Grappling with the Suicide of Don Cornelius

February 2, 12

Believe it or not I try really hard not to judge people. I realize that judging another human being can be a sign of both condescension and insecurity on the part of the man who is judging. I do try to show empathy and understanding to my brethren who have gone astray and most of the time I am successful, however, when a situation like the suicide of Don Cornelius comes about it becomes very difficult for me to keep my opinions bottled up.

Suicide really bothers me. I am aware of mental illness as I have been affected by it on more than one occasion in my life. I know about the daily struggles to survive as well; I just have a hard time respecting a person who takes his own life. I can’t imagine what it’s like to a 75-year-old man living every day in isolation, pain, and anguish but I also can’t imagine quitting—for I am a fighter and fighting is all I know.

Don Cornelius did extraordinary things for black-culture and he should be applauded for that. He represents part of my childhood as he does for millions of other people around the country, which makes it seem even more pathetic to me that he would end his life in this way. Suicide has always struck me as a very selfish act. I’m sorry but that’s how I feel.

In the end only the judgment of god will matter. The opinion of Youngen Black probably won’t even leave The Ghettosun. I hope that Mr. Cornelius has found peace and I hope that he will be forgiven.  I just don’t get suicide, I never have.

-YB

Notes on American Inner-City Education: The Worst Case of Black on Black Crime Ever Seen

January 30, 2012

Human avarice knows no bounds. People will get over any way they possibly can especially in these times of economic woe. For the most part I have come to take a natural attitude toward this reality but there is one realm of society in which greedy people always manage to piss me off.

The education of poor children is probably the biggest scam in America. So many agencies gain money from the continued failure of black and brown children that it’s disgusting. Thousands of grants are given to people who don’t care about children at all.They are unscrupulous individuals who couldn’t care less about the daily struggles of a teacher to inspire a child to read a book when that child has experienced more tragedy in 12 years than most people do in a lifetime.

Teaching is for broke people, they say. The real money is in educating teachers to teach toward standardized testing. In order to be successful one must look at children as if they are data, statistics, and ultimately dollar signs. Then and only then will you see the big bucks. Think outside of the classroom, think outside of love, and think outside of poverty.

The truth is that schools are a business that will always be profitable because people will always see education as a pathway toward success. And poor folks will almost always want better for their children. That’s why demagogues line up around the block to be the next superintendent for your nearest inner-city public school and that’s why today's entrepreneurs are choosing education over real estate because business is booming.

Trust me when I say that non-profits are very profitable and there is much more money in making promises to raise test scores in ghetto schools than there is running a beauty salon or opening up a liquor store.

What makes the situation even more disturbing is there are a huge number of minorities who are getting rich off of poor kids of color.  A parent whose child was victimized in the recent Atlanta test scores scandal described that situation as “The worst case of black on black crime ever seen.” As a person who has worked in the field of education for my entire adult life I don’t know if I can disagree with that.

-YB

A Fighter's Insecurities

January 25, 2012

Very strange things happen in a boxing gym; peculiar things that a person who has never been inside one would have a hard time believing. Like what occurred yesterday for example. I was moving around the heavy bag feeling real good. Working on my combinations while trying to adjust to having a new trainer when this very regal looking elderly gentlemen approached me. I saw him looking at me throwing my shots and I thought wow old dude must be really impressed. So I started throwing crisper more accurate blows.

So the guy, who obviously used to be a fighter, says to me; “Hey man, what are you about 140 pounds?” I smile and say yeah I’m about that. Then he shook his head in disapproval and said; “You need to get down to around 135,” and walked off.

That old son of a bitch! How dare he call me a fat ass. I spent the whole rest of my workout disappointed for eating one too many Oreo cookies the night before. I hate Oreos by the way. Every time I eat one it goes straight to my hips. And thus the great hidden secret of the boxing world is revealed. Boxing for all its hyper-masculine images of Mike Tyson knocking people through the ropes, Hagler and Hearns trying to kill each other, and Rocky Balboa drinking raw eggs at 5:00 in the morning, is the most effeminate sport in the world.

