Monday, February 27

Trick, get off me

2000 zero zero party over, oops, out of time!

You go, New Orleans. Party like it's 1999, pre-Katrina. Get your King Cake on. Catch you some throws. Do it Big Willy style. Mardi Gras is headline news like never before. I've never seen so many of the neighborhood parades on TV.

I'm waiting, though, for glimpses of the legendary Zulu Parade.

Zulu Parade at Mardi Gras in New Orleans New Orleans Mardi Gras Zulu Parade

So here's a shout to all the people of New Orleans. You've been through a lot and still have quite a haul to go. Hope you're enjoying the spirit of your beautiful celebration wherever you may be.

A special holla at the 504 Hip-hop community. Happy Mardi Gras to the New Orleans hip-hop community Master P. Juvenile. Lil Wayne. Hot Boys. Chopper. Mystical... Many of y'all showed up in the aftermath of Kat. Hope the city lifts a light for your contributions and support in ways that make you feel real special.

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Saturday, February 25

Madea's Family Reunion: All finger-lickin' good

Tyler Perry's Madea movie reviewYou've gotta love Tyler Perry, whose Madea franchise just keeps blossoming as remarkably as a rose through cracked concrete. His Madea's Family Reunion, which opened yesterday, does not disappoint. Perry dialed up the casting and writing several notches in this one, and the soulful soundtrack is a must-have for my money, with lush cuts by Rachelle Farrell, Chaka Khan, Bill Withers, Al Green and others who can really sang.

Family Reunion strikes an awsome balance of comedic Madea moments versus, this time, a scandalously thought-provoking story line. Well, it's really the same story line, but there are dark, new underpinnings notably presented by Lynn Whitfield's character. (If you loved her Fatal Attraction persona in Thin Line Between Love and Hate, do not miss her in Family Reunion.) Lynn Whitfield works it wonderfully in Madea's Family Reunion. I felt a little like Dr. Lechter watching Lynn in this movie. Each time she appeared anew on screen, I'd mutter, "Love your suit." (Should've checked the fashion credits. Lynn's apparel was stunning.)

The film delivered on the dramatic tension that made Showtime's Soul Food series so compelling. (It didn't hurt that delicious looking Boris Kodjoe from the series is in Madea.) Boris Kodjoe, I'll always remember you and 'Terry' getting busy on Soul Food.  Yeow! And the two fresh-faced central characters who played sisters delivered rich performances.

Blair Underwood takes it to the bank as well. He keeps playing these psycho man roles, and I just love it. Blair Underwood plays the best nut ever. I can never recall the titles of these indie movies he shines in -- the one where he plays the devil and that other one where he plays the crazed hubby -- but he's got his own Denzel in Training Day repetoire going on in a way that hopefully will win him an Oscar some day.

A well-deserved shout-out also goes to Jenifer Lewis, whom many best remember for playing Tina Turner's mother in What's Love Got to Do With It. Did you know that Jenifer Lewis once was a Harlette in Bette Midler's troupe? Ms. Lewis, with whom I proudly share St. Louis roots, drops hot moments with a bit of a Strange' flair.

Last but not least, I was pleasantly surprised to see the faces of two legendary women in Madea's Family Reunion. I won't say their names so that you might enjoy the surprise, too. But their strong presence pretty much makes this film a treasure for the time capsule.

Bottom line on Madea's Family Reunion? Divas, divas everywhere and not a moment to think. Why? Because you'll be too busy laughing at Tyler Perry and his trifecta of zany characters. This time, surrounded by some of the best African American dramatists around.

Read more:

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Thursday, February 23

Shani Davis: The Father, Son and O.J. Ghost

Congrats to Olympic Gold Medalist Shani Davis.

Okay, I admit it: I've largely ignored the 2006 Winter Olympics. (Surprised, right?) I've only monitored the Games at low speed and from a distance, catching up only for a handful of the athletes. Primarily, African American speedskater Shani Davis who is from my neck of the woods, the South Side of Chicago.

Universal congrats to Shani, who's made history as the first black to win an individual gold medal at the Winter Games. But what's drawing me into Davis's story more than his achievements are the rumbling subplots that have risen above the cheers.

From my detached seat waaaaay over here in a corner -- as far away from Torino, Italy, as one could possibly be -- it seems that one day, the world heralded Shani the Man for his historic first win. Now, just three or four days later, I'm smelling vilification... Shani didn't run the race that could have helped a teammate break a five-gold-medals record... Shani didn't grin friendly for the NBC interviewer...

