cafe-room dancing

i usually wear ties, slacks, church shoes and the whole nine at work. well, not usually, all the time i do. i haven't slipped up for the two months i've worked there. finally this last friday though, some teachers got on me about wearing my pinstripe suit while they were all in jeans, button up shirts and no ties. ha, fuck me.

the school dance was that night though, and afterwards i agreed that i should go ahead and start looking into jeans and casual timberlands. the church shoes got me in an unusual spot.

let me begin by saying that by teaching 6th grade, one is automatically put back into the 6th grade. complete with the rumors, peer pressure, funny ordors, and homework. so there i was, standing on the sidelines of the 6th grade dance being a chaperone. i'm not sure what i was supposed to be doing, but my presense there meant jack squat to those kids. especially my dumbass kids. my class, instead of grinding on each other in the dark corners of the cafeteria, decided to do their dirt directly under one of the four lights that lit the entire room. oh, and when they saw that i was looking, they would smile and wave. the boys would point down at the booty they had pressed against they 11-year old crotch (or croutch) and the girls would wave with the one hand that they didn't have pressed against the floor.

but they really are good kids.

then the peer pressure came. my teacher's pet girls saw one of my co-workers dancing. and being that she was young, pretty, dancing, and a teacher, they decided that we liked each other and should dance. so the very experience i had 12 years ago, with kids trying to push me on the dance floor to dance with a pretty girl, happened yesterday. only i'm 22 now. and as they were pushing and pulling me to go and dance with her, my church shoes kicked in and i began to literally slide across the dance floor, pulled by the arms of 10 and 11 year-old girls. like a heavy sled. it didn't work the first time though, so my persistent students decided to try it again and again, every 9 mintues or so for the rest of the dance. it was ridiculous.

oh, i almost forgot. at one point, they caught me of guard as i was moving to the beat of a latino beat and pushed me onto my co-worker and we actually did a step or two. they went bonkers!! and as soon as i got a clear vision as to what was happening, about 6 or 7 of my lady students started dancing around me like a roseberry bush. like i was a fucking campfire or something. the other seven teachers just stood by and watched. some chaperones they were. "dance with us mr. wilborn! dance with us!!" they yelled and yelled. i didn't know what to do. the other teachers did though - they took pictures.

so yes, i love my job. i'll be sure to give them a pop quiz on monday.

two types of people (vacation package)

in a conversation i was having with a friend a while ago, i had to refine my personal dictionary to two particular concepts. paradise and utopia .

you see, they aren't different in theory. both are heaven-like states of mind, situations, locales, relationships, escapes. both are states of perfection. both are the essense of beauty and poetic idealism. they are flawless. they are treasured and desired. they are both indescribably...good.

the difference is this though. utopia lasts forever, paradise doesn't.

paradise is a vacation. a tropical island that average american citizens take their spouses on their honeymoon. you go, eat, drink, dance, fuck, hold each other, repeat for 3 days and 4 nights and then go back to french kissing your boss' ass five days a week, cleaning your home on saturday, going to church on sunday and wishing there was an imaginary day between the sabbath and monday morning where you can go and hide under a rock for 45 minutes. paradise is shit. and as i start in get pulled into the firse season of LOST on dvd, i realize how true that is. no one wants to stay in paradise forever. because the utter truth is - the longer you are in paradise, the less it is paradise and the more it becomes "the place you happen to be". until another island sounds better.

utopia, on the other hand, is not a vacation. it is eternal paradise. it is not a temporary esacpe from the ordinary life. it is not a package deal for the family. it is not a 4-star hotel. utopia has nothing to do with the external, utopia is all about the individual. the vacation is at home, and it's every day. it's waking up to perfection and going to sleep to perfection. it's breathing bliss. it's living in infatuation. utopia is feeling your soul smile, not necessarily your mouth. if life is breakfast - paradise is eggs and bacon, a wonderful hot breakfast instead of the corn flakes you usually eat; utopia is corn flakes, the best damn bowl of corn flakes you've ever eaten...and it's that good every morning.

