Cynique

The Only One Chapter 14 Wanda’s eyeballs bulged as she gripped her phone, dumbfounded by what Carole had just told her. “I can’t believe that you spent 6 frickin weeks creamin in your jeans over this nigga and then when he asks for your damned phone number, - you refuse him!” she sputtered. “Bitch, is you crazy?? “No, I’m not crazy,” Carole replied. “I don’t need Troy Briggs to throw me a few crumbs, leaving me to sit by the phone, hoping. Why enable disappointment? If he really wants to get in touch, let him find a way on his own. He has access to my personnel folder, let him get my number from there.” “Boy, have you changed your tune!” Wanda marveled. “ But - I’m glad you’ve come to your senses. I just hate that you let that lil white heffa beat you out. And you should’ve told that ‘sell-out’ Troy to go straight to hell!” Carole sighed. “I finally realized what I’m surprised you never suggested to me. I just wasn’t what Troy Briggs wanted in a woman. No accounting for taste. Let him have his ‘snowflake’. I’ve asked myself what I would do if I met an attractive white guy who liked me and had a lot of things going for him, - would I pass him up?” “And what was your answer? The same as mine would be. Hell no. Because if you had your choice between a black and a white guy with the same qualities. You’d go for the brotha! Troy Briggs is the loser here. You were too good for him, girlfriend, and don’t tell yourself nothin different! ” Carole swallowed back tears. “Thanks for your vote of confidence, babe.” “Yeah, and I’ll be by in a few. So slip into your glad rags and we can go hang with some of my “peeps”, away from all this bougie bullshit. You can get drunk. I’ll do the drivin!” “Sounds like a plan,” Carole said. “Better than going out with Albert. He called earlier to see if I wanted to check out a blues club, but the last thing I feel like doing tonight is sittin around listening to gloomy music, trying to make conversation with an oddball, - so I very nicely told him I had previous plans.” “Which you just made.” “But we did set a definite date to go see Esparanza Spalding the first Saturday of next month!” “Cool. Maybe you’ll find something to like about Albert.” “You never know,” Carole said, thinking it wouldn’t be the first time she failed to recognize what was right in front of her. The popular night club was in full swing, noisy and crowded, pulsating with thumping music, blinking with colored strobe lights, - an urban jungle crawling with party animals, drinks flowin, faces glowin, clothes tight, hair right, lustrous weaves, bald heads, permed tresses, dread locks, pierced bodies, tattooed skin, texting fingers, cell phone ringers, voices talkin, exes stalkin, everybody everywhere feelin warm, actin cool, askin names, runnin games, engaging in the mating rituals that would lead to the lies and excuses delivered by avatars speaking into voice mail ears. Caught up in the frenzy, snapping her fingers and hunching her shoulders, Carole stopped momentarily to peer at the “Cedric-the-Entertainer” lookalike who suddenly popped up, extending his pudgy hand. “C’mon, babygirl,” he grinned. “You look like you ready to get down!” Ignoring Wanda’s snicker, too tipsy to care, Carole accepted the offer and waded into the pool of gyrating bodies, following her partner’s lead, pumpin her fists, shakin her booty, dancing away the… …night was cold and dark, the room dim and stuffy. The uneasy young woman seated on the edge of a couch scowled at the man hunched next her. “It’s time for me to go,” she announced, her disgust obvious. “You really misled me,” she accused, recoiling as he tried to put his arm around her. And when she attempted to rise, quick like a cat, her host pushed her back down. Stifling her cries as she tried to struggle, he grabbed a nearby hand-weight and began to strike her on the head again and again, until the only sound bouncing off the walls was the howling of BB King’s guitar. “You’ll leave when I’m ready to take you,” the man panted, yanking at the panties of his blood-covered victim. Philip Atkins took another swallow of his morning coffee and shuddered, the image of a brutally-murdered female still vivid in his mind, the stench of a garbage dumpster still lingering in his nostrils. “I’d like to get my hands on the depraved ass-hole who’s doing this to these young women,” he said to his partner, Brooks Jones, as they pulled away from the crime scene in their unmarked car. Brooks gripped the steering wheel, and stared straight ahead. ‘You know,” he began slowly, “some serial killers like to play mind games. They get bold and begin to take risks, just to taunt the police.” “Is that why this latest victim was left outside the dumpster instead of inside it,” Philip quizzed. “Could be,” Brooks nodded, “the possibility of his being spotted by someone could provide him with a thrill as gratifying as the actual sex act.” “So do you think this means we can expect the bastard to start baiting us with clues?” Brooks face was a blank. “I wouldn’t be surprised.” “”If only we could have some luck in finding out the last suspicious person to be seen with any of the victims!” Philip griped. “Like all serial killers, this guy is clever,” Brooks said. “He covers his tracks. Probably used disposable cell phones when he communicated with these broads.” Philip lit a cigarette and exhaled a gust of smoke. “We just gotta hope that somewhere out there, there’s one chick who will realize ahead of time that this sucker ain’t somebody she should be alone with and – “- that she doesn’t make him mad,” Brooks interrupted as he sped through a yellow light. She’d played her cards right after all, Carole silently rejoiced, as a contrite Troy Briggs tenderly took her hands in his. He did find a way to contact her - had called, - had invited himself over, - had confessed that as much as he tried to resist her, he knew when she withheld her phone number, having it was suddenly the thing he wanted most in the world! Her rebuff was all it took to make him realize that Debbie Marlowe was - just a passing fantasy! “Now all I want to do is keep it real,” Troy was saying as standing there in the middle of her front room, he pulled her closer. “Bickering with you was child’s play, but it also turned me on,” he revealed, “made me want to get you between the sheets and - show you who was boss.” “All I’ve ever wanted was for us to get along,” Carole sighed as they locked eyes and he took her in his arms, their mouths meeting, her parted lips welcoming his hungry tongue as just then Albert broke into the room, a knife in his hand, his face contorted with rage! Hardly able to believe what was happening Carole screamed in terror and... …bolted upright in her bed, trying to catch her breath, which coincidentally reeked with the smell of stale alcohol. She knew she shouldn't have had that 3rd Long Island Ice Tea at the club last night! Reality was hectic enough without having dreams turn into nightmares! Clutching her throbbing head, saying good morning to a hangover, Carole pulled back the covers and headed for the bathroom. She needed a speedy alka-selzer. - stay tuned, as this black yarn continues to unravel -

Beyonce's beauty doesn't have to do with her skin color. Whether light-skinned or dark, she would still be beautiful because her face has good symmetry, and her skin is smooth. She looks just as good without make-up as she does with it. She and Halle are both full-chested, broad-hipped, long-necked women, traits which are testaments to their African heritage.

Democrats are also plotting ways to get white votes. That's the name of the game, boitumelo. This election is really up for grabs. Obama is certainly not a shoo-in. Romney is so slippery and glib that he doesn't inspire passion. People don't like or dislike him so they look past him and focus on the economy and the fact that he represents change works in his favor. Obama, on the other hand, is either loved or hated and where the economy is concerned, he is either criticized or defended but, in either case, nobody wants more of the same. Maybe female voters will be who comes to Obama's rescue, because they don't want nobody messin with their right to control their bodies. Promises to alleviate the burden of student loans might also attract a certain element of the young voters. to his side If the vote ends up being close, I'm sure the loser will contest the count and America may very well be in a state of turmoil for months. The electoral college might even be declared unconstitutional. All this is what happens when the great melting pot cools off and the different ethnic groups begin to congeal instead of blend. Even more threatening is the possibility of a class war. JC, if ya comin back, hurry up, Bro. Babylon is in trouble...

