Say My Name, Say My Name

I had this whole post idea ready to go for today then I realized that I couldn’t come up with a title for it. So I scrapped it.

Yes, you read that right. I scrapped an entire post because I couldn’t come up with the proper way to present it to you, the people, the masses, the folks. Then I remembered an idea and question I had a while back. See, one thing that we love about VSB ’round here (no Memphis Bleek) is that we’ve managed to establish actual repoires with ninjas and non-ninjas who frequent these parts. We’ve done various icebreakers to find out about our community for the purposes of doing awkward demographic data mining so that one day we could sell all of that information to Hennessey or Cognac or one of the other companies hell bent on destroying what’s left of the Black community.

Like St. Ides.

Anyway, one idea that we never really tapped into was probably the most obvious and potentially the most interesting:

How’d you come up with your handle? Or hell even your Twitter handle for all of us who spend as much time on Twitter as we do with our families and pugs. While I know that some folks handles are as simple as a variant of their names, some folks have very interesting ass names. So I figured, what the hell, spill the beans.

I’ll start. In DC, when I’m out and about, I often introduce myself as Panama. For some of you that might sound ridiculous, but the truth is, PJ, is an actual living and working nickname, especially in DC. Most folks dont remember my real name for anything but Panama is a name everybody always remembers. I’ve actually had the nickname WELL before I started writing anywhere.

For starters, I was born in the country. Yep. That is from whence I came. My birth certificate is in Spanish and English. But the way that the name was truly borne was out of a trip I took to Lake Lanier north of Atlanta, for our senior week at Morehouse. Me and my boys were walking to the entrance and for some odd reason – I do a lot of “for some odd reason” things – I decided to start walking through some bushes. They looked inviting. They welcomed me like Gaia was in there massaging feet. Anyway, one of my boys look at me and is like, “who the hell are you supposed to be? Panama Jack?” I was like, “naw, homey, I’m Black. Make that Panama Jackson.” Just that simple.

Later that night when I got home I went on AOL and got me a PanamaDJackson (had to add the D, which stands for Dontavious) screenname. I added the “D” because PanamaJackson was taken. That was in like 2001. So anyway, that’s how I came up with my name for all those that didn’t know. Or couldn’t remember.

So what’s your story?

Happy Friday and Happy Memorial Day!

-VSB P aka THE ARSONIST aka MR. MY NAME IS ON FIRE aka GIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRL HE A 3

Also, check out P’s latest post over at Guyspeak, “If You’re Faking It, Should You Ever Tell?” You know what that’s about. Check it out! And Champ’s latest post over at Ebony, “Think Like a…Fact-Checker. Did France Really Ban ‘Think Like A Man?’”

Monday we’re off. But don’t forget if you’re in DC that on Saturday, June 2, 2012, we’ve got another edition of REMINSCE at Liv Nightclub coming up! Except this time, we’re gonna be celebrating my birthday! Please come out and hang with your boy for a little while. I’d really appreciate it. Plus, it’s free before 11pm w/RSVP (reminiscedc.eventbrite.com) and $10 after. AND there’s an open bar from 930-1030 WITH NO DRESS CODE. You can come in shorts because it gets HOT in there.

My Favorite Conspiracy Theory by Panama Jackson

Moon...or New Mexico?? You tell me.

Conspiracy. (noun). An agreement to perform together an illegal, wrongful, or subversive act.

I think too much (and I also know that I shouldn’t give too much credence to conspiracy theories).

And as is such, I tend to come up with lots of random conspiracies and non-sense that at the time may seem to make sense. Though I’d like to point out that the Law of Averages says that somewhere along the way, at least one of my rants is going to be on the money. For instance, I’m still convinced that Starbucks is indeed “the man” that we speak about in our day to day activities. I’ve never been fully convinced that West Virginia actually exists as a state but is more or less a place that aliens and white people come from and use as training grounds in case black people get too “uppity” because most normal people have never been to West Virginia nor questioned its existence.