Is it my imagination, or is there always some massive hater party thrown for blacks in the spotlight on TV? Oooh: bitchy Omarosa and selfish Randall from The Apprentice. Ewww: Starr Jones this, Starr Jones that. Awww: that no B.S. hunk from Big Brother, or the kid from Real World who slapped the girl...

Now it's Shani Davis's turn in the limelight. So on your mark, get set. Let the Electronic Lynch Game begin. It's as if random black people are paying for the sins of O.J.

Dayum, it's been 10 years since that trial.

Well, if this isn't a throwback to O.J., it's clear that certain African Americans have the Zen ability to morph before the eye of a camera lens. You'd think there was a big uppity green Hulk lurking in each and every one of us, just waiting for our moment in the spotlight.

Hats off, though, to the the PR geniuses who know how to work these Evil Black Person angles. They deserve fat bonuses for so cleverly plussing-up viewership and ad dollars that are sagging.

Clicks to Miles Davis catalog, but explore as you like

Tuesday, February 21

E.v.e. ruff rydes with African royalty

This is mind-blowing. I've got a thing for the machinations of African dictators, and apparently so does rap star Eve of the Ruff Ryders. My twisted fascination with these elite power mongers led me to write a manuscript for a suspense novel years ago. In my story, the maniacal son of an African official enters the U.S. rap game as head of a record label. He is evil incarnate to everyone who does business with him, with the exception of a new female artist who has her very scandalous way with him. People suspect that something of the rap diva's Caribbean roots may be at play...

Fast-forward to the here and now. Rapper Eve It's as if Eve Jeffries picked up the signal of my story and is living the real la vida loco. She reportedly has been dating Teodorin Nguema Obiang, the son of Equitorial Guinea's wealthy, oil-fueled president.

Teodorin Nguema Obiang A 2004 U.S. Senate report found that Washington's Riggs Bank allowed Obiang and his associates to move millions out of government accounts into personal ones, reports the New York Daily News. The American-educated Teodorin holds the position of minister of state for forestry, environment and housing in his country, but reportedly spends most of the time at his mansions in Cape Town, London, Paris and Los Angeles. He also owns TNO Records, which, to date, hasn't produced many records, according to the Daily News.
People say "you can't make this stuff up." But I did -- complete with money laundering through the record label... Not that Mr. Obiang would ever do anything like that with his label. My characters aren't from Guinea, but otherwise, interesting similarities exist.

This news might encourage me to dust off the old manuscript and try to get it out. I don't know what the First Lady of the Ruff Ryder camp has been up to with her international playboy, Teodorin. But if she needs any ideas for how to work her connection to this intriguing family, I've got about 350 double-spaced pages of killer [*wink*] ideas to sell her. Good thing I did the copyright long before reading about this romance today.

Clicks to Miles Davis catalog, but explore as you like

Saturday, February 18

I see freaky people

What the hay-yell are you teaching YOUR children?
Ever trip off of your introduction to sex? Did your parents give it to you straight? Or did they send you deviant signals by making up ish like this?

  • I was about six when I overheard my mother and the lady next door discussing a rape that had occured in a nearby alley. All in their business and trying to keep up, I asked what "rape" meant. This was my mother's way of explaining the concept: "It means a man took a rake and raked leaves off a woman's body." And she demonstrated it -- raking -- so I could really get the picture. This boy looks ill to me, weirding out with that rake.
  • Another time, when the neighbor's son and I rummaged through shopping bags tucked in the back seat of my mother's car, we found some big old, spongy cone-shaped underwearish things. Sort of like this: Funny, she don't look like my mommie.  But those tittie cones sure look familiar... When she returned to the car, I sat in the back seat waving both of her white, cone-thingys in the air. "Mama. What are these for?" I asked coyly. She broke it down Like a Virgin. "I use 'em to bake cakes," she said, not really making eye contact. My boy and I knew what was up with the bra cups. But why? She hadn't exactly missed the bosom boat. I let her off the hook though.
  • My friend D's story was whack, too. Her mother warned her about letting a boy stick his "raw meat" inside her. So D. feared any boy who might try to get at her like this: All you freaks wear raw meat! I wonder where D thought the boys hid the ham, say during Geography. Teacher's pet
  • Another childhood friend, R., jogged my memory a few months ago about the hysteria that gripped the girls at our grade school: people we called charm molesters. Heard of them? Would he be 'magically delicious'?