A President is always in danger. That's why the sercret service exists. Considering the polarized climate of the country and since we don't know the personal politics of the guys who work for this organization, I stand by my statement that any one of them might hesitate before taking a bullet for a black president. It's not the degree of danger, but the degree of dedication of these federal employees who earn a salary to give the impression of being viglilant and efficient when, in fact, this scandal proves that they aren't any different from the average Joe. There are a lot of nut cases out there and Obama seems to inspire a particularly toxic form of hate because it's fueled by bigotry. If Obama does win a second term, who knows how sore losers will react???

Doesn't appear that President Obama's safety is a priority of the Secret Service agents. These guys are supposed to put their lives on the line to protect the president, but I bet if push came to shove they wouldn't do it for Obama. Just another example of how disrespectful those in high places are of this black president. Ted Nugent is a loose cannon and he needs to be muzzled. If anything happens to Obama, MItt Romney has to share the blame because he courted Nugen'ts endorsement and has not censored his incendiary comments. Obama and Romney are running neck and neck in the most recent polls and no matter how much money Obama's fund raising racks up, it won't neutralize racism! This campaign is going to get real ugly.

The Only One Chapter 13 Time passed, the second week being a replay of the first one, - Tuesday a replay of Monday, all to the chagrin of Carole Everly who was forced to watch Troy Briggs and Debbie Marlowe play out their mating game. Then, it was Friday again and, with her being a glutton for punishment, Friday wasn’t something Carole was inspired to thank god for since this one would be Troy Briggs’ last day at her branch office. A study in wistfulness, Carole sat there in the bustling cafeteria of her work place, the setting that had been the backdrop of a drama which for 6 weeks had played itself out around a table top littered with crumbs. Her role in “the-special-of-the-day” chronicles” had been that of a character who was the object of rejection, and with the final curtain about to drop, it was all she could do to keep from taking a bow for doing a stellar job of playing the part of a silly fool. Munching on a cheeseburger, digesting her thoughts, she couldn’t help but wonder for the umpteenth time why she had let herself go so ga-ga over Troy Briggs? Why had she allowed him to sweep into her life and brush her off?? Why??? Then she regurgitated an explanation. It wasn’t really that complicated. She just happened to be a - practical romanticist, something that happened to make her an easy mark for Troy Briggs who just happened to be a complete package. He was fine, sexy, smart, witty. Had a good job. A college degree. A nice car. No kids. And he was eligible. He was also something else. Intriguing. Sending out just enough vibes to let her know that he was aware of her, she was intrigued by how she could tell when he would momentarily check her out from a distance because she would suddenly become electrified. And then on the times when their eyes actually met, how entranced she was by the indefinable glint that always flickered in his. This was what had really hooked her! Unfortunately, the chemistry wasn’t mutual, and the bottom line was that this intriguing, eligible, lightning rod with the glint in his eyes was just not that into her. She didn’t have to read the best-selling book on this subject. She had lived it, wallowing in her state of denial, victimized by her overreactions. So here she was, wracking her brain. Sorry she had let the black sisterhood down, sorry for not being able to turn Troy on, sorry for wasting her time on a delusion, sorry for being sorry. She was also weary, weary of - beating a dead dog to death. Let the mutt rest in peace with his shaggy bitch. It was time to end the pity party and accept that she was not the cure for the Debbie Marlowe virus that had infected Troy with jungle fever. And that was that, she mumbled, washing these words down with a swallow of diet coke. Unable to suppress a sigh, she then half-heartedly reached for her James Patterson book, hoping to be rehabilitated by an Alex Cross visual. “You look like you just lost your last friend,” a familiar voice said a few minutes later, and Carole looked up to see Troy Briggs standing there, turning her into a sucker for eye-candy. Almost as if deliberately providing a final impression for the benefit of her desire, he was impeccably attired, rockin a charcoal grey suit, a pale blue shirt, and a striped burgundy tie, - well-tailored and well-groomed, the facets of his gold cuff links radiating beams of reflected light! SuperBro, himself, irresistible in all of his buffed, square-jawed, cleft-chinned resplendence! Be still, my heart. “On the contrary,” she said in reply to his comment, forcing herself to smile, glad she had also made an extra effort to look her best in the slim jeans that hugged her curves and a frilly chiffon blouse in a shade of lavender that flattered her coloring. “My friends are all alive and kickin,” she assured. "Never at a loss for words, are you?” he asked and much to her surprise pulled out a chair and sat down. “What can I say?” “That I’m right.” “You’re right.” He chuckled and took note of her book cover. “I’m a fan of the Alex Cross series, too,” he said. “I like a good mystery.” “I’m surprised to hear that.” “Really?” “Really.” “I’m surprised you’re surprised.” “Really?” “Really.” He took a deep breath. “Today’s my last day,” he said, after an awkward pause. “I know,” she replied. “Just wanted to say, - it was nice workin with you.” “Same here. Thanks for not writing me up when I had a run-in with that crazy customer.” He grunted. “That was just you being you,” he mocked, surveying her as she picked up a white paper napkin and tossed it at him. Keeping her eyes lowered, she was titillated as usual by his visual inspection. He cleared his throat then and stood up. “If you wanna give me your phone number, - write it down,” he instructed. Not liking his cavalier attitude or - his snide remark about her reaction to the irate customer who had called her a “nigger”, she retreated. “For once, - I’m at a loss for words,” she heard herself drawl, biting her lip, as she watched him shrug and walk away, the door to his bedroom eyes slammed, the entrance to Debbie Marlowe’s boudoir opened as he headed for the table where she had just shown up and taken a seat. Driving home from work, blasting an urban contemporary radio station instead of the smooth jazz one she usually cruised along to, Carole was in the process of convincing herself that as far as the Troy Briggs fiasco was concerned, time would heal all wounds, and tomorrow was another day. In the meantime, all she could do was dry her tears and hit the “delete” button on her Troy Briggs link...even as she continued to wonder if the reason for his ignoring her the rest of the day was because her lunch-hour rebuff had gotten to him… But, wondering was all she could do because Troy Briggs was now history, and… …she flipped open her singing cell phone, before dropping down on her bed. When she heard Albert’s high-pitched monotone say “good evening”, Carole experienced mixed emotions. “How ya doin?” she responded to his greeting. “Not too bad,” he said. “And you?” “Okay.," she replied. " ‘Just thinking about you earlier, wondering if you knew that Esparanza was due in town the first week-end of next month.” “Yes, I read it in the paper. Do you still want to catch her engagement?” “For sure.” “How about we set a tentative date for the Saturday night show.” “That would be great. We can get back in touch before then and make specific arrangements.” ”Good enough. But the reason I’m calling tonight is to see if you might want to take in a blues club this evening. If you like jazz , you should appreciate blues.” “Right, they’re - comparable in certain ways.” “Exactly.” “I‘m just sorry that - I have previous plans, and have to turn down your invite,” she said, hating herself for lying. There was a deathly silence at the other end of the line and Carole felt uneasy. “Well, maybe another time,” he finally said. “Yes,” she concurred, “Another time will be good.” “Hopefully,” he said, his voice suddenly taking on an edge. “Enjoy your night out and I look forward to seeing you later,” he added before the phone went dead. Carol kicked off her shoes and sat there, staring into space. Poor Albert. She could certainly empathize with him. And gradually she began to feel contrite. It really wouldn’t hurt to have accepted his invitation What did she have to lose? Being nice to him wouldn’t kill her. Maybe she should call him back... - to be continued as this slice-of-life urban tale draws closer to a conclusion which results in the unexpected…

