With the great RICHARD PRYOR firmly entrenched in a trench, and with DAVE CHAPPELLE teetering from being placed in a T.I. purgatory the only entertainment in town to talk to Black people without putting on minstrel gloves is AARON McGRUDERS’ ‘BOONDOCKS‘.
The show has gotten funnier each episode and I like the fact that RILEY will call anyone a nigger.
Now all Cartoon Network has to do is put STROKER & HOOP and SQUIDBILLIES on the set right afterwards.
One of the greatest players from the NBA’s golden ‘Tight Pants’ era was a true player in even the colloquial sense of the word.
WALT ‘CLYDE’ FRAZIER was an outstanding championship caliber point guard for the New York Knickerbockers. Off the court his street game was just as sharp. CLYDE wouldn’t have had a problem with the NBA’s new mandatory dress code. He wore Italian tailor custom made suits and alligator skin loafers on the regulack. CLYDE was known in some Harlem nightclubs as the ‘Playa from the Himalayas’ because of his penchant for wearing full length mink coats.
Peep how CLYDE really changed the game…
CLYDE was the very first athlete to parlay his smooth gamemanship and natural talent into a signature athletic shoe. The league was still dominated by fools wearing the classic Converse shoes. If you have ever owned a pair of those ill-fitting Converse then you must wonder as I do why they are still being made to this day. CLYDE’s signature shoe was made by a German company called Puma. Up to that point they had been known best for manufacturing shoes for track and field athletes. To add even more flavor to the ‘CLYDE’ shoe it was made out of calkskin suede. Subsequently, these shoes were too luxurious to be worn while playing basketball. The first pair of kicks that I ever bought with my own money was a pair of navy ‘CLYDE’s. They are part of the official O.G. B-Boy uniform and they are so sick with a pair of fat laces.
I love my Air Jordans just as much as the next, but all I am trying to say is that we need to respect the architects.
I see her every morning. Actually, every morning that I get to the Junction Blvd. elevated by 8:13 a.m. She is probably going to work. I think she is an advertising executive’s assistant account director or a mutual fund investment coordinator because she looks slightly conservative and yet stylishly casual.
Her handbags are the kind that always end with a vowel sound, like Gucci or Prada. Even the “s” in Hermes is silent. Friday, is when she can get a little funky. She might wear some high-end designer name brand clothing that advertises it’s manufacturer, but only discreetly. You know the initials of that New-Age Buddhist stockbroker lady from Long Island(dkny) or that colorfully homosexual Italian guy who was shot up in Miami(versace).
To complement her clothing my lady friend will flip her hairstyle also. I can see her transform a French curl, the standard weekday style, into jhiggy little Shirley Temple twists. I love when she changes the color in her hair. Light streaks of cherry or blond make me stare. Just to confirm in my mind that it’s her under those curls. Damn, I almost looked for too long. I try not to offend my lady friend with too much eye contact. I would not want to frighten her away to another position on the platform or worse another time altogether. That would be devastating. I don’t know that I could build this passion, this amorous devotion with another woman other than her. What infatuates me the most about this particular woman is her shoes.
She must have at least ninty-one pairs of shoes in her closet. Business flats with the one and a half inch heel to back breaking four inch pumps. Riding boots, ankle boots and even cute little Timberland workboots. I pretty much know her shoe rotation too. She starts the week off rather slow. A pair of heeled loafers in black or brown. The following day may find me looking down at her square-toed calfskin boots. The ones with the stitched flap over the forefoot, and the stacked heel so high and flat that MY own back hurts just from looking at those boots.