...And you wonder why everyone seems uniquely throwed. At least medium-rare.

Clicks to Miles Davis catalog, but explore as you like

Friday, February 17

It's not over till it's ooooo-vah

You know what Lenny Kravitz said about things not really being over. Cheney says its over; the press doesn't think so at all. Which is why false endings are top of mind this morning. For example, the deliciously seasoned pork chops I ate last night have taken on a horrifying life of their own... They can't stop, won't stop, those pork chops... Arrrgh!Similarly, Dick Cheney may be suffering digestive issues, too. 'Cause the veep keeps saying fini about the Harry Whittington shooting incident, but the reality is that some shit just won't go away. You see, journalists with inquiring minds still want to know:

"Were they worried about Whittington's condition? Run What were the chain of events after the shooting? Dick What exactly happened that night?" Run Such unknowns have already sparked somewhat far-reaching speculation. While unproven and in some cases unlikely, lack of an official version allows such ideas to gain traction. Several journalists also point to the victim, Whittington, noting that he has not been interviewed by reporters or even released his account of the incident.
Reporters polled by Editor & Publisher still have a million questions, despite Cheney declaring this "case closed."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Ever have a favorite artist who just can't put out a new album fast enough? Then when finally something new is released, you cop it and feel high unwrapping the CD to give that long-awaited music a listen?

One of the few artists who lift me with anticipation this way is Lewis Taylor, London's #1 neo-soul brother, whose latest work is titled Stoned. And as usual, the music is ooooo-vah! Lewis Taylor is next-generation Elton John with a stone-cold neo-soul edge. For me, Lewis is a funk-rock-soul combination of Prince, D'Angelo and Mary J. Blige (whom I'd love to hear him burn a duet with). Check out his NPR interview.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Last but definitely not least, it's getting down to the wire on one of my favorite TV shows, Project Runway. The up-and-coming designer on the far right -- Santino Rice -- is still standing to the astonishment of many viewers, and has got to be singing that Lenny Kravitz song out loud.

If you're into this hot mess of a fashionista drama-rama, too, click this photo: Project Runway's 3 semifinalists are talented Daniel Vosovic, tight-seamed Chloe Dao, and Santino Rice (aka Mr. I'm too creative for my pants)

Clicks to Miles Davis catalog, but explore as you like

Thursday, February 16

New Orleans: Bring rubber boots to Mardi Gras

Like Uncle Sam, New Orleans wants YOU... to come and roll up your sleeves between Mardi Gras parades and sips from those cute little go cups. Writer Debra Cotton filed this entertaining but wholly enlightening piece at EURweb about le bon ton rolle that's about to go down. But she also makes a serious plea for Mardi Gras visitors to help clean up the Ninth Ward.

Clicks to Miles Davis catalog, but explore as you like

Wednesday, February 15

Silence of the Quails

Hello, Clarice... For Cheney, there's little 'Silence of the Lambs' Various Republicans are peeling from Cheney like translucent skins from fava beans. According to this Washington Post article, several are openly and unapologetically criticizing the poor judgment Cheney's exercising in the shooting incident of attorney Harry Whittington. It seems increasingly clear that ties to Cheney may cost many GOP re-elections across the country.

With so many finally jumping out of the line of Cheney's fire, I'm starting to feel a bit sorry for the president, who must be tossing and turning at night due to this Silence of the Quails thriller going on around him. Perhaps it's time to clean house. No one likes to admit a mistake or show disloyalty, but the POTUS might consider these perspectives:
  • Women in disappointing relationships often come to this conclusion: "I can do bad by myself." Even Agent Starling gets brave and goes it alone Men frequently express the sentiment of being dragged down this way: "With friends like this, who needs enemies?" Best Friends Forever: Buffalo Bill and Precious
  • Drug counselors might admonish Bush for being an enabler, something of an equally culpable party in keeping an addict free to drug. Silence kills
  • Even foreign policy guru Brent Scowcroft, who served with Cheney under George Bush, Sr., has said that he doesn't recognize the man who now occupies the vice presidency. Public life is increasingly a drag

I don't know. But if I were Mr. Bush, I'd consider it time to quit playing "the great big fat person" in this movie. It's getting late and it's just not wise to keep helping those with a habit of lurking on dark and secretive roads.