Men judge other men’s bodies constantly at the gym. Patrons say things like; “Damn you hella fat. How much you weighing now?” or “Damn you looking good. Do you have a fight coming up?” Sometimes I swear I’m in a girl’s locker room or a gay bar in The Castro district….Er erm, not that I’ve ever been inside either of those places I’m just trying to make a point. When people think about individuals that have poor self-images and low self-esteem they automatically conjure up a teenage girl starving herself to try to fit into a summer bikini but let me tell you, what a grown man puts himself through to make-weight for a boxing match is way worse. Let’s use this actual dialogue from my gym as an example;

“Damn how much you weigh now?”

“Shit I’m down to 150.”

“150! How you lose all that weight?”

“All I been eating is baby food and protein shakes.”

“Does it work?”

“Hell yeah look at me. I only got 9 more pounds to lose and I’ll be at my fighting weight.”

It’s an extreme problem. I find it to be very telling that a man is only allowed to be insecure in an institution where he is being trained in-depth on how to render another man unconscious. I also find it to be so ironic that a place can only be so macho until it begins to turn a little suspect. Like prison for example, the only place where societies toughest men can feel free to sleep with other men and not be judged harshly for it.

No but seriously I love boxing a lot. It’s just that I have a hard time getting used to hearing muscular men with tattoos talking to one another like a couple of women trying on clothes at the local department store. Before I started learning this craft I had no idea that fighters could be so insecure. So to all the boxers around the world I just want to remind you all to love yourselves. It’s OK to gain a few pounds here and there because your real beauty is on the inside. Be proud of who you are man. Be proud of what you look like.

LOL.

YB

The Agony

January 22, 2012

Wow, so now I must begin the painful process of putting my life back together after my favorite team was ousted from the playoffs. Just hours ago I was full of optimism and joy looking forward to the big game. Now all of that has been shattered by one field goal. It really pisses me off.

What can I say; the New York Football Giants played a great game. They marched into San Francisco and defeated my squad.  My major issue is now that the 49ers have lost I am forced to face all of the problems I have; bills piling up, my completely lame job situation, my wack ass hot water heater that has blown out yet again, high gas prices, bald tires, I'm feeling stressed out from all angles. Now I realize how much of an escape this football season has been for me.

My goodness loosing really sucks. I feel like I was actually out there getting sacked and fumbling punts. I’m so hurt right now. At times like this I wish I smoked weed, drank, and did ecstasy. I wish I didn’t have to face this agony. This is so dreadful and we were so close to the super bowl. I wouldn’t wish this feeling on my most hated adversary.

Curse you football gods! Curse you! You all don’t care about me, Alex Smith, or Patrick Willis. You all are unjust and obviously from the East Coast somewhere. New York Vs. New England for a rematch? You sick bastards! I’ll never allow myself to be led astray by you all ever again. From now on I’m going to start following more pure sports like water polo and curling. I’ll never feel let down like this again. I am no longer a believer and I will not be back.

YB

Soul on the Page

January 21, 2012

Can you imagine what it must have been like for Langston Hughes to wait tables at a restaurant full of people who didn't know that he was one of the greatest poets ever born? Can you see him humming the weary blues while he doses off on a New York City subway nearly missing his stop? I wonder if he ever seriously considered giving up. Perhaps he even  doubted whether or not the written page is the best place to put African rhythm. There were probably days when he thought about joining a band like everyone else.

Hard times for a black scribe.

I can't picture Zora Neale Hurston cleaning up some white ladies kitchen after she wrote down some of the most outstanding stories ever told. After she perfected the craft of creating  imagery with words, after she captured black vernacular in a way that no one has either before or since, after she immortalized her little colored town. What must it have been like to be unappreciated by nearly all of her black contemporaries? How must it have felt to have to walk through the back screen door of a white families house and clean their kitchen in the hot Florida sun? Perhaps she felt like her gifts to literature had never been accepted. Perhaps she died not knowing that she was supernatural.