You're talking revolution, WaterStar. Our capitalistic form of rule is, indeed, very flawed unless you're super rich. A socialistic government would be more equitable and beneficial to everybody. That's why it's so ironic that all of these tea party right wing middleclass conservatives are ranting about socialism and too much government interference in their lives when it's corporate America who is ruining and controlling the country with the greed and monopolies that private enterprise spawns. The only way to trigger significant change would be to overthrow the present government and seize power. Not a chance of this happening because inspite of all the blatant disparities, the average American still dreams about cirumventing obstacles and becoming RICH! The love of money does seem to be the root of all evil. Not to mention that "power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely". Once again I invoke the old adage that: "he who travels fastest, travels alone". Shouldering the burden of your race and your class is taking on a lot of baggage. An individual has to try and find a away to make the system work for him if he wants to thrive. And there's always philanthropy for those who feel guilty about getting rich and not paying taxes. And for the "spartans" among us, there is always the self sacrifice of altruism. For everybody else, unless you win the lottery or you or yours have the potential for sports or entertainment super stardom, then you're just "shit-outta-luck" or S.O.L. as we old school folks say. But the operative word with me is "old". For your generation maybe hope can be energized.

I don't believe this story. Why? Because you're obviously a creative person, someone who, rather than employing mudane rhetoric to tell a cautionary tale, would instead use an allegory to illustrate the deviousness of glib politicial leaders.

Is there a war on the poor? There are all kinds of programs available to them. In fact poor people, like prison inmates, are products that support an industry. Welfare and all of its divisions employs thousands of people to provide for the needy. Food stamps are good business for grocery stores and Section 8 rent subsidizes are profitable for landlords, green cards make money for hospitals and clinics. The rich have corporate welfare scams, but the abandoned middle-class is left to fend for itself while shouldering the tax burden.

Driving along, on her way to work, Carole found herself in better spirits, and neither the aggravation of the rush hour traffic, nor the cold dreary weather, nor the stupid chatter on the “morning drive” radio station could affect her upbeat mood. Renewed by the visit to her parents, motivated by the worthy cause that had sprung from her self-realization, she was now ready to disperse the dark past by taking on the role of a torch bearer for misunderstood black woman. Earlier, staring into the mirror as she stood over the wash basin brushing her teeth, she had given herself a lecture. Troy Briggs was not out of reach. He was a part of her daily environment. And he was up for grabs. So, playing it cool was no longer an option. She needed to take advantage of this situation and become more aggressive. It was time to start charming Troy instead of challenging him. After all, as a woman of color, wasn’t she descended from a long line of temptresses that included the legendary Queen of Sheba, - an inspiration that served to ennoble her. Selecting an outfit for the day she decided on a classic little brown sheathe with decorative gold buttons and gathered sleeves, a dress designed to be as provocative as it was modest. She would also exchange a couple of her posts for a pair of large earrings that dangled in a tantalizing way. She’d even tweak her make-up, wearing a darker shade of eye shadow. Lip gloss, yes; lipstick, no. No cologne, either, - just lotion with a musky essence. And how lucky, she told herself, that enabling her new approach was a ready-made scenario. Troy was her supervisor. He was there to oversee her performance, there to assist her, there to answer any questions that she had in regard to doing a better job.What better way to win him over than to demonstrate her admiration and respect for him by seeking his advice about the constant work-related problems she had heretofore been solving on her own. Stroking his ego, giving him a chance to impress her, was the first step in captivating him. Right, Steve Harvey? And with the embrace of this new attitude, it was like Carole had died and gone to cliché heaven as all the old sayings kicked in: anything worth having was worth fighting for; where there was a will, there was a way; winners didn’t quit and quitters didn’t win. But what a difference an hour in the light of day made as, walking through the parking lot of her place of employment, she spotted them: Troy and Debbie strolling ahead of her, obviously enjoying each other’s company, lost in their own little easy going world that was undoubtedly free from the friction that chafed her encounters with Troy Briggs. Debbie, the bleached-blond ditz. Carole, the cropped-haired dummy. And when Carole waved to them, the way they’d barely acknowledged her greeting, immediately set the stage for another cliché to loom into her outlook: what the fuck. Let Troy and Debbie go on their merry way, detached from everything but each other. And it was really disconcerting to observe how they actually looked as though - they belonged together! A few minutes later, settling down before her computer, insult was then added to injury, when Troy didn’t even bother to look her way as he breezed by, smiling to himself, undoubtedly thinking about Debbie! Stung by his insensitivity, Carole had a sudden change of heart. What had she been thinking?? Sucking up to someone who had never even reached out to you no longer seemed like such a great idea. Carrying the sisterhood banner was not about groveling. It involved a degree of pride. Troy Briggs was a flawed mortal, - not some god in whose presence she was supposed to humble herself. Having a crush was one thing; being crushed was another. And it hurt. Was this her payback for treating Albert so shabbily? Whatever. The next time he called, she’d make an extra effort to be nice to him! Back in the moment, her “knight in tarnished armor” would be riding off in 2 weeks, so she would let the damned chips fall where they may, just take things… …“one day at a time,” she quivered to a sympathetic Wanda that evening, as she poured out the latest serving of her bottled-up romance. “That’s all you can do,” Wanda counseled, “and while you’re at it, girlfriend, you need to ask yourself whose welfare is more important. Troy’s or yours?” “Good question,” Carole agreed, “which is why I’m waiting on a phone call from Albert. I just saw in the paper that Esperanza Spalding is due in town on the first of the month.” “Why don’t you call him?” “Strange as it seems, I don’t have a way to contact Albert, and I’ve noticed that what comes up on my caller ID is a different number for him each time.” “That’s a red flag!” Wanda said. “You sure this fool ain’t – married??” “I don’t know,” Carole contemplated, after a pause. “I didn’t really get the impression that he was the type to be a - serious player,” . “How about a - ‘serial slayer’ ?” Carole managed to chuckle. “Yeah, - he kills you with kindness.” “More than you can say for that damned Troy Briggs!” “Right, seeing as how my name ain’t… …Debbie Marlowe yawned as the “Sex and the City” re-run signed off, leaving her curled up in an easy chair, reflecting on how she totally identified with the characters on this popular TV show. Like the leading lady, she was an active participant in the dating game, free to sample a variety of interesting men, one of which was the delectable Troy Briggs. Yum. Reaching down to pet her snoozing Chocolate Lab, Debbie began to stroke her dog’s back, still thinking about Troy. He was a really cool guy and they were definitely on track for a hook-up once he returned to his home office, away from the glare of her co-workers who didn’t seem to appreciate that she wasn’t exactly twisting Troy’s arm when it came to their interaction. Now ready for bed, pulling herself up from the chair, Debbie stretched out another yawn. Yessssss, one day she expected to find a suitable man to marry; do the whole “house-in–the-suburbs-soccer-mom” bit. But in the mean time, pass up a chance to enjoy the company of a hunk who appealed to her, - and who might even be Mr. Right? No way! 2 more weeks to go! And the little matter of her and Troy being of different races only added to the excitement! She relished the idea of exploring new territory, something that appealed to her adventurous nature. She thought about how she’d always wanted to go on an African safari and now she was about to embark on her own version of one! She could just imagine her jungle guide, ready to pounce, his weapon bulging beneath his loin cloth, aimed at the wild thing hiding in her bush! What a sex tape that would make! As for her family, and everyone else, they’d just have to deal with what was no longer taboo. Welcome to the 21st century, folks! Sorry, Carole Everly, but you’ll still have your books to… …keep close to doorway the shadowy figure thought, shivering there in the cold darkness of the storefront where he kept a regular vigil. Carole Everly had a habit of peeking out the window before she retired for the night, he reminded himself. - to be continued, as a bend in the road leads to... -