Clicks to Miles Davis catalog, but explore as you like

Tuesday, February 14

A Quail in the Bush (aka Fugget about Bush's brain. What about Cheyney's?)

Naturally, the late night talk show hosts had a field day with Vice President Cheyney's gangsta move, having allegedly shot a hunting companion named Harry Whittington. Hey wait... That tricky little word -- "allegedly" -- hasn't been attached by anyone to this story. What gives? Really. What does the absence of "alleged" mean? a retriever clamps down on a dead quail

Does it mean, "Yeah I shot dude. What about it? A gangsta is a gangsta is a gangsta Now get outta my face 'cause many men wish death 'pon me"?

Does this mean that, with the end of his term in sight, Cheyney grew upset when someone shouted "Quail!" Perhaps he assumed that darned Whittington jerk was making a joke about his impending lame duck status, calling him "Quayle" -- as in the legendarily dissed Bush Sr. veep Dan Quayle. Former Vice President Dan Quayle with Bush 1.

Quail Hunting on Brokeback MountainDid Cheyney, all true man, feel threatened in a Brokeback Mountain way? As they'd say in Hustle and Flow land, You know it's hard outdoors for a pimp. Brokeback Mountain

Whatever triggered this shocking tragedy, one thing is apparent: Cheyney's Got a Gun -- Betta run 'n hide. There was a mighty confusion going down. And I don't just mean in them there woods. This is The Brain on drugs?

Dick Cheyney - The Late Night punch lines

Clicks to Miles Davis catalog, but explore as you like

Monday, February 13

Just sharing a few snatched thoughts about Sly Stone, Dick Cheyney and the body guard of Busta Rhymes. Nothing very serious. Just stuff...

  • I haven't read the memoir by Carlos Santana's wife, Deborah, titled The Space Between the Stars. But just read a blurb about her having dated the man of the moment, Sly Stewart of Sly and The Family Stone. I learned of this in the context of a story that said Carlos had not been himself in the days prior to last week's Grammy Awards. Probably because he and Deborah would see her old flame, Sly, there. Even after many years of marriage, some insecurities just never completely go away. Well, Carlos... after seeing Sly on stage in all his lizardry, we doubt you should worry about your beautiful woman slithering away.

  • The death of Busta Rhyme's body guard is quite disturbing. Another senseless murder in the rap world, and the costly dragging through the mud of another rap star and producer, Busta and Swizz Beats. Sounds like there was an outbreak of hatorade over Swizz's beats. I mean, dude's tracks are killer but dayum. I guess Swizz's beats really are worth their weight in gold, so someone felt robbed of potential riches. Or simply bruised of ego, not having been given one of the man's brilliant tracks. And for this, another widow and fatherless child are made.

  • Now we know for sure Vice President Cheyney's aim is shot. And so is his friend, lawyer Harry Whittington. How the veep mistaked his bud wearing neon orange gear for a little brown quail is unexplicable. Except my imagination runs wild with possible explanations, as life is so often stranger than fiction. This begs lots of questions. Including, for me, the supposition that this was no accident. Maybe Whittington is the owner of some coveted "beat" that political rock stars would kill to get their war monging hands on... After Googling the victim's name, I learned that Harry Whittington, an old friend of Dubya's, is head of a Texas funeral services organization, S.C.I. And Mr. Bush and S.C.I. are implicated in some questionable FEMA contracts to handle the bodies of Katrina victims. Hmmm, perhaps the plot thickens.

Clicks to Miles Davis catalog, but explore as you like

Monday, February 6

Monday Morning Super-back: An ADD re-cap

There was a time when I could follow a football season all the way through. But those days are long gone. Now, I only watch the Super Bowl. And even that, I just can't stay properly focused on.

So I enjoyed watching my one, big game of the year last night. And here's why, as enjoyed in my own Adult ADD way:

5. For the first time in a long time, the game was actually better than the commercials. A nice enough number of interceptions and touch downs vs. generally lackluster ads tipped the scale this time, making me watch the old-fashioned way... I stayed put for an entire 60% the game, and for a change, dashed away from the TV for 60% of the commercials.

4. Best commercial I caught was for the Hummer H3, with Godzilla and the Gilla Monster (or whomever those Japanese monsters were). These enemy gigantors came together to duke it out, but wound up dating, doing the nasty, getting pregnant and ultimately giving birth to that Little Monster of a truck, the H3. Isn't love grand, a real gas guzzler... Me love 'em long time!