They say that Ralph Ellison became unraveled when a young writer dismissed him by calling him an Uncle Tom to his face. The same people said they saw Richard Wright shedding many a tear when James Baldwin proclaimed that "Native Son" was one-dimensional. But they don't tell me whether or not they instigated. I'm sure that they did.

There must be something a little off about a person who decides to write a letter to entertain a man who is accustomed to having fantastical tales whispered into his ear. Abiyoyo and Anansi and the spider were just as rich before they were printed and published, but now the western tradition of book worshipping has been infused with soul. Open up a black book and you can see a nappy head and taste candied yams.

It's tragic that the great prophets of the written page struggled so mightily but what they left is divine. I'm so grateful that none of them quit before their voices were read.

-YB

In My Mind I Love You All

January 7, 2012

I always wonder what happens to the pretty faced girls that I see and admire but don’t have the heart to talk to. On this night I saw a woman with the right lips, the right skirt, the right complexion, and the right demeanor but I saw her at the wrong time.

It’s always the wrong time when a woman appears to be so perfect. After all I am deeply attracted to flaws. Yet I still wonder if that woman is thinking about me. Did I strike her? Was she moved? Or am I nothing to her—just another man passing by; just another potential failure? And as I sit here fantasizing about a perfect future with a woman who I have never met I realize that if I had spoken to her then I would not be writing about her now.

Mystery is an awesome muse. I would like to thank all the beautiful women I never talked to for inspiring me. And I hope that this piece lasts longer than any real life relationship that we may have had. For in my mind I love you all.

-YB

The Fragile Man

January 1, 2012

I never loved her but I was smitten by her vulnerability. I became addicted to having her cling to me, overwhelm me, text me all throughout the day, and give me more attention than I could have ever anticipated. I pretended to be upset with her. I convinced myself that I could no longer put up with her insecurities. I told myself that she was too unstable and that I needed to move on, but how does a man move beyond himself without leaving this earth?

Doesn’t everyman want his woman to scream his name? Is there a man alive that would be morally opposed to being the center of his lady’s universe? Don’t we expect that? Isn’t it true that every obsessive text message and late night voice mail from an unloved woman can be considered the brick and mortar of a fragile man’s ego? The structure always falls down. Reciprocity is old and decrepit. We are living in the era of self-absorption.

I love to hate getting random text messages from that crazy woman. I love it even more when she refuses to let me go. A man doesn’t need flowers, jewelry, or compliments to make him feel special. All he really needs is a woman who won’t leave him alone so he can look down on her instead of addressing his own weaknesses.

-YB

.....On Muses

December 30, 2011

Mixing it all in shows amazing resolve or rather one must show amazing resolve in order to successfully mix it all in. All of the fear, all of the embarrassment, and all of the weakness. Put that all on the stove, heat it up, and pour it in a cup. Don’t wait for it to cool down either. Just put it straight to your lip and let it burn your mouth.

That’s what good art is. Good art is irresistible yet painful and it is so irresistible because it is so painful. When something hurts so good one can’t help but to share it with everyone; “Have you seen that movie, have you watched that play, have you heard that song, when are you going to that exhibit? The one that almost made me cry. The one where the artist tortures herself for us.”

We suspend everything to be engaged. No time, no space, nobody else in the room with us. No clothes on our bodies, no make-up on our faces, and no lotion on our skin. No brush against our scalp and no comb through our hair. The only thing that matters is the only thing that counts. We see the projection of our souls against the wall, on the stage, or rattling the speaker-box and we remember that our individuality is not specific only to us. Our isolation has been connected to another being, and our overwhelming sense of loneliness has been transformed into so many brush strokes on an open canvas.

-YB

Pause

12/24/12

It’s a tragic thing when a writer no longer trusts an empty page. Recently I’ve let a lot of creative thoughts disappear instead of running to the nearest piece of paper and writing them down. In those moments when I was on I used to text lines to myself and get them on my laptop as soon as possible. But at present I have allowed space to come in between myself and my passion and I’m not sure what it is. I mean it’s not writers block. Maybe it’s just a pause. Perhaps I need to freeze my dream for a little bit in order to analyze it and make sure I’m doing what I can to make it tangible.