Banning guns couldn't make things any worse. Drive-by shootings would certainly be reduced in frequency. But what about protection from aggressive people? Well, to ward off crime and robberies, law enforcement officers and security personnel should stick with taser guns and law-abiding citizens could rely on mace for self defense. To nip the problem in the bud, schools should also start at the kindergarten level brainwashing youngsters about the negative ramifications of random violent acts. So many of today's young perpetrators seem clueless about the consequences of committing murder, and how lives can be forever ruined by one impulsive act. Chris Rock has suggested banning the manufacture and sale of bullets. Not a bad idea. Of course, none of this will ever happen. It would put too many industries out of business. There's money to be made from the ripple effect of one individual being shot by another one.

I have lived long enough to realize that, in the scheme of things, life is cyclic, and that time is what brings change, WaterStar. The problem with me is I remember when things were so much different than they are now, and while different is not always better, considering the present state of the black community, different is better. For one thing, overt racism has re-surfaced and this may or may not have contributed to how callous and aimless and superficial so many young black kids have become. I see it every day; the coarseness, the foul language, the hostility, the beligerence, the false values, the ignorance, the disrespect for authority that dominates, and obliterates the positive. I am blocks away from a high school that is all Black and Hispanic and when school lets out it like a fuse has been lit. The police are fixtures on every corner to keep peace. In the past 3 years over 40 people have been killed by gun fire in this suburb which used to be a quiet, idyllic, little village. When summer vacation comes, the streets are "runways" for pregnant teen-age girls parading around. Even one of my own grandsons makes me want to throw up my hands and holla. I know, I know, it's not only black kids, but these are the ones I'm concerned about. Let White folks worry about their own. I'm sure the pendulum will swing back and, in time, things will reverse themselves because that is a natural law. The reason I bitch and moan so much about how things have deteriorated is because I'm in the twlilight of my years, and I won't be around to see the dawning of a new day. But, that's the way it goes.

Thanks for bringing this provocative book to our attention, Waterstar. I've never heard of it before and it really sounds interesting, not to mention eerie, and possibly prophetic. What's fascinating about its subject matter is that America's present day drama featuring a black president has not yet played out, and who knows what the future holds with all of the forces opposing him. In the present, if the young black underclasses could only mobilize and realize that the path they are on is self-destructive, and that genocide becomes a self-fuflling prophecy when the males engage in violence and the females look for love in all the wrong places. It's almost as if the brains of black boys in the inner-cities have been wired to react to certain circumstances by going out and killing each other, while the young girls have a compulsion to reproduce. There are sinister overtones to all of this. On the other hand, the young black generation whose class status makes their existence less dangerous and their goals more positive seem to be programmed to focus on materialism rather than nation-building. But this is the trade-off when people have the freedom of choice and when visionary role models are few. The destiny of America is up for grabs.. And it remains to be seen whether the law of the jungle will prevail and only the strong will survive to lead and rule. Black people will be tested. Are they equipped to make the grade? Is extinction their fate? Or will they surrender to a type of neo-bondage that relegates them to the ranks of the second class, obligated to go along to get along? Or does salvation lie in the distant future, with the emergence of a new breed that will embody the best of all races???