paradise is the prototype of utopia.

in the context of the conversation between my friend and i, what of relationships? when one realizes that your relationship is paradise, what should they do? should they continue to take the vacation as often as possible in order to visit a blissful state whenever it's convenient? and then, what does one do when they realize that by definition, utopia is a hypothetical state of mind, and that to find such on earth is heaven, ultimately rare, and may never be found.

should one give up paradise in search of utopia?

thats where my conversation ended.

four blades of grass

writing isn't difficult. writing everyday is.

i learned this from professor stewart at morehouse college, during one of the three semesters i was with him. creative writing is a bitch. according to stewart, there are three things you need to do to become a writer. read, write, and live. everything else just kinda picks up after that. and it's true. everyday, during my tenure of that class, he would ask us to write anything every day. and that was fine for the first week or two. but it got difficult was around wek three. week three, i didn't have anything to write about, no motivation to write, and no intent on sitting in front of a pen and pad to write about nothing. i just didn't want to. but after eating three or four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, an episode of the simpsons, a curious dab into a porn clip, and learning how to scratch the back of my neck with my big toe, i finally sat down that week 3 and wrote something. i don't really remember whether it was good or not. but it was something. and thats all that mattered. i went to bed happy that night.

i'm saying all of this to say that i didn't feel like writing just now. but i knew i had to. half the time i want to write, but can't because it's not convenient, or because i don't have enough time, or because i don't have the paper, or the pen, or the computer, to write the way i want to. and a few minutes ago, i went to my blogsite and determined that i didn't want to write because it looked bland. i played around with the colors and tried to find more pictures to add. and just just now, i was going to say "fuck it", let me just start a new one or something. one with theme and story. one with chapters and parts. one that makes people want to come back to find out what happeed to the little blind girl, or who murdered mrs. johnson, or who's left the toilet seat up in a house full of alcoholic lesbians. i wanted to create suspense and drive and plot for the readers of this fine blog! i wanted to do something new and exciting with fourbladesofgrass! maybe call it FIVEbladesofgrass! i wanted to do it all just now. i wanted to change it all to make it better than before. this blog had to have something to make me write. to make me update and share. i was looking for motivation here and didn't find it.

but that doesn't really matter does it.

truth is, if i ever plan on being a writer some day, and i do, i have to learn how to write when i don't want to. i have to be able to write when i'm too damn tired to think. when kids have been in my face all day asking me about test grades. when the winter bitch of new york cums across my face with every breath i take. when i get hungry and realize that i can't buy eggs because the corner store is closed, and if it were open, i don't have the money for eggs right now anyway. if i ever plan on truly writing, i have to overcome my excuse to not write. i HAVE to write everyday. and i tell some people that i write as often as i can for the sake of the reader, and to an extent, thats true. but at the end of the day, i have to write for me. i have to be satisfied with my committment to writing. i have to go to bed happy.

and as for the motivation that i did not find here. as for the pictures and template that i wanted to change. thats bullshit. there are millions of books that have no pictures, no snappy presentations, no glitz, no glamour - just words. just beautiful, beautiful words. words have to create the meaning - not the other way around. fucking logos man. i chose to title this blogsite fourbladesofgrass for a number of reasons. first, because when one says "fourbladesofgrass", usually what comes to thought is four blades of grass. it's distinct, it's specific, it's vivid. it creates a pitcure in ones mind without the use of much desciption or adjective. it is direct. secondly, it is simple. there is no glitz or glamour. there are no mind-boggling graphics or life-defining pieces of art. "four blades of grass" isn't a concept that's difficult to conjure. it's not rocket science. it's really four blades of grass. one more than three. one less than five. it's simple. third, it's temporary. when one thinks "four blades of grass", they have to somehow picture four blades seperate from a field of grass. so whether its laying on a coffee table or growing from concrete or simply a patch emerging from dirt in the ground, there are only four blades. and over time, they will die. they may be seperated from one another by wind or rain. eaten by a dog or some toddler on a leash. they may meet winter sooner than expected in new york city. either way, they change and go on. and as such, i too shall change. this blog will go through it's shifts and styles just as four blades of grass. but it has to be natural, and not because i'm bored or impatient.