But there is real conspiracy out there that is threatening black existence in inner cities everywhere. It is the precursor to Starbucks. It is what makes it possible for the idea of Starbucks in the ghetto to exist. It is none other than…

…the white listserv.

Yes. You read that right.

What is the white listserv?? I feel a definition coming on.

White Listserv. (noun). formerly known as the white phone call, white fax, white morse code. Created in the 1960′s and evolving over time, this white listserv is the means of communicating to white peoples (primarly WASP’s) across the nation of the neighborhoods in particular cities that are scheduled to be relieved from Blacks and/or Latinos control and transformed into inner city urban enclaves of gentrification and just all around whiteness. Synonyms: Starbucks.

Let’s examine this shall we? Yes, let’s. In the beginning there were neighborhoods. Inner city neighborhoods. They consisted of mostly white people and black people were confined to the slums and ghettos of the city. One day, a lone black man, let’s call him, James, made some money and started the trend of other black folks making money and decided to move to where the white people were. They didn’t mind one black face and James seemed nice enough. His wife was high yaller and his kids could read. But more black folks made money and followed James. And it started happening throughout the country.

We reached the residential tipping point. So what did white people do? Created suburbs and got the hell out of dodge. So now the slums just moved to where ever James was because as is fact, when everybody finds paradise, it ceases to remain paradise.

Say it unison with me: Damn damn damn James.

This occurred for a good 30 years.

Well one day circa 1980, James’ old neighbor, let’s call her Jenny, decided that she wanted to move back in to the city. That’s where all the amenities and services were, as well as the parks, black men, and Icey’s. But Jenny wasn’t sure where to move because all of the neighborhoods were inhabited by les negroes. She asked a friend who asked a friend and that’s when it happened.

The first white phone call. The call intended to tell Jenny where a prime spot would be to move because they were taking it over. Who is they?? The white people. She was told the area, found a place and moved in and lo and behold, the neighborhood changed. This situation began to occur in major cities everywhere but more slowly and with more subtlety and to mostly fringe areas close enough to the suburbs but still in the city.

Now they’re everywhere. Now they’re in neighborhoods that only a few years ago white people wouldn’t dream of walking thru for fear of being robbed in their sleep. But lo and behold, there they are. Walking down Georgia Avenue in Washington, DC; or Atlantic Avenue or Fulton Street in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn; or down Lowery Blvd (though it will forever be Ashby Street in my heart) in Southwest Atlanta’s West End community. You know those places where seeing a white person initially made you do a complete double take; one that almost made you crash.

However, there they were walking their dogs or jogging as if they didn’t realize they were playing with their lives.

These are all people who today get “the e-mail.” Yes that one from the white listserv who told them that if they bought in now, they would see tremendous gains on their property value becasue the neighborhood was going to be flipped into an inner city enclave of diversity, though the goal would be 65 percent persuasion and 35 percent unpersuasion. If they could live with it for 2 years tops, their dreams of inner city living complete with all that the city has to offer would become a reality.

They took up the offer.

And it’s still going on across America right now. White e-mails are being sent out left and right. Neighborhoods that normally would be be black through and through are now becoming enclaves where white people feel safe because they got the email. It’s my thought that somehow when you’re born and receive a Social Security Number, that they tag you if you match the necessary criteria. They have some white indicator. This same white indicator pushes you to different white listservs if you marry a black person and have black children. You’re priority becomes different…however you’re still on the list and when you receive that first email, they make you pledge to never tell a person of color, unless your husband or wife is indeed, colored.

All thanks to the white listserv…existing in a community near you.

So um, yea, that’s my favorite conspiracy theory…what’s yours?? You read books, I know you’ve got one!

HAPPY GEMINI SEASON!