The Only One Chapter 11 Much to her dismay, as days passed, Carole Everly found herself begrudging Debbie Marlowe her “happy gene”. Of course it didn’t help that if the attention of Troy Briggs was what made Debbie happy, she didn’t need a gene to keep her smiling, - something Carole wasn’t doing much of thanks to the glumness caused by her fixation on Troy Briggs. Troy Briggs - Mr. Contrariness, himself; the heart-throb who was giving her heart-burn, turning her into a smoldering spy. True, there was nothing brazen about their interaction but Carole discerned that a subtle flirtation was going on between Troy Briggs and Debbie Marlowe. She detected this because while pretending to read, she was able to keep these two under surveillance in the cafeteria, able to notice how at the crowded lunch table where Troy had become a regular, he and Debbie always managed to sit together and how they only had eyes for each other. She observed the private laughs they shared, and the touchy-feeliness of their physical contact. Sickening. And because Carole’s dying hopes were on the verge of becoming a fatal attraction, her survival instincts responded to a “911 call” when pulling out of City-Wide’s parking lot that evening. On sudden impulse, she did a U-turn and headed for the place where she needed to be; next to the window with ruffled curtains, seated in the dinette chair at the kitchen table that was lodged between the fridge and the stove and situated across from the sink which was surrounded by a wall of cabinets. She needed to partake of some comfort food, and bask in the healing warmth of unconditional love. It was time to go home. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Alma Everly asked, peering through her glasses at Carole. An attractive woman who had aged well, with her soft voice and sturdy build, Alma embodied both gentleness and strength and the unexpected appearance of her daughter obviously put these traits on alert. “My ESP told me you were havin greens tonight,” Carole kidded, helping her plate and settling into a seat, noticing how gray her mother’s hair was becoming. “There’s some left-over pound cake, too, if you want dessert,” Alma offered as she rested her elbows on the formica-topped table, fondly watching her daughter dig in. “Since I’m makin such a pig of myself, I might as well go ‘whole hog’,” Carole quipped, munching on a piece of ham. “Cut me a slice. Oink-oink.” “A few extra pounds wouldn’t hurt you,” Alma observed with a frown. “But they sure would put my clothes under a strain,” Carole said. “You look kinda drawn,” her mother persisted. “ ‘Wish you’d let your hair grow back.” “Long hair is high maintenance.” “Are you gettin enough sleep?” “Yes, Mama,” Carole assured, forking a sweet potato. “And the way this food is living up to its name, in no time at all, - my soul will be resurrected!” Alma was quiet a moment, continuing to scrutinize her daughter. “I’ve always felt the reason you were so comfortable in your skin was that you’re an ‘old soul’,” she finally remarked, “and I know you ain’t reached the point where you’re lettin’ something kill your spirit.” I’m OK,” Carole reiterated, digesting the food for thought her mother had just added to the menu, feeling more and more nourished.“Sounds like Daddy just came in,” she added, glad she would also get a chance to chew the fat with… …Robert Everly was a stable, hard-working man, glad that in a few more months he would be able to hang up his mail bag and begin collecting a pension from the Post Office. Once well-groomed, husky and full of pep, Robert was now balding, paunchy and worn-out, ready to take life easy and enjoy the fruits of his labor, proud of the accomplishments that included owning his own home and raising 4 children who had managed to survive all the pitfalls that confronted black youngsters growing up on Chicago’s south side. There was his married daughter Catherine now living in Atlanta, doing well on her managerial job the Coca Cola Company, and an older son Richard also enjoying success out there in Los Angeles, employed by the publicity department at Warner Brothers studios. And, yeah, there was the boozing, pot-smokin, lackadaisical Bobby, the black sheep of the family, maybe not thriving but getting by, pestered by a “baby mama”, collecting a paycheck on his latest job as a broom pusher at the hospital where Alma worked part-time as an admitting clerk. Last, but not least, was his youngest child. “Did you tell Carole to call and let us know she made it home OK?” Robert asked his wife, who had just to returned to the kitchen after walking their daughter to the door. “You know there’s a serial killer on the loose out there!” “She promised to phone,” Alma sighed. “And I hope she’ll be all right. I think she’s got man trouble.” Robert gnawed on a toothpick and burped. “Carole will be fine,” he said. “She’s a strong young lady. Any man who messes with her will be the one who’s in trouble.” Where his 4 children were concerned, Robert had tried to avoid favoritism, but Carole had always been his pet, from as far back as her pig-tailed, book-worm days. Carole who was so curious about everything, so well-informed, always so interested in his opinions, the daughter with the great sense of humor who everyone said took after him. Now she was even getting into jazz, his kind of music. Man-trouble, hell. Any of them young cats out there would be lucky to make some time with a fine lil chick like… …Carole couldn’t sleep. She’d been tossing and turning, still trying to make sense of her mind-set, finally concluding that her preoccupation with Troy Briggs was as much about pride as it was about infatuation, and it was now beyond the stage of being a school girl crush; it had become a grown woman’s calling. Troy Briggs had become a symbol. And what he represented was bringing out her competitive instincts, dredging up the demoralizing rivalry that she, as a black woman, fell heir to – a nemesis that had many faces, but whose skin color was more often than not, white. White women were put on pedestals. Black ones were at the bottom of the heap. And anytime they tried to rise, they were dismissed for being too overbearing, or feared for being too angry, or avoided for being too critical and demanding. Their only hope was to channel their strengths in the right direction, cloak it in a different style. Carole wasn’t ready to concede that a “brotha” couldn’t be repossessed! If she wanted to strike a blow for Black Sisterhood and get over on Debbie Marlowe, she needed to get her mojo working. And she needed to do it soon because… …the days were winding down, Troy Briggs thought as he fluffed his pillow and settled under his down quilt, glad he would soon be moving into roomier digs. Glad, too, that his job detail was about to be up, and back to his home office he’d be going, leaving behind a possibility he hoped would culminate in reality. The stage was being set, and once his status changed, once he was relieved of his supervisory duties, discretion could be waived and the waiting game would be over. The time would have finally arrived for phone calls to be made, eye promises to be kept, body language to be translated, smoldering desire to be ignited! Troy thought about Debbie Marlowe, and he had no qualms about his intentions. How could he not go for it? Especially since she was sending all the right signals. Yeah, he could just hear the catty comments of his 2 sisters and picture the raised eyebrow of his mother, - just feel the glares of others, but screw all that! Why was he obligated to resist a white woman? He wasn’t some kind of a slave. He was an emancipated man, free to follow his color-blind desires. Free to exercise choices. That was what being liberated was all about! Wasn’t this the post-racial century??? Then, just as he was about to drift into fantasyland, a detour gave him pause, taking the form of someone he invariably snagged on. That doggone Carole Everly. Always pushing his buttons, challenging his confidence, whetting his appetite; her and her snappy comebacks, parading around in a tight red skirt and black leather boots. And he just wished he could’ve created an opportunity to let her know that he’d recently read a Walter Mosley book. But later for all of that! He’d had enough drama with the Coreens and Ashleys and - Caroles of the world. He wanted to try a new brand, taste a different flavor! He wanted to be able to just let down his guard, and have some fun! Convinced more than ever that he was ready for a change, Troy Briggs visualized a naked Debbie Marlowe reaching up to him, her pink nipples erect, her ivory thighs spread wide, her blond snatch throbbing, just waiting for him to drop down, and slide into… …the entrance that had been blocked, the jack-off thought, lying in the dark, wishing, and listening to the soaring lushness of a Sarah Vaughn ballad about unrequited passion. to be continued; only a few more chapters to go until…

The answer is "no"; not unless they want to be arrested and sentenced to prison, - if they escape such a confrontation alive. Is you crazy??

Young black kids are immersed in anxiety and fear, empathizing with the reality of Trayvon Martin's murder. Young white kids are awed and entertained, enrapt in a movie about characters in a fantasy world. Both of these groups are paying for this; for one, it's the cost of having the black skin that traps them in a world of danger; for the other, it's the cost of a ticket to a mutiplex theater that offers them escapism. And so it goes. Life is not fair.

The Only One Chapter 10 Troy Briggs looked down at his plate, at the juicy meat loaf, the buttered string beans, and the fluffy mashed potatoes puddled with a scoop of gravy. Then he glanced up at Carole Everly who sat across from him, trying to hold his gaze, wishing she stimulated his appetite as much as the food seemed to. “If you hadn’t gloated so much about the Knicks getting their butts kicked, I wouldn’t have held you to our bet,” he said, “A loyal Bull’s fan is allowed to gloat,” she smirked, “thanks to D. Rose.” “Yeah. And thanks to you for buying my lunch. That’s what I call taking a charge.” “Don’t mention it," she said. "Lucky Chicago didn’t lose, cuz my fixing a home-cooked meal might’ve resulted in an - alley oops!” He grunted. “I had no intentions of making you honor that stipulation of this sucker bet.” Carole’s smile faded, and she reached for her trusty book to fidget with. “What the heck are you reading now?” he demanded to know. “Just for a change of pace, - I’m checkin out some Jean-Paul Sartre.” He stopped in the middle of his chewing and gave her astonished stare. “I can’t believe you!” “Existentialism is a very interesting concept.” “Who needs that fatalistic shit?” “Anybody who believes in controlling their destiny,” she replied, impressed that he was familiar with this philosophy, ready to expound further when Debbie Marlowe popped up, pert and smiling. “Hi guys,” she chirped. “Mind if I join you? My gang went out to lunch today.” Troy was immediately transformed. “Have a seat,” he invited. “The more the merrier!” “What’s Carole doing?” Debbie asked. “Giving you a book report?” “Yeah,” he groaned. “Stating the case for - pessimism.” “Bummer,” Debbie said. “Just the thing to discuss on a gorgeous day like today!” “What’s so gorgeous about more snow?” Carole grumbled. “Oh come on, ‘Gloomy Gus’,” Debbie reproached, “It’s that time of the year. What’s winter without snow?” “Right,” Troy agreed. “How could anybody not at least appreciate the beauty of something as pure and white as snow?” “I’m a winter baby,” Debbie bragged, “born in February, - the reason I love this exhilarating weather!” “I was a cold weather baby, myself,” Troy said. “Born in January.” “Oh really!” Debbie gushed. “What’s your sign?” “Capricorn.” “Capricorn! I love Capricorn men! I should’ve guessed what you were. You’ve got Capricorn eyes.” “Capricorn eyes?” "Bold and expressive.” “Bold and expressive?” “Oh, yes,” Debbie assured, returning Troy's bold and expressive gaze. “How about you?” he asked. “What’s your sign?” “Aquarius. The water bearer.” Reaching for his glass of water, Troy raised it in a toast. “Here’s to the Age of Aquarius.” “And all the good things that come with it,” Debbie responded, smiling coyly. “I’m all about good things that come,” Troy winked and stood up. “Hate to rush off, but I have to head out for a meeting at the west side branch.” “Drive carefully,” Debbie urged, her lips coming very close to being a pucker. “And don’t get stuck in all of the beautiful white snow,” Carole muttered, feeling like an intruder, as once again she had been left in the lurch by … … “Troy!” a male voice yelled. “Wait up for me.” Hearing that name, Wanda Ewing’s ears perked up and she stopped dead. Quickly she peered down the aisle and spotted a male figure who, from the way Carole described him, had to be Troy Briggs! He was probably at her branch to attend the staff meeting scheduled for that day, and if she had to spend the rest of her break loitering by the water cooler, there was just no way she was going to pass up this chance to finally see if Troy lived up to the twat-twitching effect he had on Carole. Fortunately Troy Briggs and Stan Kowalski who had just caught up with him were headed in Wanda’s direction, strolling along, talking. Glad that he was preoccupied in conversation, Wanda scoped out the object of her curiosity through lowered eyes, sizing him up as he walked by. Still staring at Troy’s back as he and Stan dwindled into the distance and disappeared around a corner, Wanda stood there, slowly forming her opinion. Yeah, she had to give the brotha his props. Troy Briggs was a “dime”. But… was there something significant about him being in lock-step with that white boy he was walking along with? Bending down to quench the thirst that was the original reason for her being where she was, Wanda smacked her lips. She could hardly wait to hear from… …Carole sighed. “And just as soon as I feel like I’m making a little headway, I get shot down,” she said, wrapping up her phoned-in report on the latest episode of her Troy Briggs soap opera. Wanda gnawed on her apple core. “That damned ‘water bearer’ is puttin your fire sign out!” she assessed. “You gotta re-group, girlfriend. You can’t let that Aquarian bitch get your Capricorn goat!” Carole broke into laughter. What would she do without her confidant to remind her how depressingly hilarious the situation was! And from an existentialistic viewpoint, what difference did anything really make, she brooded after ending her phone conversation. A moment later, recalling how her response to Albert's suggestion to go see Jill Scott had been rather vague, she decided that if he did call back like he hinted he might, maybe she’d just say ‘yes’ - go along with an interested party who didn’t mock her and wouldn’t - stiff her. Ready to call it a night, Carole crawled into bed and… …curled up in a fetal position, the sofa occupant was a man-in-motion, his busy hands at work between his legs. The lights were off but the TV was on, re-running the 10 o’clock news showing an avid reporter thrusting a microphone into the face of the cop who was explaining how the "MO" of the suspected serial killer on the loose was always the same. Always the same is right, the jack-off seethed, glaring at the television screen. Turning him on…turning him down… turning him off, leaving him no choice but to turn the knot…turn the knot…turn the knot… - to be continued -

