone’s trying to get into the music business. There are so many artists these days I can’t keep up. Just to get an idea, I watch BET’s 106 & Park show regularly, pretty much every other day if not every day. They have ‘The New Joint of The Day’ every day. Sometimes they even have 2 in one day! And that’s just in the hip-hop & R&B circles and I’m sure there are a lot more new songs put out every day that the general public doesn’t know about.

I used to be able to keep track of who’s who and who’s hot and who’s not but I gave up after a while – there are just too many artists out there. I still kept up with a number of my favorite artists though. Like, I’ve always liked Mariah Carey from the day I heard ‘Make It Happen.’ Shoot, with a vocal range of 8 octaves – I kid you not – she had to be good. She was hot for a long minute and then fell off. I attribute that to her being complacent and not surrounding herself with people that were honest enough to offer constructive criticism. Consequently her label dropped her, Virgin Records I believe, [is that an oxymoron, Mariah with Virgin Records? My bad, I’m only kidding] and she was snatched up by none other than Russell Simmons/Def Jam. I guess she was so shook up from getting dropped by Virgin she came back with a vengeance and her current album is a chart-topper. Good for her, I say.
I know plenty about my other favorites too; it’s not like I have an obsession with Mariah, no. Nas, Pac, BIG, Jigga, Jadakiss, Talib, Lil’ Kim, Big Boi, Lil’ Jon, to name a few, are also up there in my books.

A couple of months back though I discovered one artist that was impossible to ignore - that’s how good she is. I’m talking about Keyshia Cole. With a name like that you know she’s gotta be black, let me keep it real. For the record, she IS black, 22 years old and is a native of Oakland, California. I first heard Keyshia a couple of months before her album dropped in her first single “I’ve Changed My Mind” featuring Kanye West and I’ll tell you what, her voice isn’t one to ignore. She has the kind of voice that will make you wince – with pleasure - and make goose bumps pop up all over the body. Not only is her voice flawless – if there is such a thing – but she’s got soul too, a lot of it. It’s like Christina Aguilera’s voice blended with Mary J Blige’s, both pure and soulful at the same time.

Now, I must confess that I haven’t bought a CD in a long minute. Not that I don’t have any music, don’t get me wrong. I’ve got plenty. Ever since [or every since, as the black people say] Napster initiated the peer-to-peer music sharing revolution it was a wrap. I never bought a CD again coz I could download the songs I wanted at will. [The following statement is for the benefit of the Feds who might be reading this] Not that I support the copying and distribution of copyrighted music. [End of disclaimer] If the song I want is available for free online though, why go and buy the whole CD when all you need is that one song? Am I wrong here? I know iTunes lets you download individual tracks but nothing beats free stuff. Prime example: there’s this site called Craig’s List that lets you buy stuff, sell stuff, advertise stuff or ask for stuff; kinda like eBay, only you pick up the stuff you buy yourself instead of getting it shipped to you. People may sometimes post stuff for sale for months and no one responds. Post the same item for free and you’ll get a gazillion responses. Bottom line is, people love free stuff.
*Food for thought*
Like I was saying before I got sidetracked, I haven’t bought a CD in a long time but the minute I heard Keyshia I knew I had to listen to everything she’s put out. I guess I must have been making it pretty obvious I wanted the CD coz B.E.T. got me the CD before I got my own copy. [Good looking out, baby gurl] Needless to say the CD was stuck in my CD player for a long minute. I ripped the CD to MP3 and I play it at work, play it in the car and play it at home, and everywhere else in between. [Shout-out to C.K., the coolest chick ever. How about that 1-2-3-4 joint, ha ha!] I went online and got all the remixes and collabos I could find with Keyshia in ‘em. Trust me y’all, she’s worth listening to. It doesn’t hurt that I think she’s sexy as hell either, especially in the ‘I shoud’ve Cheated’ video. She looks great in the 'I Just Want It To Be Over' video too. And I love the fact that she makes whatever it is she’s singing seem believable – that’s real important to me. Kinda like Mary J singing ‘I’m going Down.’ [You can feel the pain oozing out her voice with that one. Can I get a witness?] Not only that, but Keyshia is a hustla too. She hunted down MC Hammer back in the day and he did a song with her when she was only 12. Then she hunted down Daron of 112 in Atlanta – keeping in mind she’s from Cali – to produce a song for her. “I Should’ve Cheated’ was the result. Gotta admire that sort of persistence. I know I do. I like a girl who’s ‘gully,’ who’s not afraid to go there for what she wants. But that’s material for another post.