there are some more reasons, but those are the main. it couldn't be threebladesofgrass because the number three conveys too many deep thoughts of philosophy and religion. that would take away from the simpleness of it. and it couldn't have been fivebladesofgrass because that just looks funny.

so after it's all said and done. i sit and make myself write. whether it be on this blogsite or in a notebook, or on a napkin at mcdonalds. maybe one day i'll have my book. or not. that doesn't really matter though does it. i just want to go to bed happy.

who we are

i walked by a store on the way to work today and saw myself. in the clear window that showcased some half naked manaqueins and tennis shoes, i actually saw myself for who i felt i was today. and whats significant here isn't how long i saw myself or in what position i saw myself, no. what was significant was that the figure i saw captured the true and haunting essence as to how i felt at that moment and how i have felt more and more recently. you see, in the window, i was vague. i was a mere ghost of my physical self. i was transparent and insignificant, undistinguishable from the people passing me and unnoticeable from the dozens in view.

i often feel like i'm slipping away.

now slipping away from what is another issue. another question all together. i could be slipping away from myself or from who i used to be. i could be slipping away from my routines or slipping away from God. it is just as possible that i could be slipping away from my hopes and dreams as it is possible that i am slipping away from good nights of sleep. nevertheless though, i feel as though i am slipping away.

who are we?

who am i, that as a human being, i can define who i am as an individual? who am i to determine the benchmarks i have for myself. to proclaim what i am slipping away from, or falling into, something significant. or insignificant. who am i to differentiate the two?

because to state that i am slipping away from something is to imply that i was initially at a certain place. it is to imply that i was stationed and comfortable at a specific spiritual, mental or physical locale - one strong enough to create a forceful sensation once i have metaphysically moved on. hence my dilemma. if my soul was in a secure position in a certain aspect of my life to the point where it was intact and subcounscious by all means until a shift caused me to realize that such a position existed, how do i shift back?

and more importantly, should i try to?

whats in your back pocket?

i've heard that women like confidence in a man. by this i mean grown women. by this i mean heterosexual men (no offense).

today, as i was sitting in my weekly tuesday night class, i observed a young man that went to the board for a presentation to the class. this guy might be about 26-27, overweight, sloppy clothes, not particulary handsome, and in need of a shave, and a haircut. i should be one to talk though, i get a trim about once a month and shave when i feel my mustache brushing up against my nose. but thats neither here nor there. whats most important though, is that, as viewing this guy, i noticed his confidence. it was as if he was wearing it over his dingy red shirt, or had it buldging out of his back pocket. it wasn't in a smile, or a walk, or a certain stand or anything. no, this man just wore an invisible suit of confidence. i was impressed. i mean, i know he's smart, and the rest of the class knows he's a genius, but that rarely matters. shit, i know several really smart men that only think about masturbation and suicide. where's their confidence?

but as i drifted off in my usual class daydream, i began to contemplate the other facets of what men think that women think they want in a man. money. power. humor. secruity. muscles. sex. morale. religion. intelligence. suave. hell, pick your battle. they all, in some sense, point back to confidence. or should anyway.

i mean, don't get me wrong. there are some rich guys that can't stand to look at themselves in the mirror. there are some dudes with gargantuan muscles that second guess themselves throughout their entire life. the point i'm trying to make here is that people want comfort in thier lives. and it's very difficult to be comfortable with someone if they aren't comfortable with themselves.

that guy in class could have asked me for a dollar and i would have given it to him, just because he seemed confident to me. and for that same reason, i plan on asking every person i see for a couple of bucks. thank you and goodnight.