Repacking the Invisible Knapsack: White Privilege and the Killing of Trayvon Martin by Lori Latrice Martin | special to NewBlackMan Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack, a now classic work by Dr. Peggy McIntosh, addresses white privilege. Specifically, McIntosh outlines the unearned benefits that whites receive by virtue of their birth. Many whites, says McIntosh, have a difficult time seeing the daily profits associated with being white in America. She adds that while whites may acknowledge that racial and ethnic groups face disadvantages, most have been taught not to see white advantages. She describes the benefits associated with white privilege as “an invisible package of unearned assets,” filled with “special provisions, maps, passports, codebooks, visas, clothes, tools and blank checks.” McIntosh even provides us with a list some of the daily privileges she enjoys as a white woman that her colleagues, friends, and acquaintances of color, rarely experience. She says, 1. I can if I wish arrange to be in the company of people of my race most of the time. 2. If I should need to move, I can be pretty sure of renting or purchasing housing in an area, which I can afford and in which I would want to live. 3. I can be pretty sure that my neighbors in such a location will be neutral or pleasant to me. 4. I can go shopping alone most of the time, pretty well assured that I will not be followed or harassed. 5. I can turn on the television or open to the front page of the paper and see people of my race widely represented. In light of the tragic shooting death of 17-year-old, Trayvon Martin it’s time to revisit the list. The killing of Trayvon, an African-American male, at the hands of 28-year-old George Zimmerman, is an unfortunate reminder of the continuing significance of race. It is a reminder that the election of the nation’s first black president, while historic and powerful, is no match for the enduring racialized social system that has been at the core of American society since the birth of this great nation. Many of us have been telling anyone who will listen, that race still matters. Such calls were often dismissed by blaming the victim. Unarmed black men who have been met with fatal violent force, (and the list continues to grow), are often vilified. They were, “in the wrong place at the wrong time” or they were “up to no good”. Trayvon Martin was doing what many other kids were doing on February 26, 2012. He was getting a snack and talking on his cell phone, but for Zimmerman, and others, these very acts, when draped in blackness and clothed in a hooded sweatshirt, arouses suspicion. Now, a mother and father must bury their child. The killing of Trayvon Martin is heartbreaking. The failure to arrest George Zimmerman is an insult to fair-minded Americans, simply put, it’s an injustice. The circumstances surrounding the killing of young Trayvon Martin, adds more baggage to the invisible knapsack. McIntosh’s list must now also include the following: 1. I can be confident that if I give my son permission to go to the store that he will return unharmed. 2. I can be sure that if my son is harmed, less than 100 feet from my home, that efforts will be made to not only identify my child, but to also notify me. 3. I can be sure that the clothes my son leaves the house in will not be lead others to look upon him with suspicion. 4. I can be confident that, should my son be the victim of a fatal violent crime, that law enforcement will neither assume that he was the aggressor, nor take the word of his killer, without a thorough investigation. 5. I can know that if my son is killed that the killer will be the one tested for the presence of drugs and/or alcohol in his system. 6. I can be sure that, should my son be the victim of a fatal shooting, that individuals and organizations that support me in my effort to seek justice will not be called agitators and racial ambulance chasers. 7. If my son is the victim of a fatal act of violence and there are concerns about how the case is being handled, I can be reasonably sure that mainstream media will provide immediate coverage. 8. If my son is killed, I can be sure that, if 911 tapes exist, they will be released without me having to collect hundreds of thousands of signatures through the use of social media. 9. If my son dies at the hands of another, I can have time to grieve his death and not have to do the investigative work that is commonly done by law enforcement officials. 10. If my son is killed and the identity of his killer is known, I can be sure that the killer will, at the very least, be arrested. It’s time to unpack the knapsack and get rid of all this racial baggage. Justice for Trayvon Martin! *** Lori Latrice Martin is Assistant Professor at John Jay College of Criminal Justice where her research areas include race and ethnicity, wealth inequality and asset poverty. Professor Martin is currently working on a book project about black asset poverty in New York City. Dr. Martin specializes in Demography, Race and Ethnicity, Race and Wealth and Community Development.

This whole situation is out of hand with all kind of rampant rumors about who attacked whom. This case has become a racial powder keg because the fuse was lit by a gun happy wanna-be on a mission to protect his turf from the most dangerous threat in the world of white fear: a black teen-ager in a hoodie. Bottom line, the armed neighborhood vigilante should've followed 911's instruction to not stalk this kid and none of this would've happened.

Hi Waterstar! I guess I do remember that name from the past, and how we did used to agree about a lot of thimgs. Where ya been, and how ya been? Welcome back!