-VSB P aka THE ARSONIST aka MR. GET YO’ HAND OUTTA MY POCKET aka GIIIIIIIIIIIIIRL HE A 3

***DC PSA: For all you suckas that don’t know, on June 2, 2012, VSB is bringing you another edition of the monthly party dedicated to all 90s everything: REMINISCE. Except this June edition is extra special because it’s not only the Gemini Birthday Bash…it’s also PANAMA’S BIRTHDAY!! So If you’re in DC, please come out and celebrate Panama’s birthday with him so he can personally thank you and try not to take so many shots that he passes out and doesn’t remember the evening! And remember…it’s free before 11pm with RSVP (link coming soon), open bar from 930-1030pm, and no dress code. It’s the best damn house party at a club in the city!! Wear shorts! Be comfortable. And party with Panama!!!!***

“Why Won’t Kevin Durant Brush His Hair?”…And More Questions That Need Answered Right. Now.

Kevin Durant, making his own personal protest for not winning MVP

Earlier in the week, I joked that a degree in Black Studies is about as useless as thumbs on a roach. Now, I obviously wasn’t serious — I wouldn’t be arrogant enough to dismiss an entire field of study (I’ll let Naomi Riley do that) — but I do think that the Black Studies’ curriculum offered at most universities should expand their horizons a bit and include some things we really, really, really need to get to the bottom of, including…

Why won’t Kevin Durant brush his hair?¹

Is it a silent protest for not winning MVP? Do his naps give him power the same way Rick Ross gets his from his areolas? Did he lose a bet with a genie? Is he allergic to brush bristles? Is he actually just the grown up version of Dookie from “The Wire?” Are him and Russell Westbrook having a year-long contest to “out nerd” each other?

Seriously, I’m actually more interested in why Kevin Durant — a man who happens to be the second best basketball player on Earth — has apparently never brushed his hair than I am in any current unsolved mystery, including who really shot JFK, what the hell happened to Lark Voorhies, and what do vegans eat to make their farts smell like the tree frog from “Pan’s Labyrinth?”

Who invented the booty clap?

Look, while I have an active YouTube account, I’m no expert on bootyology. Despite this, I know that ratchet women weren’t clapping their ass cheeks together 15 years ago the way they all seem to be able to now. (Btw, the only way that link is safe for work is if you happen to work at Waffle House)

I concede the possibility that, 15 years ago, I just wasn’t in the type of circles where ass clapping was frequent, but I doubt this to be true. I get the feeling that if there was ass clapping to be found 15 years ago, I would have found it. I have a nose for ass.

Anyway, since all evidence points to the fact that it’s a recent invention, I’m curious to find out who the hell invented it. Very curious. In fact, I’d greatly appreciate it if somehow could put me in contact with her so I can, um, contact her for an interview.

How did we allow a typical hoodrat Puerto Rican from the Bronx become the most popular character on “Black” TV and the symbol for all that’s wrong with Black women?

Clutch’s Kirsten West Savali already touched on this subject much more thoroughly than I plan to, but really Black America? We have a show created by, catering to, and featuring Black women at their most ratchet, and we allowed a Puerto Rican from the Bronx — the freakin Bronx!!! — to hijack it? What’s up with that? 

(Oh, and for those who want to claim that some African ancestry makes her Black, I’m not claiming her ass. I just barely got over the fact that we need to claim Allen West. There’s no way I’m making room at the table for Evelyn too)

Did anyone ever find Toure’s cousin?

A couple years ago, Toure’ — the world’s newest negro ever invented — caught a bit of heat for suggesting that slaves occasionally seduced their masters. When the heat got too hot, he blamed his cousin for hacking into his Twitter account and making those remarks.

It’s been two years since this occurred, and not only has there still been no sign of this cousin, it seems as if we’ve just stopped searching for him. Perhaps he’s hiding in Kevin Durant’s hair.

Anyway, that’s it for me today. Can you think of any other pressing questions/mysteries that we need to get to the bottom of? Also, if anyone has any answers to any of my questions, please let me know.

¹Why do I get the feeling that the real answer to this question is on some uber-sad “He doesn’t brush his hair because he wants to honor the memory of his dead uncle, who was killed while only carrying a hairbrush”-type shit?