Is it any coincidence that hump day is usually addressed in a set of heels with a shine so tight they look as if they are made of glass. Her funky walk up the subway stairs to the street allows me the chance to steal a glimpse at the bottom of her shoes. Sometimes the soles are so new that I can faintly smell the calfskin leather. Mmmm…
I’ll be honest with you and tell you why I love the summer so much. This woman will take me to my limit by wearing some strappy black sandals. They let her toes stand out, wrapped up by spaghetti thin leather. Her feet are strong and firm . They are tanned an exquisite bronze-copper blend. A simple anklet dangles. I flirt often with her feet. Sometimes they flirt back at me. Like that day she had on these thick- heeled, cream- coloured, peek-a-boo mules with a French polish on her toenails. The silver trim on top of the white edge of the the polish made every toe look as if they were all smiling right at me. I think I can remember blushing right then and there.
I see her every morning. Actually, every morning that I get on the E train at the sixth car, second set of doors. She is headed downtown to work. She isn’t going all the way down to Wall Street or the World Trade Center,maybe West Broadway. She looks too cool for the conformist confines of the financial district, yet she is to far too intelligent to be a receptionist in the Village. I love the way she folds her New York Times into this little rectangle so that you can’t read her paper. Or she will be completely absorbed by a paperback as she grips a handrail. Amidst the throng of commuters I can see her hands…
They are well manicured, delicate and feminine. The polish isn’t gaudy or garish. Most of the time it is just a clear coat. I even think that she was the first woman to wear those metallic tones. The fingernails are not long either. She must do some kind of work because her nails are a responsible length. I have also taken note that this young woman does not over accessorize. A ring, a bracelet, a watch is the most she may wear.
I picture her to be an earthy woman. Not pretentious or super-materialistic. I try to imagine her smile when I give her a dozen long-stem roses. A flash of brilliance from perfectly angled teeth. Her parents knew well enough to get her braces when she was young. She laughs in an uninhibited manner at my cornball thoughts. She can even act interested when I discuss the stress and strain of the internal politics at my office. I always knew she was this beautiful inside, because of her feet. Her gifted, glorious feet and those appendages called toes.
I have never been so enamored with the curvature of a foot. The gentle radius of the ankle. The elliptical perimeter around the forefoot. The sublime arc at the instep. There is an undisclosed geometry that she has about her. When she wears her mahogany suede mini-heels and these opaque brown stockings, the shoes look almost tangent with her leg. The effect is like two long brown boots.
Going back to my mathematical reference helps me understand why I have never approached this young lady. She intimidates me, much like arithmetic does. I am scared that she will be as complex as calculus, and more importantly, I know I don’t have the right formula.
Who would want someone as incomplete and unattractive as me? Not this fine young lady. But maybe, just maybe she is interested in a project. Maybe she has conquered all the obstacles in her male dominated world and she is ready to accept the challenge of creating a man that can provide her with all of the necessary requirements that she desires in a partner.
Maybe she will just let me clean her shoes? That is all I could ask for. One chance to give her fuzzy nubuck wedge the buffing of a lifetime. I would use my tongue to touch her soft, supple sole, until it found satisfaction from my action.
Lexington Avenue arrives so suddenly that I barely have time to gather my thoughts and my belongings. I make my way to the Uptown local train’s platform. My timing is impeccable and I systematically scramble for the rear of the third car from the front. The time is 8:51 a.m.
I see her every morning. Actually, every morning that I ride the Eighth Avenue local….
There has always been something ‘not right’ with me when I watch the OPRAH WINFREY show. I haven’t been able to wrap my head around the reasons, but it is guttural and real.
In my mind OPRAH evokes the thought of the ultimate Aunt Jemima. She lives in the maid’s room at the masters’ house. She lets the masters’ children suckle her teet so much that she has decided to remain fallow so that she will never have to compromise the masters childrens’ attentions. But when she speaks to her cousins and nephews it is filled with shame and derision. I thought that I might be the only person that could see through the mis-information and propaganda that OPRAH uses to hypnotize her Middle Earth America sponsors. Thankfully, there are other folks that are tired of her bullshit too.
Hopefully our combined efforts can expose OPRAH WINFREY as a corporate capitalist supremacist tool that has only one purpose but to debase African American men and undermine the Black family unit.
Oh and yeah, BUY MY TEE SHIRTS bitches!