I still contend that Wikipedia is a quick stand-in for an encyclopedia, Trooooy. That's the subliminal message its name sends. And I suspect all of the data it provides is gleened from an encyclopedia then abridged and made current. And I still say that the main draw back of the printed encylopedia is how its information on a wide variety of subjects becomes obsolete because it's such a changing world and the changes that occur are not always big news in the media. Encylopedia Brittainica, itself, realized this and would put out a companion book every few years to reflect recent changes. But with Wikipedia, it's just a matter of hours when, say, the death of a high profile person can be recorded; the same with new scientific break-throughs and new astronomical discoveries and newly-awarded Nobel and Pulitzer prizes and newly-broken sports records. Yes , if you're relying on Wikipedia to find out stuff about a celebrity or pop culture, it can be biased, but the arts and sciences and classics are pretty universal in how they are viewed and debated. Wikipedia is a sign of our times. It's not anything to tout, but it fills the need for speed. It may not be an ideal academic tool but it rewards your search, if not your research. IMO.

In the year 2012 this is what can happen in America.

It was Monday, a new work week and maybe a new beginning Carole thought as, spotting an opening, she decided to go for it. Why not? Troy Briggs had no problem invading her space during break-time. So, she’d return the favor, using the occasion to try and smooth things over between them. Glad she had decided to glam-up while getting dressed that morning, she was an appealing sight in her black leather knee-high boots and the snug little red skirt that was set off by a flower-printed blouse with frilly sleeves and scooped neckline. Strutting her way through the congested cafeteria, she approached the table where her antagonist sat reading a newspaper, looking rather spiffy, himself, in a brown tweed sports jacket, open-collared white shirt and tan slacks. Hoping her 24-karat opportunity wasn’t fool’s gold, Carol stopped short, momentarily unnerved by the Sun-Times headline that screamed: “ANOTHER DUMPSTER VICTIM AMONG WEEK-END MURDERS”. “So, you think the Bulls are going to take tomorrow’s game?” she greeted as Troy Briggs looked up from the Sports pages, and gave her the once over, his stare stripping her bare. “What do you think?” he asked after a pause. “That they’ll be victorious, of course,” she answered, feeling deliciously naked as she slid into a chair. “Any given team can win a game on any given night in the NBA,” he contended. “Well, the odds do favor the better franchise,” she replied. “Better at what?” he challenged. “Basketball is about match-ups and role-playing, adjustments and shot-selection. It’s not just an exhibition for arm chair groupies pulling for the cute guy to do a slam-dunk.” She flinched. “What a - chauvinistic thing to say.” “Chauvinistic,” he repeated and chuckled. “When I made my prediction, I took into consideration that the Bulls have a well-balanced team, a deep bench, and - an MVP point guard!” He raised an eyebrow. “Is that right, - Charlene Barkley?” “Not only that, their opponents will have to deal with fatigue because they meet the Lakers tonight.” “You don’t say, Phyllis Jackson.” “I happened to have played a little basketball in high school,” she informed. “Forward?” “Guard.” “Bet you were you a ball hog.” “You’re just dribbling with repartee, aren’t you?” “Repartee,” he echoed, and smirked. “How about a little friendly wager on tonight’s game,” she tried. “OK, Michelle Jordan,” he yawned and tossed his newspaper aside. “If the Bulls win, you buy me lunch. But if they lose, - you invite me over for a home-cooked meal.” She could hardly believe her ears but, then, realizing what he had actually proposed, she laughed. “Talk about a free throw!” “That’s the way the ball bounces,” he taunted, the look in his eyes both a dare and a promise. Nearly mesmerized, she managed to speak. “Alright. It’s a bet.” Quickly he stood up. “Bet,” he agreed, and took off. Watching as he maneuvered through the crowded cafeteria, arriving just in time to walk out the door with Debbie Marlowe, Carole regained her senses. For a fleeting moment, the possibility of having dinner with her heart’s desire had elevated her spirits. But the way Troy had just broken his neck to catch up with Debbie brought everything crashing to earth! On the way back to her work station, there wasn’t much pep to Carole’s step, and she felt like kicking off her stiletto-heeled boots. What was this - vampire up to she wondered, bruised from the way Troy had just sucked her in. Was keeping her off balance a deliberate ploy? If he wasn’t her supervisor, would he be less devious? As if it would make a difference. The whole office was a hotbed of hanky-panky where everybody was sneaking around with somebody. Under ordinary circumstances, she could’ve brought sexual harassment charges against Troy Briggs for the provocative remarks he was always making. Except, who’d ever believe he would need to sexually harass his single co-workers, any one of whom would’ve welcomed his advances! Crossing over to her pod, Carole sank down in her chair, discouraged. The least she could now do was to ignore the ‘dip-shit’ who had just breezed in from break, looking all invigorated after his stroll with Debbie Marlowe. Or at least only observe him out of the corner of her eye… That evening Wanda had done the phoning, checking to see what was up since Carole hadn’t called. “What were you doin?” she asked her girlfriend. “Reading a stalker’s manual?” “No, a cook book,” Carole answered tersely, not ready to reveal anything more, not wanting to hear Wanda go on and on about how Troy had played her again. “A cook book!” Wanda exclaimed. “Yes, my mother gave it to me when I first moved out and I was just thumbing through it. It was actually rather interesting.” “You’d find the label on a can of beans interesting. So, does this mean I’m invited to dinner Sunday?” “No.” “Does it mean you’re going to stop calling yourself a – ‘jazz aficionado’ and become a gourmet cook?” “No. As a matter of fact I got a call from Albert tonight. He was checking to see if I wanted to catch Jill Scott who’ll be in town this week end.” “And?” “I turned him down. ‘Told him I’d just rather wait for Esparanza Spalding’s upcoming engagement.” “What was his reaction?” “I don’t know. I told you how strange he is. You can never tell what he’s thinking, but he did have some flattering new observations to make.” “Such as?” “He said the memory he has in his head of me was how my face had a mysterious - Mona Lisa quality.” “Oooh, shit,” Wanda groaned. “Be serious! Instead of Cleopatra and Mona Lisa, why the heck can’t you represent for - Helen of Troy!” “The same reason you can’t represent for the Sphinx and - just be quiet!” Carole rebutted. Later, climbing into her empty bed, Carole’s head was a jumble of thoughts, all about the same subject: Troy Briggs - so unlike the other guys in her history who, although jerks and losers and jive-assed niggas, had at least pursued her, told her how fine she was, and were frantic to get her into bed. As a challenge, was Troy really worth her effort? It was so frustrating and, with all due respect to Ralph Ellison, suffice to say that she was the victim of an invisible seducer; her imagination had gotten the best of her, and - out of sight was not out of mind! Emotional involvement could really be a bitch – in more ways than one. Was it now time to apply everything she had read in her collection of spiritually-correct, self-help books? When it came to getting her wishes, she was supposed to visualize and energize and think positive! If only this secret formula worked. If only it was Troy Briggs, instead of Albert, who was envisioning her face. On the other hand, why the hell was she letting that “dick head” rape her self-esteem?? Oprah and Tyra and Iyanla would be ashamed of her! So much to process. So much to ponder. But tomorrow was another day… …and nighttime could be the right time! Kneeling in front of her bedroom TV watching the Bulls play, her fists clenched, her shoulders hunched, Carole was a nervous wreck. “Go, baby!” she yelled as D-Rose drove to the basket extending the lead to 6 points. “Way to go!” she hollered seconds later as the visiting point guard sped down the court and answered with an outside shot, and was fouled. Heaving a sigh as the first free throw went in, Carole threw up her hands, wondering how she could be rooting for both teams. Troy Briggs was turning her into a complete idiot!? He was nothing but a ‘conceited con-man’! Wanda was right when she called him this after hearing about the stupid bet Carole had made! Behind their backs, some people referred to Wanda Ewing and Carole Everly as “the odd couple”. Hearing about this, Wanda had simply snorted. So damned what? Although she and her best friend had a few things in common, with her moon face and hefty body Wanda had never fooled herself into thinking that she had Carole’s grace and flair or charm and tact. So if contrasting personas made her and Carole a strange twosome, then - so damned what? Unlike her girlfriend, having never known a mother or a father, just a wise and loving “granma”, Wanda had been raised to be a survivor. And a survivor she was – a strong, street-smart sista with attitude to spare. It was as high school Freshmen that she and Carole had hit it off when the same first letter of their last names regularly paired them side-by-side in classrooms. Carole had appreciated Wanda’s down-to-earth feistiness and dry sense of humor, and Wanda had immediately taken to Carole, trusting the instincts that had always enabled her to spot phonies. In Carole, she had seen a sincere, intelligent, personable young lady, - the sister she had always wanted. Staying bonded after graduation, the two of them were once again in sync when, after a series of false starts, they had both ended up working at different branches of City-Wide Utility, handling customers by day, confiding in each other by night, shopping at the malls and hanging out at the spots on week-ends, partners in a unique relationship where the good-humored ridicule they heaped on each other was their special way of showing affection, knowing that at the core of their friendship was the understanding that they would always be there for each other, and when her phone rang just then, Wanda knew it was Carole. The Bulls game had been close, - gone right down to the wire, and Wanda had mixed feelings about the final… …result didn’t really matter, the figure coiled there, watching TV decided. The action was enough to satisfy him, it being as exciting as the frenzy of a be-bop solo by Charlie Parker! And he really liked it when things turned rough, - really got off when the players became violent, pummeling each other with their fists. Hockey could be brutal, and scoring required you to slap a little object around with a big stick! He could identify with that. Just thinking about all that mayhem gave the jack-off an erection and set his hand in motion. Tonight, he didn’t need music. His week-end had been productive and inside his head, he could still hear the solo performance of a screaming loser! - to be continued -