I know I sound like I’m getting paid here but seriously though, this Keyshia girl is destined for big things. Quote me on that. Give credit where it’s due, ay?

INCARCERATION PART II

Previously on Incarceration part one: d-money is thrown into the slammer before he realizes it.

…… I was literally shoved through a door right by the stand which led to a temporary jail right by the courtroom, though the décor was starkly different. In the place of the wood paneling in the courtroom was cold, hard concrete covered by dirty white paint with obscene graffiti scratched into the paintwork.

One of wardens was 2 paces behind me literally breathing down my neck. He was wearing a turd-brown uniform and a shiny gold badge. He had all the usual accessories except, interestingly, the 9mm. Perpetrators must’ve tried to yank those gats out of desperation before coz ain’t no way an American cop can walk around all willy-nilly, as Cedric The Entertainer might say, without wearing their gats. They love them things. The warden was old too and a little on the chubby side - I could’ve whopped his ass. I only had to be behind bars one day though so it was all good.

He had me face the wall right next to the cell and made me assume the position as he donned a pair of blue latex gloves. Oh no, here comes the body cavity search, I thought. There isn’t a man alive – a straight man anyway - that doesn’t cringe at the thought of a body cavity search. Thankfully, that wasn’t the warden’s intention. He did, however, make me remove everything that was in my pockets, then made doubly sure there was nothing left by frisking me neck down, everywhere. And when I say everywhere I mean everywhere. Need I elaborate? He then made me take my belt off and the laces off my sneakers. When he was satisfied I was clean he put everything in a see-thru plastic bag and pushed me into the actual cell in which there was only a concrete bench and a stainless-steel toilet. Soon as I sat on the bench, he sneered at me and slammed the sliding steel door shut with a resounding bang, as if to accentuate the finality of the matter. Punk.

There was another cell next to mine and in it were 2 other guys, one Korean and the other Mexican. I was all alone in mine, but that’s good. Apparently they’d been sitting in there for a while coz as soon as the warden left the Korean let out this long sigh and said something to the effect of it’s boring as $hit in here. And it was. I was only in there 15 minutes, 20 minutes tops and was bored stiff. It was cold and damp in there too and smelled of piss – no surprise with the toilet 3 feet away. The stainless steel didn’t sparkle either, if you catch my drift. On it was a mosaic of yellow splatters and streaks; I didn’t even wanna think about what could’ve caused those discolorations.

2 big-ass wardens finally came through. One exuberantly announced that it was time for us to go to the big house. That’s when the little Korean dude got up and took a piss in the toilet and one of the wardens was like what if I told you to stop now? Despite myself I laughed over that one. The Mexican and I were already out the cells when the Korean dude finally came out. One of the wardens berated him for not washing his hands and dude literally jumped back into the cell and washed his hands at the water fountain.
That’s another thing – the water fountain was right above the toilet bowl – I kid you not. I was thirsty as a mug later and had to have some of that piss-flavored water in the big house. Not fun.

I ramble – allow me to proceed. They cuffed all 3 of us together and we took this one elevator, got off and walked for like 3 minutes then got onto another elevator and this one opened up to the big house. First thing I saw as we were herded along were scruffy-looking people in this one cell wearing blue jumpsuits looking at us disinterestedly. We were poked and prodded toward this desk where we checked in. That lady was the only nice official in the whole joint. She called me ‘sir’ and politely asked me how to pronounce my last name and even cracked a joke. The rest of them were barking everything out and shoving us around. Punks.