I wonder if this happens to anyone else.

-YB

Ms. High Sadity

 

December 20, 2011

I was sitting there in my favorite Chinese food restaurant being judged every second. Snide comments were made on my choice of entrée, my sense of humor, and how loud I blew my food. It got so bad that I lost my appetite. I was so annoyed by the woman who sat across from me that I honestly considered throwing my won ton soup in her face. It had the potential to end up like a bad episode of the show Blind Date but I kept my composure. I made solid conversation with her until it was time for me to go. I walked her to her car and told her to take it easy and wished her good luck in life. After that first date I never returned her texts or called her again.

It’s fascinating because I spent a whole portion of my adult life thinking I deserved to marry some high-class chick who went to private school her whole life and never lived in the ghetto. I used to think that’s what I was striving for. In retrospect I have never been more wrong in my life. I have always had serious problems with people who are condescending in nature. It doesn’t matter how pretty or accomplished a woman is, if she has a nasty attitude I don’t want to be around her.

I still can’t believe that woman. As educated and successful as she was in the end she was socially retarded. She has no idea how to treat a human-being. And though I haven’t kept in touch with her I can bet that she is still very lonely. It’s ironic that a person could put all of their energy into establishing a career and lose their ability to have positive interactions with everyday people. If that’s the price that one has to pay to make it to the top then I am completely ok with struggling down here in the hood. I guess it could be a lot worse.

-YB

Feeling Grinchy :-(

    December 19, 2011

     There’s nothing like Christmas time to remind me that I’m broke as hell. I mean it’s not like I could ever forget with my good for nothing hot water heater that blows out every other day and the suspicious partial power outages that disable half of my lights and my television for hours at a time. I know I live in the hood and the reality is that well—people in the hood tend to be broke. I’m not ashamed of this fact and I haven’t allowed it to make me stagnant either. I’m still working hard while trying to get a hold of that one missing piece of the puzzle that will land me a full-time job with benefits. And of course I’m still passionately pursuing this writing thing. But meanwhile it really sucks to see dozens of commercials about I-phones, I-pads, Cadillacs, and a bunch of other crap I can’t afford. It tends to stress me out a little bit.

After all Jesus Christ was a humble dude who wore sandals and normal everyday attire so how has it become customary to celebrate his birthday by spending all your money on designer clothes at some overpriced department store? I don’t know it just all seems so lame to me. Everyone is lost and no one seems to care. The worst part is that I am a huge part of the problem. If I had a few thousand dollars to blow on presents this year I wouldn’t even be composing this piece right now. I would probably be at some bar downtown with Christmas decorations in the window drinking with friends and buying brandy and eggnog for some chick because I like her smile. Oh the hypocrisy of it all. Why must Christmas be about complete and utter excess? How do we rise above this foolishness?

Wow I feel like the Grinch and Scrooge rolled into one. I need to get a grip, LOL.

-YB

Frontin' On Jesus

December 7, 2011

I’m feeling stressed—so stressed in fact that I’ve taken to reading the bible and calling on god in the middle of the day. Not that this is anything I’m ashamed of but I am a bit concerned about my relationship with god. When my life is at its lowest points I pray, I fast, and I live with the Holy Ghost inside of me. On the contrary when everything is swell one could argue that I’m an atheist because I act as if god isn’t even there.

I think about those people in my life who only call me when something is wrong or they need some kind of help. I think about how shallow and inconsiderate they are, and then I think of myself. When it comes to my religion I am they. This is what troubles me more than anything else right now. This is something that I need to address.

-YB

"Anybody Can Get It"

December 5, 2011

The only advantage of feeling like you have no control over your life is that you never have anything to lose. I’ve seen the video footage of 3 young men who on November 28^th shot 8 people at the filming of a music video in West Oakland. The most seriously wounded was a 1-year-old boy who was shot in the head. He is currently in critical condition at Children’s Hospital.