on the job

ok, i've been broken down. in all honesty, i try my hardest not to blog while i'm at work. i have papers to grade, lesson plans to write, classes to prepare for, grad school homework thats due in two hours, and a boatload of other stuff that i can't even remember right now. but i can't take it. i think of blogs in this place all day and can't write them. i get emails from people that tell me that they actually read my blog alot, and i feel bad for not providing new stuff. but it's not that i don't want to, it's just because i don't want to blog at work, i don't have the internet at home, and my friends won't let me come over because i keep clogging up their toilets. it's nothing personal, i just like eating dairy products. so for now, i'll hold off on alot of cussing and stuff because i'm not even sure if i can post this. hell, the system network on here won't even let me view my blogsite because of the content. so yes, i run the risk of having everything i put on here, seen by the administration, faculty and staff. in hindsight of this paragraph, i want to stop writing now.

but i can't. i have to blog what just happened. i have a classroom filled with young guys. they're good guys, for the most part, but a classroom full of 12 year old hispanic men nonetheless. anyway - my class genius came to me about an hour ago and asked me for woman advice and it blew me away!! "mr. wilborn, uh, what, uh, what do you do if, uh, you like a girl, and uh, you're afraid to tell her, because, uh, she's afraid, oh no, i mean, because you're afraid, and, uh, embarassed, to tell her, because, uh, she might tell other students and they may all laugh at you and, uh, then..."

"WOAH..." i said "wait a minute, slow down, i thought you stayed after class to tell me about the homework!" it took me off gaurd. but i knew it was coming. i was just hoping that the older male advice giving sessions didn't have to start with this kid. he's a nice guy though. he's just...a much more hispanic, nerdier, version of myself at his age. i wanted to tell him the truth so bad. i wanted to tell him, "kid, you're out of luck until you meet another nerd like you in your 20's or take a drunk cheerleader home from the highschool football game-after-party you weren't invited to." but i didn't tell him that. i told him half of a lie instead. "just, keep being a nice guy and i'm sure she'll notice you soon enough".

hope. i've never been so much of a asshole and a good man at the same time in my life.

he's a smart guy though. who knows, he may get they girl after all. the relationship will last for a week and she'll use him to do her homework, play in his hair and eat the food his mother makes him for lunch - but hey, if thats what he wants, good for him. in the meantime, i have two four page papers to type, and where i did have 45 minutes to do them, i now only have 12. and 11 of those minutes will be spent on facebook, aol, gmail, cnn, entertainment weekly, and staring at a wall.

doom

DOOM: the movie


i would just like to point out here, that i am a little excited about the new Doom movie. yes, when i first heard about it, i gave it the same safe assumption that I gave to Resident Evil, House of the Dead, and any other 1st-person shooting game they have tried to turn into a movie. of those, from what I hear, Resident Evil was alright and House of the Dead was garbage. and to be frankly honest, i haven't been pleased with a movie based on a video game since Mortal Kombat. moreover, I haven't been excited about a movie based on a video game since The Mario Bros. And that was 1993!

but i digress. let me go as far to say that I wasn't looking forward to the new Doom movie when i heard about it; i wasn't looking forward to it when i saw the first preview; and i wasn't looking forward to it even after i found out that it was starring the Rock. however, in the last few minutes, i saw the "revised" preview, which made me change my mind. in this preview, they actually show more of the movie, more of the graphics, and more of the actors (the Rock, and some others that look promising). But what sealed the deal is that it seems that alot of the movie, or at least some, is actually in first person! and shouldn't it be?? shouldn't a movie that is based on a first-person shooting game be in first person. look for yourself, i put the link on the first line. the viewer, or audience rather, is really carrying a gun and shooting the monsters. hell, it even looks like the game. you can even hear the other actors screaming all around you.

and let me tell you, i just played the last edition of doom over at my cousins place (shoutout to 3050) and that shit is really kinda scary. just playing the damn game! imagine watching the movie in first person, where you don't have any control. it's dark, it's dangerous, and you're carrying a weapon that only has two rounds left in it.

yeah, i was just excited before. but after writing this blog, i have to admit that i'm kinda hype.