Anyhow, after the checking in we were shoved into some half-open rooms right next to the main jails. There they did another body search, and this one was even more thorough. I even had to take my socks off and show the dude the soles of my feet! He then took both my sneakers and inspected them thoroughly, then made me take off my shirt and wife-beater and shook ‘em off. Alright already, I was thinking. The Korean and Mexican dudes were enduring the same humiliation, apparently. The Mexicano was a pretty-boy. He wouldn’t last a day in the feds, I was thinking. They’d make him wear a cheerleader’s skirt and pom-poms and clear heels. As in this dude had shoulder-length hair that was obviously ‘did,’ was clean-shaven and had polished teeth. He even had brown streaks in his hair, for crying out loud! Dude, you better stay clean coz if you ever go to the feds those female-deprived inmates doing 20-to-life would have a field day with you! Don’t drop the soap homie! The Korean dude was your typical Korean, short in stature and talked all the time. Felt sorry for him though coz he was gonna be in there for a while. I think he was driving drunk – for the second time though, and he’d totaled his 325i beamer. Wow.

Then we went for the ‘photo shoot.’ They had this multi-megapixel camera that looked pricey, sitting all nice and pretty on a titanium tripod. Nice way to spend taxpayers’ money, huh? A $125 3-megapixel camera would’ve been sufficient, don’t you think? I was tempted to strike a pose or raise one eyebrow like The Rock but it was no time for horseplay. Besides, blockhead the warden was right there at my right flank.

Finally we were thrown into the big house. It’s a reasonably large room – for 5 people. There was at least 20 people in that joint at any one time though, coz people came and went. Keep in mind there were no windows, only one door and there weren’t enough seats. There were only 10 seats in the room. The rest of the perpetrators were lying on the hard concrete using their shoes as pillows and some were even knocked out in that position, snoring and $hit – I don’t how they could sleep like that. I was fortunate enough to get a seat but it was hard as anything. Not only that, but the toilet was in one corner of the room and all the sounds and odors associated with it were close enough to make it obvious just what was going on in there. Most of the people went in there and did the thug thizzle like it was nothing.

I’m lucky I didn’t need to go #2 since I hadn’t eaten all day long. I just hadn’t had the time to so I was famished by midday, 15 minutes after getting into the main cell. Blockhead and another warden brought lunch which consisted of 2 sandwiches: each 2 slices of bologna between 2 slices of white bread. There was also a quart of 2% pasteurized milk. [I even checked the expiration date on the milk. Old habits die hard, I guess.] Everything was in an opaque brown bag which was tossed to every inmate. I was like hell to the no, I’m not eating this $hit. All I did was drink the milk. By 5 o’clock though I was literally digesting my insides and would’ve started gnawing at one of the steel bars if blockhead hadn’t shown up again with his loyal sidekick and started tossing ‘dinner’ around again. You guessed it - 2 bologna sandwiches and a quart of 2% milk. I didn’t wanna know this time around and I crushed those 2 sandwiches in a flash. They hit the spot too and I finally managed to doze off leaning against the wall. I kept waking up though coz blockhead kept opening and shutting that steel door every 20 minutes, yelling and $hit. Hot damn, keep it down to a dull roar, I was thinking!

And that’s how the rest of the evening passed. There was a TV in there though and that helped some, but it was so small and the volume was turned down so low I couldn’t hear anything. Ever tried watching The Simpsons without any sound? I never did before then. It sucks. Then blockhead tuned in to TNT but all that was on was some NASCAR Award shiznit. NASCAR sucks. Going round a track 500 times doesn’t constitute racing in my books. Formula one and Rallying are real racing; separates the men from the boys. I was dozing off in a quick minute soon as the NASCAR stuff came on.

At midnight is when the real $hit started. They started filling the cells up with the real degenerates – the drunk, the homeless, the high, the drug dealers, the hookers, [Not in the male cells though, damn. Just kidding.] the pimps, the drunk drivers and the like. With every new degenerate the filth, the heat and the stench escalated. The place absolutely reeked. It was so hot, so damn hot. That’s when I was glad I’d dressed down. If I’d been stuck in there with dress clothes on it would’ve been much worse. Everyone reeked in there. Then some drunken dude threw up on one of the seats then sat on the throw-up like it was nothing. Then he got knocked the buck out and then pissed all over himself too! Wow. Then this fine chick was getting booked – we could see it all – and all the sleazes went to the side nearest her to leer. I must admit I was doing it too but hey, there’s something about being in County that reduces one to a primal state. Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten. Be the first to get with the girl. Survival for the fittest, whatever you wanna call it.