A few nights ago on the East side of town there was a shooting involving 3 cars in which no less than 50 rounds of ammunition were dispensed. A man’s head was grazed by a bullet and an 86-year-old woman was cut by shards of broken glass. Thankfully no one was killed but tragically anyone could have been killed. It’s hard for me, even in my most nihilistic of moods, to fathom some people’s disregard for human life. In my mind I see a 19-year-old young man with a pistol in his hand and a hood tied tightly to his head. His only thought is; “Anybody can get it!” From ages 1-86 it really doesn’t matter to him.

Perhaps it’s the thrill of it all or maybe it’s the hopelessness. I can’t be sure. I don’t know what it takes to bust a gun into a crowd of men, women, and children who are only trying to enjoy themselves. It could even be the strongly held belief that your life really isn’t your own. That because you were born in the sewer of society living dirty is all you know. I suppose it could be a variety of reasons but in the end it doesn’t matter.

What matters right now is a 1-year-old boy is fighting for a life that he has barely gotten a chance to enjoy and an 86-year-old woman has been traumatized by automatic gunfire from young men who are probably young enough to be her great-grand children. Nothing is sacred in the ghetto. Not the wisdom of the elderly, the purity of 1-year-old babes, or anything else that may fall in between.

-YB

Lost and Broke

November 23, 2011

                My hot water heater keeps blowing out and I ain’t gone lie, I’m way too educated to be this broke. To be such a well read man and still have to resort to taking a cold shower is almost unbearable. When it gets really hot or really cold ants march through my kitchen in full force as if they don’t know I have a Master's Degree. Sometimes they make it into my room and bite my flesh at night like they don’t see my degrees on the wall. It’s all so pitiful.

                Not that I’m trying to solicit pity but a little respect would be nice. My living conditions are so substandard that I am honestly considering moving into a library. That would really be amazing. Occasionally I dream about going to sleep reading a book while using another book as a pillow. A dozen dictionaries would be my blanket and my lady. I would be enraptured by words in every state of being. Then I suppose a hot shower wouldn’t matter as much. Nothing ever matters when one is lost in literature.

                Lost?

                So many of us have lost our way. We have allowed the academics to lead us astray. For in life you can’t find the answers in the back of the book. All of the important information isn’t in bold print either. So much time has been wasted and I have learned to cherish everything that can’t be applied. Imagine a little boy with all the book smarts in the world but no common sense. Now try to imagine him being successful. Can you do it?

-YB

The Trials of Fatherhood

November 22, 2011

I remember when my daughter was a baby of about 11 months and I had to go to court to see her on a regular basis. I ended up having to fight the system as hard as I could to get two days a week for visitation. I can recall doing everything I possibly could to not only never miss a date when it was time to pick up my child but also to never be a second late. And I realize now just as I realized then that the main reason for my dedication was the constant fear that if I ever went over a week without seeing my child then she would forget me and I would soon be replaced.

Fatherhood can be a very unforgiving enterprise. It is very common for people to spend their whole lives hating their fathers without ever making an honest attempt to empathize with him. It’s a role that has become dispensable in society. In most cases having a healthy relationship with ones father is seen as a luxury as opposed to a necessity. At times when I would go to get my little girl I would read the faces of the people in the house where she lived and they would all say; “Why are you still coming here? How long are you going to keep this up?”

American households no longer know the function of a father. Fathers have become the appendix of the family unit, particularly when a couple splits up. There is no law in place that says a woman must allow her children to see their father. A father must go to family court and in the state of California he must pay upwards of $400 to start the mediation process. I’m sure most people can’t imagine how degrading it feels to, in essence, have to save up to buy your own child. I do believe this is was what caused Huckleberry Finn—the protagonist of Mark Twain’s most revered work—to experience an epiphany regarding the institution of slavery. It occurred after he discovered that his good friend Nigger Jim planned to work hard up north so that he could earn enough wages to eventually purchase his children who were still in bondage. Ultimately Huckleberry Finn who in so many ways represented the American conscience began to see that despite the popular opinion of the day and alleged biblical verses that justified the practice, slavery was in fact very immoral.

I wonder about the emotional shortcomings of a fatherless culture. How limited is the future of a people who fail to appreciate half of what brought them into existence?