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)

***Btw, we’re still receiving submissions for Very Smart Singles, but there’s something I wanted to make clear. While it’s true that each single will get a post devoted to them when we publish the profiles, comments will be closed. I repeat, comments will be closed.  While people here generally behave themselves, I wouldn’t let a person put themselves out there to get critiqued and pick apart. People interested in the single will have to email us at contact@verysmartbrothas.com***

Shaq Got a #doctorit And All I Got Was This T-Shirt

The Big Ph.D.

So why for come ain’t nobody not tell me that Shaquille O’Neal got a Ph.D. in some Ph.D. sh*t from Barry University?

By the way, that last sentence was brought to you by publicly funded education.

So the homey Cheekie sends me an email talking about Shaq getting his Ph.D. last weekend and I immediately hit her with the virtual Chris from Family Guy, “Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa?”

Let me tell you something. That made me smile. Big and wide. Kind of how I like my white women. With there being so much drama in the LBC, you rarely hear stories about athletes making vast educational achievements. Turns out, the Big Aristotle also has an MBA. Sure its from the University of Phoenix-Online, but hell, do YOU have an MBA…from anywhere? (If you do just shut up and sit there silently as to not destroy my point. Thanks. — Management)

I feel like its very to easy to read article after article about low graduation rates from college for athletes. Especially basketball playing (read ninja-like) athletes. But I’m fairly certain that if it wasn’t for Twitter, I wouldn’t know about Shaq getting a Ph.D. (from Barry University in Miami) in leadership and education with a concentration on human resource development. What does that mean? I don’t know. But I’ll bet the other folks with Ph.D.s in that know.

I feel like stories such as this one should be well reported everywhere. I remember some years ago when Vince Carter decided to possibly miss a playoff game to go to his graduation from UNC. People were in an uproar. How could he not be devoted to his teammates at such a pivotal time. Vince Carter was like, “dude, this is my life. You go to college to walk across the stage and graduate, and that’s what I’m going to do.” I couldn’t be mad at him or blame him. The NBA, is his job. Getting an education is a life goal that so many of us have and that achievement gets acknowledge by walking across the stage so that friends and family can witness what was such a lofty goal for so many of our ancestors.

I also remember some years ago when Myron Rolle, from Florida State, ended up becoming a Rhodes Scholar and decided to go to Oxford for a year and pasing up the NFL draft to get a Master’s degree first. His coaches, some players, and analysts thought he had lost his damn mind, but he was very focused on his education and getting to his ultimate goal of becoming a doctor. He plays in the NFL now. And is well on his way. Hell his Wikipedia page might be the most interesting athlete page ever.

I did a google search trying to find out how many professional athletes have graduate degrees (or hell degrees period) and couldn’t find anything. But if I wanted to know which school didn’t graduate the most athletes I’m sure that’s available (my guess is Kentucky). And this isn’t a race thing. Athletes, especially, professional athletes get credited as being dumb jocks a lot but the truth is that a lot of them (not all, obviously not all) do value getting an education. And finish those degrees. It’s just some rich white man was willing to pay them millions of dollars to hold a ball. I remember telling my father that if I had a chance to play professionally, I’d finish college first and my father looked at me like I was crazy. He said if somebody’s willing to pay you for that, school isn’t going anywhere. So the incentive to roll out is substantial.

But numbers of these guys go back and finish their degrees. Which is why hearing that Shaq has a Ph.D. is such a great story to me. I don’t even know him and I’m proud of him. He knows the value of an education and kept at it. You go Shaq.

I think I wrote all that to just say, “you go Shaq!”

Yay.

So, happy Friday! Um…isn’t that great?

By the way, I do realize the inherent “low standardism” that I displayed by being excited that an athlete actually got a degree. Maybe that says a lot about me. Maybe that says a lot about how I view athletes. N.E.R.D. has a song called “Maybe”.

*takes ball and goes home*

The floor is yours.

-VSB P aka THE ARSONIST aka MR. TAKES BALL AND GOES HOME aka GIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRL HE A 3

Also, I feel like I should introduce for those who haven’t been, an interesting webseries that I’m sure all of you cubicle-n*ggas can understand and relate too: The Unwritten Rules. Peep the trailer then go check out the two episodes. It’s worth the watch.