I also liked the Sprint (phone as dangerous, head-clunking weapon) and Burger King (Buzby Berkley fifties choreography) joints. But let me just say, that Burger King 'King' is the grossest looking character ever. Why would anyone eat anything from the platter of that creepy looking mascot? The Burger King looks like something vying for a starring role in the next horror movie franchise. Move over Freddie Krugger and Jason, the papier macher zombie King has come, looking like Mick Jagger in drag.

The worst ads I caught? The two Ameriquest spots. It's not that they were "horrible." Both were entertaining enough. But as a marketing person, I didn't feel the elaborate set up scenarios were strongly summarized by the ending copy points. I had to think too long about what it was that Ameriquest wanted me, a potential customer, to know about their services. In commercial land, you've got 30 seconds to sell the viewer. So at $2.4 million per Super Bowl spot, it should behoove a marketer to leave a fast and clear understanding of your benefits before the next guy comes up to punt.

3. In the absence of Janet Jackson and her star-spangled mams, I found other sexy tidbits to amuse me. A female announcer talked about a damaged player, that someone was pulling down his pants to tape up his groin. Yummy freaky stuff!!! Now I'm all for women sportscasters, but... this chick almost sounded as if she'd crunch a linebacker for the honor of ripping off that poor man's injury tape. Yeeeeoouuuuch!

2. The Star Spangled Horror. The Saturday Night Live skit predicting this mess was far more entertaining. (Keenan portraying an attitudinal Aretha: You betta think THINK! Think about gittin' me some biscuits!)

The highlight of the actual Star Spangled Banner? Condi Rice in the stands, happily grappling with the notion of whether to do a Janet Jackson. Yes sports fans, Conda-Sheezy was toying with her boob. Oh wait: she was just being patriotic, hand over heart for her country? Well, why didn't the camera show another soul in the stadium with hand-to-heart? Guess that sort of thing has become passe.

1. When I saw Mick Jagger toss what appeared to be a pair of panties back into the crowd -- gasp! -- I realized that a certain, craggly Rolling Stone was no longer equipped to gather moss. But what else would one expect from a 63-year-old, emaciated rock man running an Olympics-sized stage in geriatric Reeboks? And that heebie-jeebie prancing? The English (Burger) King moved like his Depends were besieged by crickets.

Clicks to Miles Davis catalog, but explore as you like

Sunday, February 5

Chuuch: Aretha's Super Bowl Boulder Holders

As they say in Jersey, "Allz I can say is, 'Ree-Ree, please keep your monumental footballs tucked tonight!'" Super Bowl time again! This would be my plea to my all-time favorite singer -- Aretha Franklin, The Queen of Soul -- regarding her complaint about tonight's Super Bowl entertainment line up not adequately showcasing Detroit talent.

Aretha Franklin will be among the Super Bowl entertainers. Um, Aretha, you're about the biggest thing to ever come out of Detroit (next to the SUV)... So why's your boob all twisted in a silver knot? Isn't there a pre-Game Motown-a-thon or something. (gag!)

I'm sorry, but I long ago OD'd on Motown. I mean, I respect the music of that era -- I'm so glad it existed and influenced the pop culture landscape. But dang:

  • At some point, we must put down the needle and stop screeching on Cloud Nine. Whit didn't show a tit. Of course, she no longer has any...
  • At some point, we just can't keep putting Mary Wilson in the position of having to catfight Dirty Diana. Dirty Diana can't keep beatin' down Mary Wilson for the mi-cro-phone!
  • And at some point, we must turn Smokey's relentless cooing of the words "Baby, Baby" over to Ooh Baby, Awww Baby.  It's singer-songwriter Ashanti, nawww Baby., whose yawn-inspiring writing is filled with more "Baby, Babys" than even Smokey's.
  • In other words, these people are tired of singing these 40-year-old songs. Almost as tired as some of us are of hearing them.

    This is precisely why I was the only person in America who missed the most memorable moment ever in Super Bowl history. I missed Janet Jackson's star-spangled nipple. I'm still numb from the oversight. (Or was it an undersight?)

    See, Janet was singing a medley of OLD SONGS right before she and Justin Timberlake popped that infamous A piece of Janet Jackson !! Because when these same old singers start digging too deeply in the old vault, I take it as a cue to start doing more interesting things. Like monitoring my toenails for evidence of toe jam. Bored stiff and annoyed that old-ass Control was being lip-synched at me, I looked away from the TV for just a moment and -- bloop! I missed tit. I mean, "it!"