Go Get Skittles for Your Brother, End Up Dead: The Racist Killing of Trayvon Martin and the Murderer Who's Getting Away With It By Jill Filipovic, Feministe Posted on March 17, 2012, Printed on March 17, 2012 http://www.alternet.org/newsandviews/863511/go_get_skittles_for_your_brother%2C_end_up_dead%3A_the_racist_killing_of_trayvon_martin_and_the_murderer_who%5C%27s_getting_away_with_it An unarmed 17-year-old boy was shot and killed last month by a Neighborhood Watch leader. What happened? The kid was walking home after buying some Skittles at a convenience store for his little brother. George Zimmerman, a 28-year-old man who headed the local Neighborhood Watch, saw the kid and thought he looked “suspicious.” Zimmerman called 911 to report a suspicious person. The 911 dispatcher told Zimmerman not to follow the kid. Zimmerman did anyway, getting in his SUV and trailing the teenager. Some sort of confrontation ensued, and Zimmerman shot the kid to death. Zimmerman has not been charged with any crime. Apparently Zimmerman’s tactics were of concern to neighbors even before this incident. He’s been arrested before on charges of resisting arrest with violence and battery on a law enforcement officer. But he has not been arrested for shooting a 17-year-old kid. Oh, and guess the races of the parties. Just take a shot in the dark. The big problem here — aside from the racist killing of an unarmed minor — is Florida’s self-defense statute, which says that a person is justified in using deadly force if he “reasonably believes it is necessary to do so to prevent death or great bodily harm to himself or herself or another or to prevent the commission of a forcible felony.” A “reasonableness” standard is important in evaluating a self-defense argument. The key, though, is reasonable to whom? In many jurisdictions, deadly force is only justified if a reasonable person in the same circumstances would believe it was necessary to prevent death or great bodily harm. What’s interesting — and troubling — about the Florida statute is that it doesn’t include any duty to retreat (instead allowing force to be met with force), and it doesn’t require that a “reasonable person” would find the circumstances potentially life-threatening. It requires that the individual who used deadly forced “reasonably believed” that the use of force was necessary. It’s a small distinction, but an important one (and it’s Bernie Goetz all over again). A “reasonable person” would not think that a young black man walking down the street was a threat to his life. But an individual with a particular set of experiences and views might be able to convince a jury that he reasonably believed that. In a racist society, you can find a racist person who “reasonably believes” that the existence of a black kid is dangerous, and that a confrontation with a black kid — even if the white adult started it — is life-threatening. As the law professors say: But what is reasonable? Ekow Yankah, an associate professor of criminal law at Cardozo School of Law in New York, says that to some people, it is reasonable to be suspicious of a young black man walking alone in the dark. “We have to decide what counts as ‘reasonable’ to be afraid of, and nobody should pretend that that isn’t socially and culturally loaded,” says Yankah. Gregory O’Meara, an associate professor of law at Marquette University School of Law, agrees. “These ‘stand your ground’ laws license pistol-packing urban cowboys and paranoid people,” says O’Meara, who fought the passage of a similar law in Wisconsin. “We’ve all been trained to be afraid of black men, and if you’re afraid enough that justifies everything.” And since there’s no duty to retreat, the fact that Zimmerman left his own home and pursued 17-year-old Trayvon Martin in his SUV doesn’t matter. This isn’t a case where two people are sharing public space and one accosts the other; this certainly isn’t a case where someone breaks into another’s home or robs a convenience store and is shot to death by the homeowner or clerk. This is a kid walking down the street who, because he’s black, looks “suspicious” to a white neighbor who then calls law enforcement, is dissatisfied by their lack of response (apparently “there’s a black kid walking down the street” doesn’t always get a squad car immediately dispatched to your neighborhood), gets a gun, leaves his own home, gets in his car, follows the kid, engages in some sort of altercation and then shoots the kid dead. Under “stand your ground” laws, that very well could qualify as “self-defense.” even when the person “defending” himself clearly went on offense. This is about racism. It’s also about the genius on the right of passing all kinds of backwards laws that are inevitably used in the service of powerful people against the less powerful: According to the National Rifle Association – which has lobbied for and in some cases assisted in writing laws expanding self-defense statutes – since 2006, at least 29 states have passed amended self-defense laws that the gun rights advocacy group supports, including four last year. Although each state’s statute is slightly different, generally, this new crop of laws allows citizens to use deadly force on someone they reasonably believe is a threat to their life. Instead of having a so-called “duty to retreat” from perceived danger, a citizen can “stand their ground” and meet force with force. Some laws also create immunity from civil lawsuits for those found to have reasonably used deadly force. © 2012 All rights reserved.

I loved browsing through the encyclopedia when I was a student, and being someone who is "old school" I mourn the passing of the printed edition. The only problem I had with the encyclopedia was that when it came to current events, its information became obsolete very easily. New discoveries were made, famous and infamous people died, records were broken, awards given, wars started. All of these things could happen in a short time, leaving a new enclopedia in need of an update. Adding new info and inserting changes is a simple process with Wikipedia. In a society hooked on quick fixes, Wikipedia fits the bill. Research is one thing. A thumbnail sketch provides familiarity with a subject. Just depends on how much data you need for your purposes.