The One About Self-Awareness.

I see PRIDE! I see POWER! I SEE A BAD ASS MUDDA WHO DON'T TAKE NO CRAP OFFA NOBODY!!!!

I remember the first time I heard the theory that people are more intimately familiar with who they think they are than who they actually are. Okay, that’s not true at all. I don’t remember when I first heard it, but I do know that when I heard it I immediately said to myself, “self, that’s true”. It makes sense if you think about it. We spend so much time thinking about who we want to be and how we think we come across that reality is like getting slapped in the face with one of Aretha’s areolas, your two ho’s, and a bottle of rum.

With that in mind, over the course of time I’ve come to some conclusions about myself based on what I thought I wanted or who I thought I was and how reality is playing itself out. Some way down like where the signifying monkey used to hang out. Others more shallow than Kim Kardashian in a kiddie pool kickin’ it with two koalas on Koval.

Allons-y.

I thought I wanted to be one of those folks who likes to have deep conversations. It turns out that I want to be one of the people who has deep conversations about ignorant sh*t.

You know Savon from Love Jones? Yeah, I want to be him, except talking about thongs and the importance of Puffy to the fabric of society. But I SO want there to be a drum present. When I buy a house, one of the first things I’m doing is going drum shopping so I can have a truly Black household. All convos will include the drum. I want to talk about how Kool-Aid is truly the key to life and pop culture. I don’t want to talk about important things unless I feel like it. And only on special occasions…like when white people are present. Or in front of Barack Obama, though I’m fairly certain I’d probably talk a little ignant around Obama. The man sings Al Green songs for cripe’s sake. He cool.

I thought I wanted to date women with big hair who had the big hair angst and social justice guilt and conscience who were artsy and blah blah blah. It turns out I just like big hair.

Seems that I couldn’t care about their activism. I just like big hair. Hell, I might actually prefer big haired bougie women. The type with big hair and Coach bags who are as superficial as chicks with perms. I just wanna lay in their hair without the guilt of recycling. Basically, while I love Freddie from A Different World, I’m sure she would have gotten on my last damn nerves when I told her that I thought “Rack City” was empowering to women.

I thought that because I’m a writer and a rapper and an author and talker and because I communicate often I was a good communicator. It turns out that’s not true.

So, despite my uber sharing ass nature, in intimate settings, I can be quite walled off and anti-vulnerable. How’s that for some sh*t that makes no sense. I’m like the Great Communicator Of Useless Information When It Matters Least. I’m Alex Trebek for Dummies. For Relationships.

I thought that majority of my relationships ended because of compatibility issues. It turns out that most of them probably stem from that little communication problem I just shared a few lines ago. No coca-ina.

Now that’s not to say that every relationship that ended didn’t need to end, they probably did. But my inability to communicate properly was probably as culpable for the beginning of the end as any compatibility issue or constant nuisance that I either created or initially found cute but eventually found grating.

I thought that I was one of the few mixed kids who didn’t have an identity issues. It turns out that I do.

Yeah, I can’t decide if I f*ckin’ rock or if I’m f*ckin’ awesome. It’s a conflict that only people of my pedigree can fully appreciate. It’s hard out here for an cool mulatto. Or a culatto.

I often thought that because I was enlightened that I was above certain negativitisms. Turns out my enlightenment helps to inform my ignorance.

This woman cut me off in traffic today. I didn’t call her a b*tch while shaking my fist in my car behind my glass windows. Nope, I called her a wench. Mostly because I like the word and second because I thought calling a woman a b*tch because she’s a woman who pissed me off would make me like every other ignorant man. So wench it was, which I’m fairly certain achieves the EXACT same end as the b-word. I felt bad. But if I didn’t read, I don’t think I’d know the w-word either. Damn you education system for teaching me how to get around general use pejoratives for learned ones! I definitely call ni**as the n-word though.

Anyway, those are some of my self-awarenesses. Sharing is caring people. What you got?

-VSB P aka THE ARSONIST aka MR. STEAL YOUR CURL aka GIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRL HE A 3