Honestly, I don’t know how I lasted till morning. After what seemed like a lifetime, blockhead [was he working multiple shifts?] came through and pulled a few of us out of there. I wanted to hug him, 4 real. [Yeah, right. That would’ve sent me back in there. They warned us about touching them – an absolute nono.] After returning our belongings and making us sign stuff stating that we got all our stuff back we were outa there. I felt like kissing the ground when I stepped out the building, 4 real. I felt like singing, such was the relief.

I can go on and on about the experience but bottom line is, don’t, repeat DON’T, get caught speeding in Fairfax County, Virginia. They’re building a couple of hundred new cells so you know there’s space for your sorry ass if you’re unfortunate enough to get incarcerated! I need to join SCCA [Sports Car Club of America] or something so I can go to the track, get my rocks off and chill out the rest of the time. I’m not trying to get back in there, hell to the no!

INCARCERATION

Yes, ladies and gentlemen. I was incarcerated this past weekend. FCPD proved to be my nemesis yet again. Not that I didn’t deserve it but damn, cut a brother some slack! I guess I’ve no one to blame really so I just have to roll with the punches, what can I say. I’ll tell you what though – if you’ve never been in County Jail, do not wish to. That is one godforsaken place that’s no fun at all. I’d imagine it would be considerably worse in Kenya but before I get ahead of myself, let me tell you just what happened, chronologically as always.

I might’ve mentioned earlier I was going to traffic court this past Friday. A couple of months back while driving to work one morning this punk-ass FCPD cop stopped me. Granted I was stepping on it but I’d just received bad news from home and my mind was a thousand miles away. It was at 6.15am and I was driving from Baltimore headed for work. One minute I was doing my swerving-in-and-out-of-traffic-while-furiously-downshifting-and-upshifting thing and the next there was this FCPD car rapidly getting bigger and bigger in my rearview, red, blue and white lights everywhere. It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve been stopped so I know the drill. I pulled over to the side with him right at my tail. I guess I pissed him off coz I took advantage of my slotted rotors mated to high-performance brake pads. In short, I braked really hard as I was pulling over and he almost rear-ended the Lancer. I could tell I was in trouble when I looked at the expression on his face as he approached my whip. He was obviously a rookie, young with that boyish haircut I find so annoying on Caucasians – when the hair is so short it’s just a fuzz. Kinda like a chia-pet with a haircut, that’s how it looks.
Anyway, his approach was by the book. Flashlight in left hand, right hand hovering over the 9-millimeter, beam focused on my hands the whole time. I did everything by the book too and my hands were on the wheel the whole time. He tapped on the glass and I rolled the window down.

“Do you know how fast you were driving?” he asked.
“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me,” I said. I didn’t actually say that, are you crazy?! “No” is all I said.
“I caught you doing 90, and the speed limit is 55.”
No kidding, I thought. I didn’t say a thing though. After asking for the license and registration he went around the car and came back to the window.
“Do you know your performance muffler is illegal in the State of Virginia?” he accused.
“No it isn’t,” I said. “When I bought it I made sure it was DOT approved.” This much is true. He paused.
“Well, I still say it’s illegal,” he persisted. Now you see why I dislike them punks? I’m already branded as the enemy coz I’m the wrong color. Strike one. Strike two, I’m driving a sport compact. Strike three, I’m driving fast. F_ck the police, I say.

He then proceeded to go around the car looking for anything he could get me on. Only thing he didn’t do was ask me to pop the hood, and I’m not kidding. Fortunately, dear reader, I realized the importance of keeping my $hit straight a long time ago. I’m always insured, registered and everything. All the lights work, coz they always stop you about that, looking for an excuse to. Black people, keep your $hit straight. You can’t afford not to, trust me on this. Anyway, I didn’t say a word when he handed me the ticket and asked me to sign it. Most tickets are pre-payable but this cat told me I “had no choice but to appear in court.” I didn’t say anything; just signed the damn thing, got back to driving and spat gravel at him getting out of there. That pissed him off more and he followed me for about 5 miles. He was trying to be sneaky while following me but I’m not a complete idiot. He gave up after a while and I proceeded to work. Before I got into the building I SMS-ed my brother back home. He too has a ‘speed problem.’ You think I’m fast? He’s damn near suicidal. He’s pro tho, so he knows how to handle his. People don’t think so though. In the SMS I was like:
What is it about you and me and speed? I just got another ticket.
He replied right away and was like:
I know bro, I know. No one over here enjoys my driving except me. Oh so true. I seem to be the only one that enjoys his driving.