    So dearest Aretha, do not have an on-air hissy tonight. Try to keep them big ol' Mamma Jammaz outta sight. Aretha Franklin Unlike with little Janet, the boys on the field do not have helmets hard enough to survive a release of your Over the Shoulder Boulder Holders.

    And please do not go all Kanye on us, going off script with shocking statements like, "The NFL president doesn't like Motown 45 RPM disc. ". Or old people. Or whatever. This just couldn't be true.

    You're there. And they don't get much older than the blue-eyed soulful Rolling Stones.

    So Aretha, recognize:

    You're All We Need to Get By!

    The Queen of Soul!

    Note to Mick: Don't you dare unzip your pants! Dirty Old Men Flashing your wrinkled weeny will not boost your sagging album sales. Don't believe it? Awww Mick Jagger will be the last dancing baby tonight., just ask Janet.

    PS -- Go Bears!!! (Or whomever.)

    Clicks to Miles Davis catalog, but explore as you like

    Friday, February 3

    The G.O.A.T.

    I attended a wonderful Black History Month event last night. It was a movie screening for a new documentary called "Will to Survive - The Gullah and Geechee Nation." It'll broadcast nationally this month, so check your local TV listing if you'd like to see it.

    I'm really quite surprised that so many black folk have never heard of the Gullah or Geechee. Like my family, they are descendants of slaves. But unlike the folk in my 'hood, their communities have retained many of the original African traditions. They're sort of like the Native Americans, but from West Africa.

    The land they occupy stretches from the Charleston, SC area to Jacksonville, Florida -- including lots of little islands off the coasts of the Carolinas, Georgia and Florida. Sapelo Island, off the coast of Georgia.The fabulous resort town of Hilton Head was historically Gullah. That is, until real estate developers moved in and turned it into a tourist hot spot. Losing their quaint, coastal land and nearby islands is, indeed, what the Gullah and Geechee expressed concerns about in the "Will to Survive" documentary. They also fear extinction, as their population has dwindled so over the years.

    Before attending this event, I mentioned to a number of friends that I'd be seeing this film about the Gullah and Geechee. Two of my friends asked, "The WHO people??"

    I found myself lapsing into song to help explain what the heck I was talking about. "You remember that LaBelle song, right? Geechee, Geechee ya-ya nah nah... Creole lady marmalade?"

    LaBelle"Oh!" one cried. "Is that what the hell Patti was talking about? I never knew."

    Another said, "Okay. Like the Maroons in Jamaica?"

    "Um... yeah," I replied. "Kinda. The Gullah and Geechee do still speak a tongue that has lots of African dialect in it. A pidgin English."

    I half expected this one to say, "The Pigeons?! Now I definitely haven't heard of them. Where exactly do they live?"

    "Right outside my house, crapping all over on my dang car!" I would have informed her. "Wanna come check 'em out?!"Heckle and Jeckle, my old cartoon pals.

    Anyway, the chieftess of the Gullah and Geechee Nations was in the house. Her name is Queen Quet. Queen Quet, chieftess of the Gullah-Geechee NationWhat an awesome sister, a well-educated historian and traditional performer who remains committed to advocating for her people. She entered the auditorium singing an old spiritual, then talked a while on-stage in the native tongue (which most couldn't understand) before landing on regular English and telling us about her beautiful people. Gullah basket weaverQueen Quet talked about how they still basket weave and live off the land, net fishing daily for their meals in the Atlantic. I loved the name of one of their charming fishing spots, Nanny Goat Beach.

    Somewhere along the line, I realized that an ex-boyfriend, C., from long ago was probably from a Gullah family. His grandmother still lives in Charleston, and I could never understand a single word the gentle old woman uttered. Like the people shown in the documentary, C.'s family was addicted to eating tons of sticky rice with every meal. C.'s momma would freak OUT when her Hummer-sized sack of rice became only one-third full.

    So now I feel a little guilty. I blew my chance to help save an entire nation. I should have given this man lots and lots of Gullah babies. Then one of the boys could have grown up and become a rapper. A sensational cross between Sean Paul and Mos Def -- two of the G.O.A.T. (Greatest Of All Time) who no one can ever decipher. He'd a been called Lil' Geechee, the gansta rascal. Stymie, my favorite Little Rascal.

    Clicks to Miles Davis catalog, but explore as you like