Michael Forever

Earlier this summer, I'd gone to my local Walgreens to satisfy a craving for peanut M&Ms.  As I stood in the candy aisle deciding just how big of a bag I should purchase, a woman and her two small children joined me in the aisle.  The mother stood there looking over the sale items as her two kids, a girl and a boy, argued over candy.  Then, the young one, the boy, suddenly walked towards the magazine rack, and pointed to a picture of Michael Jackson.  He screamed, "Michael Jackson!  Michael Jackson,"  then pursed his lips, started loudly breathing through his mouth, and began what must have been his version of dancing like Mike.

Now, this little boy couldn't have been more than three.  There's no way that he could remember Michael the way that you and I remember Michael. Yet he shared such a pure enthusiasm for the MJJ, such a love that I couldn't do anything but smile at him and think about the ways that Michael continues to live and touch lives.  Little boys rocking out at the sight of Michael Jackson on a magazine cover is exactly what legends are made of.

Higher Learning: Summer M.'s Freshman Orientation Post

One of the first memories I have of my first year in college is Jell-O wrestling.  I have absolutely no idea how, on the last Saturday night before classes started, my new roommates and I -- perhaps on our way to some black(er?) social event -- ended up amongst a crowd of fellow co-eds, standing on the dusty lawn of some random frat house watching students wrestle in a pool of mud and The Cos' favorite dessert, but there we were, equally befuddle and alarmed by the spectacle.  Whitley and Dwayne were not my classmates, but witnessing Jell-O wresting informed me that I was, indeed, in a different world.

Several eons have passed since that late summer night in West Lafayette, Indiana (Boiler up!).  I've registered and graduated and registered and graduated many times over.  In the interim, I imagine, there have been many, many more Jell-O wrestling matches featuring all too eager--and inebriated--co-eds gaining such learning on their parents' dime.  (Seriously, how much Jell-O does one have to buy in order to properly coordinate a Jell-O wresting event?  Sounds like a math problem to me.)  Since the only thing I've ever been in my adult life is a student, I've picked my own brain to come up with a few tips.  Call it my effort to compile a list of unhackneyed advice that just might help you during your first year (and beyond) of college.  You're welcome.

Cult Following: The Lovers and Friends Show

I'll readily admit that, The Golden Girls (greatest sitcom ever!) notwithstanding, I have rather asinine taste in television and film.  Seriously, my undying love for the good-n-terrible movie, Hav Plenty is well beyond absurd.  Still, I am compelled to temporarily cease from railing against the news and pop culture of the day (is this real life?) to encourage you, dear reader(s?) to watch--and subsequently become at least mildly enthusiastic about-- the webseries, The Lovers and Friends Show.

Monday Morning Mash-Up

Since I've only been writing here on Mondays, the blogging silence of the other six days often results in hateration build up.  Fortunately, I take notes.  What follows is a rather desultory dose of scathing haterade for your Monday morning.  Who needs caffeine?

Feel my body! gettin' cooooold.  As a friend said on Facebook, Wyclef can't get The Fugees back together, but he thinks he can fix Haiti?  Well, if it means that 'Clef will stop making records, then I shall feign Haitian citizenship and vote for him, and suggest you do the same.  I think hiring Cher of Clueless fame as a speechwriter would be a fantastic move for Wyclef.  It does not say R.S.V.P. on the Statue of Liberty!

Today in Post-Race History: Montana Fishburne

Several weeks ago, I had planned on writing the NAACP in an effort to convince them to ceremoniously bury the term post-race the way they did the word nigger a.k.a "the n-word" a few years ago.  Then the whole Shirley Sherrod debacle happened, and I decided that obviously the NAACP's race card had been suspended, therefore making them barely qualified to issue brown paper bag tests let alone march around some midwestern city long abandoned by industry, singing dirges for problematic words that are just impolite to use.  On Friday, I was glad I put the brakes on becoming pen pals with the NAACP.  I may need to use the term post-race--and not just to be a sarcastic bastard.