And that, dear reader, is how I found myself in the courtroom this past Friday. For once I decided not to dress up coz I usually wear dress pants, shirt, shoes & socks. No tie, nosir. Feels like a noose every time I wear one. This time around I wore jeans, sneakers and a ‘dressy’ shirt. As it were, this turned out to be a great idea. I got there in good time, parked in an indoor garage and was at the courtroom well before the judge started doing his thing. I was chillin’, really. I’d read about the maximum penalty for my type of offense and worst case scenario, I was gonna lose my license for up to 3 months and/or pay up to $1,500 in fines. I had the cash [for once] and was ready to minimize my driving for the duration of the suspension of the license. I was OK and had few, if at all, of the usual butterflies when I stood behind the stand. I was good this time, really, and ready to put on my best performance.

Court is all about appearances and a show of remorse. As long as you show remorse you’re good to go, or so I thought.
I was giving the judge the wide-eyed, innocent stare with my hands clasped in front of me, the very picture of innocence, or so I thought.
I was speaking loudly and clearly and even allowed a slight tremor to get into my voice when I was professing how ‘I’d never driven that fast, before or since.’ What I was saying was mostly true but like I said, it’s all about the delivery. [I can’t very well confess I’ve done 130 MPH in the Lancer more than once, can I?] Granted, it was a performance worthy of an Oscar, or so I thought.

Apparently the judge had heard it all and didn’t let himself be moved by my heart-wrenching monologue. [Not that I blame him. I don’t dislike judges really. I don’t even dislike cops – it’s only the high-and-mighty ones I intensely dislike, the ones who look for people that ‘fit the profile.’ Anyhow, let me proceed before I get sidetracked.]

He looked at me long and hard and, to the cop, was like:
“Officer, what’s his record?”
Punk-ass was like:“He has a minus-8, your honor.”
“Most of my tickets are from years ago, your honor,” I pleaded. “I’ve only had one other ticket this year.”
“Actually, your honor,” punk-ass persisted. “most of his points are within the past 2 years.” Notice he said points. I only have one other ticket, but that was another reckless driving one with mega-points. Most of my other tickets were in 2001-2002. I even got 2 tickets in one week one time. Yes, I was a bad boy. The judge looked at me, looked at the paperwork, then back at me and finally broke the silence.
“Where do you work?”
“******, your honor,” I said, all the while maintaining the innocent look. Trying to, anyway.
“And you are 2* years old?” he asked.
“Yessir.”
“Do you have any kids?”
“Nosir.”
“Are you married?”
“Nosir.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a graphic designer, sir.” Another long silence. This was nerve-wracking. I’d almost started biting on my fingernails when, with obvious resolve in his voice, he declared.
“With minus-8 points it seems you have little regard for the law. I therefore impose a fine of $1,000 and 30 days in jail.”

*Stunned silence*

“However,” he continued. "I will suspend $700 of the $1,000 and 29 of the 30 days in jail. You therefore have to pay $300 in fines and spend 1 day in jail.”

I could not believe it. Me? In jail?! An inmate? In a jumpsuit? In the same confined space as the rejects of society? [I guess that makes me one, right?] Before I could think the sheriff was behind me cuffing my hands behind my back and I was literally shoved through a door right by the stand which led to a temporary jail right by the courtroom, though the décor was starkly different. In the place of the wood paneling in the courtroom was cold, hard concrete covered by dirty white paint with obscene graffiti scratched into the paintwork.

I simply have too much to describe so I’ll split the ‘Incarceration’ post in two. Consider this part one. Keep it right here.