-YB

Notes on Planned Parenthood

November 21, 2011

In my limited travels through a handful of American ghettos I’ve noticed one very conspicuous consistency, and that is the presence of Planned Parenthood. Whether it be Oakland, Portland, Atlanta, or Los Angeles I find it interesting that some of the most desolate and underserved communities in the entire country somehow manage to attain a Planned Parenthood. Because of this fact in some of these neighborhoods abortions have become more accessible than fresh produce. It puzzles me. But I guess when it comes to the hood businesses are set up to control the population rather than to serve the community.

These are the kind of thoughts that keep me up at night.

-YB

MISS UNDERSTOOD

 

November 16, 2011

                 I once dated a woman who liked to wear a brown dress with the words MISS UNDERSTOOD written in bold white letters across the front. She was a really cute young lady; really provocative, and fast in her ways. She irritated me but she inspired me as well. I only got to hang out with her two times before our lives blew us in different directions. I think about her from time to time. Every now and then I Google her name to see what she’s been up to; what new art she has made, how she’s wearing her hair, and to check out the latest degree she’s working on.

                This girl was a real strange kind of beautiful. She was the kind I was never able to figure out. I am convinced that if I would have dated her consistently from then all the way until now, she would still be a sensual puzzle that I could never quite put together. But whatever we had fizzled out and it fizzled out quickly. I know for a fact she never thinks about me. It always feels slightly uncomfortable to know that someone has impressed upon your life 1,000 times more than you have impressed upon theirs. It’s like that awkward moment when you see someone from your past and you are excited to see them, only to discover that they either don’t remember you or don’t really care that you’re alive. Then you wish that you hadn’t even said anything at all.

                I once saw the young lady a few years after I met her walking toward a BART station in Berkeley, CA. She didn’t say hello to me. I wonder if she ever got a chance to read these words would she speak to me then.

-YB

What is Abuse?

 

November 13, 2011

What is abuse? The word really baffles me at times. I mean lately I feel as though abuse is the most abused word in the English language. And I hate to say it but some people are just addicted to it. In the same manner that drug addiction is a disease I believe abusive relationships can be a disease as well.

I got a call from a close friend a few a nights ago who told me that she got into a dispute with her boyfriend. The same boyfriend who always verbally berates her and the same boyfriend who she always manages to go back to. Oh yes and this is the same friend who is absolutely always in an abusive relationship. But this time something appeared to be a little different. The tone of her voice sounded as if she was high. Not high on drugs but high on adrenaline. She reminded me of how fighters sound at my gym after they’ve sparred for the first time, and of course that’s what happened. Her boyfriend flipped out and hit her which is something that a man should never ever do, but at the same time when she told me the story it got complicated.

In real life domestic violence situations are always puzzling which I find to be totally irksome. If abuse in the real world was as clear as how Ike Turner abused Tina in the movie “What’s Love Got to do With It” then I would be a considerably less tormented soul, however, this is never the case. She told me she became suspicious of him dating another woman and even though she has seen at least one other guy while they were together she decided to confront him about it; at his home in the projects, with his two little sisters and mother present, in the middle of the night. He responded by asking her to leave which she refused to do. Instead she decided to tell him about some guy who she “almost” slept with the previous night.

Now at this point in the conversation I began to get nauseous and I’m sure you are too. I was finding it hard to conceal my contempt for her atrocious judgment. And I never want to blame the victim but it was difficult for me to restrain from doing so because I care about the victim and don’t want to see her in that situation again. It’s troubling because my friend is an educated, highly articulate, young poetess. So I can never understand why she puts herself in so many bad spots.

After she says this the guy gets upset and slams her to the ground. She gets up swinging and then he socks her one good time in the face. She says after that she passed out on the bed and woke up an hour later to ask him for ice. He refused. She went back to sleep. She woke up the next morning to his kisses. He asked was she OK, which I guess brought her a certain amount of joy. A few moments later he took her car keys and said he needed to take his little sisters to school. I stopped her after that. It was too much.