driggs ave (short story #1)

everyday, i caught the 8:01 am L-train to brooklyn, got off at driggs avenue, and walked my ten blocks. on bad days i walked briskly; on good days i strolled. being that i usually got off the train at the same time everyday, i usually saw the same things. there was the stray dog that hung around North 6th street. there was the guy walking his son to school around North 4th street. there was the bartender that was running late around North 3rd street. everyday i usually saw the same things. there was a green Impala sitting on the corner of driggs avenue and North 2nd street with a for sale sign. on driggs ave and North 1st street, there was a concrete park that two kids were usually playing baseball in. i always wondered why they weren't on their way to school. and then, there was her.

somewhere between North 3rd street and South 2nd street, i could always look forward to seeing her. she was about my height, but smaller than me. i think. i mean, she had a body. small hips, and perfectly shaped everything else. but that wasn't what got me, what got me was the look. each day, as we passed one another, she would look at me in the eyes for a moment, then look down, or away, or at her watch. she would look at me long enough to indicate that she knows she passes me everyday. it would be a look quick enough to say 'good morning', but not 'hi'. it was a look that intruiged me for the rest of the walk to work. then i would forget about it until the next morning.

this happened for two years. the look never changed. the silent good mornings were constant and never exceeded beyond that. one morning, a lukewarm sunny april morning, we did what we usually do. we were coming up on each other and, like always, were looking everywhere but at each other. you see, the glance couldn't happen until we were right up on each other, close enough to see the tiny grin that inched at the edge of her lips, or the slight head nod i would give to acknowledge her presence. this particular morning though, right before our glance, the stray dog, that's usually around North 6th, darted pass and made her drop her purse. of course, everything she owned rolled out her pocketbook and found its way to every inconvenient spot on the sidewalk possible. under a neighbors gate. the edge of the curb filled with rainwater from the night before. in a puddle of questionable liquid substance further up the sidewalk. so of course i helped her. and in helping her, i had to say "hi".

that "hi" turned into a 15-year-old marriage. if thats what you want to call it. i mean, legally, we are married. but two weeks after the honeymoon, i realized that i was in hell. and not "hell" in the over-exaggerated sense. no, i mean, i really think my wife is satan. and i hate her. some things i could deal with - leaving used tampons on the bathroom floor, talking to ex-boyfriends in the middle of the night, taking money out of our joint account to spend at male strip clubs. that just made the marriage difficult, but i could handle it. but that was only year one. since then, she doesn't come home some nights and when she does come home, she has her boyfriend walk her to the door. she told our 3 year old daughter that there was no such thing as the Tooth Fairy and that Santa Claus was a child molester. she doesn't clip her toe nails. she called my mom a "gap-toothed bitch" at the Thanksgiving table for not passing her the salt. she refers to me as "the failure". she wears too much makeup and insists on wearing a perfume i'm allergic to. i haven't had sex with a real woman in 3 years and she punched holes in the inflatable doll i kept in my closet.

at night, i lay awake and think of ways i could kill her without anyone blaming me. if i try to divorce her, she'll end up with my daughter because she makes more than myself and the house is in her name. no woman respects me enough to go through with an affair. masturbation has lost it's grandeur. my confidence and my penis are now synonomous in size. i'm not sure which one started to shrink first though. i disdain my life and i haven't even made it to 50 yet. i'll probably commit suicide at 49.

if i had it all over to do again, i'd keep walking past that woman on driggs ave and later write about what could have been on my blogsite.

harlem, homecoming, hoes, and delta

ok, yeah, it's been at least a week since i've been here for real. blame it on the cold that my body has been trying to catch. blame it on the kids that drive me to take naps as soon as i get home from work. blame it on my roommate/landlord that doesn't have a phone line in the apt. blame it on the weather (it's already winter here - shit!)

whatever your blame, it doesn't really matter, i've come to write about harlem, homecoming, hoes and delta. all of which i experienced in one day over the course of the last week.