I asked her what she was going to do. She said her home girl took pictures of the bruises and she filed a police report. I asked her the same question again and she said she didn’t know. She doesn’t want him in the system because the system won’t help him and she couldn’t say whether or not she was going to get back with him because she needed time to think about. I can’t remember anything else she said because I tuned her out. As smart as the young lady is she’s very stupid.

I just can’t comprehend it. In the past I’ve had a loved one put his freedom and his athletic scholarship on the line to violently defend the honor of his sister who was beaten up by her boyfriend only to see them walk in the house hand in hand a few months later at Thanksgiving dinner. I’ve also been in situations where I felt as though a woman was deliberately pushing my buttons in order for me to strike her and then she considered me to be less of a man when I did no such thing.

I know that there are countless people in the world who have abusive partners and it is something that we need to aggressively pursue an end to as a society but at the same time there is a contingent of people in this world who seem to find a certain peace inside the chaos of an abusive relationship. For some people who grew up in abusive households violence is to dating just as dinner is to a movie. I’m wondering is it still abuse if someone goes out of their way to make it happen or is it merely a perverse partnership only understood by a select few. I’m not sure I’ll ever know.

-YB

She Got Game

November 9, 2011

                It’s funny to me when I think about how fragile the male ego is. Why is it that we need to have our worth constantly reinforced? Don’t ask me why but while I was running today I started to think about former hip-hop video vixen turned author Karrine “Superhead” Steffans. Well I wasn’t thinking about her as much as I was thinking about her enduring legacy. Karrine is a woman who has had relations with everyone ranging from Shaquille O’Neal to Jay-Z to Ice-T then wrote a New York Times bestselling book about it only to bounce back and hook up with the likes of Bill “Politically Incorrect” Maher and Little Wayne.

                I’m sure many men out there would disagree with me but I don’t think she is still able to carry on public relationships with high-profile celebrities because of her well documented skills in the art of fellatio. I am convinced that Ms. Steffans greatest asset is her ability to make extremely insecure celebrities feel like they rule the world. After all she is a highly intelligent woman (I’ve heard her speak on enough television and radio programs, including Oprah, to figure that out). But even more importantly Karrine just flat-out has game. She knows how internally weak most men actually are and she uses it to get whatever she wants. The most hilarious thing about it is I’m sure that until the book came out every man she had been with thought they were getting over on her. Yeah right. Karrine Steffans is something like a pimp. One would be a fool not to give her props.

                Just like one must ask how is it that Don King can continue to sign binding contracts to top quality fighters after he stole money from every great fighter of the last half-century, one must also ponder how is it that Ms. Steffans can continue to lure rising young stars into the bedroom. People rarely apply the term swagger to a woman but in this case I think it’s necessary. I doubt if anyone in the industry has more game than “Superhead.” I respect her for doing her thing very well and without shame.

-YB

Autumn Chill

November 6, 2011

                The autumn chill has fallen upon us and the leaves have piled up on my porch. I would sweep them up—as the sun is providing a little warmth this morning— but I’m too lazy. I just don’t feel inspired at the moment. I don’t feel like quitting but I don’t feel like working either. I guess it’s going to be one of those dreary days.

                I wonder will I ever figure things out completely or if I’ll ever find the courage to be content. It’s so ironic that my body is so stationary but my soul is so restless. I hope that these two entities can reconcile before I die. It would be a dream to be completely at peace while living on such a war-torn planet. Or maybe I don’t want peace. Perhaps I have fallen in love with my own rage. Perhaps I enjoy the pleasures of falling for fallen women and all other things that are impure and detrimental to growth. Despite my shivering body under this thin blanket I think I secretly like the cold. I think I may be addicted to the idea of not knowing where I will find the heat to keep me alive.

                The clouds may burn away but I’m still just as confused as I was yesterday. I don’t know if I should find peace in knowing that the peace that I once pursued does not exist or should I battle all of my insecurities until I have arrived in the state of bliss. I have become saddened by an epiphany so the only thing left to do is suppress it. If I don’t acknowledge it then it is not there. It may as well be a pile of leaves that have been blown onto my porch. I’ll get to it one of these days.    

-YB