let me begin by stating that all decisions i make are determined by three governing entities within my being. my brain, my heart, and my penis. everything. what should i eat tonight? should i ask this girl out to dinner? what movie should i see? how much should i put in the offering plate this sunday? are these socks clean enough to wear? every question is sent to the boardroom where the three sit at a round table. now that i'm 22 though, alot of decisions are already have a checklist. for instance, if i have to decide if a pair of socks are clean enough to wear - my brain wants to know if they have any bacterial growth on them that would threaten my health, my heart wants to know if i'm wearing them for any special reason, and my penis wants to know if i think i'm going to have to take off my shoes in front of a woman i'm trying to impress. it's that simple. more concrete decisions are sent to the boardroom with an intent to dilebrate for a while. majority wins.

so last wednesday i was out of school for a jewish holiday that i don't quite remember the name of (no offense). as i woke up, i called home and found out that my little sister (who was in the running for homecoming queen) was giving a speech that day and the family was going to the school to pass out roses with her name on it. i wanted to help. and being that my mom used to work for delta, i figured i could make a one day trip. so i packed my bags, threw on a suit and headed out the door to catch a flight. (those flying on standby under a relative's perks have to look presentable, hence the suit).

halfway down the block though, i realized i forgot my metrocard to take the bus to the airport. then, almost instantly after the first realization, i realized they were in my jeans pocket. then i realized that my jeans were packed in my backpack, which was on my back. i was relieved that i didn't have to walk back upstairs. it was beginning to look like a great day. yet, as i was searching through my bookbag, this lady saw me and asked if i just came out of the church. granted, i was standing in front of a church, and granted i had on a suit, so i could see her assumption as an authentic question. so i entertained it. i replied no, but as i looked at her, i saw that she had been crying. i assummed that something had happened in the church, and at that point got curious as to what had happened. so i said, "what's wrong? what happened in the chruch?"

she walked closer to me, and i could see what this was about to me. she wasn't exactly torn up, but you could see the imprints on her arms and the bloodshots in her eyes. she told me about how she went in the church to ask for some money to get a plate from the corner store, and they turned her away. she continued to rant about how her family grew up in the church and how she only needs $3.50, and blah blah blah...as a preachers kid i've heard it a thousand times. so yes, i'm being judgemental. nevertheless, i went in my wallet because i had the money to give. then, amongst her ramble, i heard her say, "damn! how am i gonna get $3.50?! i'm gonna have to go and suck some damn dick!!" so i say, "ha, no, don't go and do that..." and she says "why not..." so i look up from my wallet and see that she isn't even looking at me. this lady is staring at my dick! licking her lips! whispering, "all i need is $3.50"!!

(my brain says "well, reggie, $3.50 ain't a bad deal..." my heart says "aww, reggie, all she needs is some Jesus, sit down with her and tell her about the good Lord..." my penis looks up at me and says "what the fuck?!? are ya'll really fucking considering this chick?! fuck this reggie!! run! RUN!!!")

so i give her 2 bucks and jog to catch my bus. in the background i could hear her yelling that i only have her two dollars and asking if i'm sure i don't want to give her $3.50.

i never did make it to atlanta to help my sister. after paying $20 for a taxi, i get there and they tell me that i have to pay $40 one way to get on the standby list. something about me being independent now and not still in school. but i am still in school, so i 'll have to get it fixed later. nevertheless, i could have paid $80 for a round trip ticket to atlanta at 3:00pm. and considering that i would have gotten there after my little sister's speech, too late to pass out roses, just in time to take the take the next flight back to NY, and without my lady - brain, heart and penis said "it's not worth it".

so that day, i came back to good ol' harlem - where you can get a $20 cab ride to Laguardia Airport, a movie for $9.50, a soul food buffet for 6 bucks, and corner store head for three dollars and fifty cents.

nipsey turner

not that i knew much about nipsey turner (he's a little before my time), he passed away on saturday. he's most known for playing the tinman in The Wiz. and where thats all i can really pin on him, apparently he was quite the rhymer. the below poem that he left on this earth tickeled my fancy enough to share it on 4blades.

The opposite of pro is con;
That fact is clearly seen;
If progress means move forward,
Then what does Congress mean?
- Nipsey Turner

HA! I Love It!!
rest in peace mr. turner.

i'm cookin, dog!

as i write this, aerosmith's "dream on" is playing on my yahoo launchcast radio (message). and with that, i had the strongest urge to write a flow. i even actually started. so i can't blame the likes of eminem, kanye west, master p, p. diddy, and the other hip-hop moguls that earn their keep by successfully sampling the previous works of others. hell, if it speaks to you, it speaks to you. and hell, if it's bringing in the dough, then it's bringing in the dough (granted that it's not immoral, degrading, culturally wrong, or harmful to others - but that's another blog). as a matter of fact, all of this is another blog. let me move on.

so last night, for poopoo's birthday (which, in reality, may be a disgusting nickname we have for each other, but blame my mother for the running joke - but that's another blog), i actually cooked dinner. granted, for a birthday, i kinda wanted to take her out. sylvia's is around the corner and we've never gone. there is a nice sky cafe around the other corner and we've never been. hell, this is harlem, and we haven't been to half the spots to eat up here. and thats why i didn't do it. how would going to a cool restaurant we've never been to before, for a birthday, be any different than going to a restaurant we've never been to before, for the sake of never having been before. and i guess on the same token, how is fixing her dinner for her birthday, any different than fixing her dinner because we're hungry and we have food?

good question. the truth is that i've never fixed dinner before. other than microwave dinners, doritos with melted chedder cheese, poptarts, peanut butter jelly sandwiches - i have never cooked. wait, eggs, i can scramble a mean egg. so i figure, why not share a first with her on her birthday. because just i have never cooked, logically, i have never cooked for her.

so last night - i buy groceries, preheat the oven, set up a tablecloth, two longstem candles, and put on KEM Album II (thanks Wes). the night before, i was on the phone with my chef of a mom, cooking master of a dad, culinary artist of a brother, and simply wonderful little sister for about an hour and a half. so all and all, in the morning of things, it went well. i cooked baked chicken, corn on the cob and steamed broccoli. things i can't mess up much. things i know she likes. and it was good (except for the chicken - i took it out a few minutes early, so we put it back in for a while, but it was seasoned great!) i slapped some rolls on it and it was a beautiful night.

the poetry though, was the money. oh man. i've always heard that cooking is better than eating out. but damn! i bought everything - chicken, corn, brocoli heads, seasoning, garlic, celery, and onions for 20 bucks! i didn't even cook it all!! and there were two of us!!! we didn't even eat half of what i did cook!!!! as a bachelor (by definition), i could by $20 worth of groceries and cook enough for a week!!! while i was eating last night, i was estactic! i was floored! i had cooked the food and had enough to spare for tomorrow. i'm about to have some now - for breakfast! and still have some left for dinner!!! eating out in new york, on average, will be anywhere from $10 to $20 a plate. hell, mcdonalds value meals up here are $7. i have to say, life changed yesterday. but then, life should change everyday (but thats another blog).

i'm going to go have some birthday chicken, have a nice day.

everybody has a price

Emmy and Golden Globe award nominated actor and musician Mos Def, will appear in a new African American targeted television advertisement introducing the new Envoy Denali SUV set to air for the first time on May 7. The ad was created by Oakland, California based Carol H. Williams Advertising, which specializes in the African American market.

The spot dubbed "Poetry in Motion," shows Mos Def and the Envoy Denali sharing the same space on screen with visual special effects bringing parts of the vehicle together to form the new product. Mos Def's poetry underscores the spot with product attributes interspersed within his lines. In November 2004, a Yukon Denali advertisement titled "Reflections" featured Mos Def's song "Climb" from the 2002 release Black on Both Sides.

"This spot is aimed to reach African American consumers through more general market broadcasting placements," said Rosenblum. The new commercial is scheduled to begin airing nationally on networks and programming including ABC, ESPN, UPN and BET.

i just saw this ad. yeah, i know it was released in may, and i know it's october, but i didn't really have a tv all summer. nonetheless, i have to say i'm disappointed. mos def is the last person i would expect to see in a car commercial. i...i don't even know what else to say. the last time i felt like this was when we ran over our own dog in the driveway coming back from a birthday party 6 years ago. r.i.p. bully. r.i.p. mos def.