Fuck Brian McKnight...

The Gods of basketball come down from high and grace us mere mortals with an extravaganza of unparalleled athleticism every February. The NBA All Star Game is by far, the most entertaining of any All-Star events. The players that represent the Eastern and Western conference are the elite of their league, chosen by a ballot less vicarious and more democratic than the one used to elect America’s politicians. The actual game is the least important of the weekend’s festivities; the following Monday, mere mortals are talking about the dunk that made an entire arena rise to its feet and say, “Oooooh!!!!” The All-Star Game runs in tandem with the debauchery of All-Star Weekend. The stars and comets of entertainment, fashion and music collide and create a supernova of celebration. As the word travels throughout the host city, people prepare for a party like one they have never been privy to. The men get vined to the nines knowing that the women will be out in crazy force, looking far sexier than they normally do. The women are primping and preening to perfection, for there is chance, albeit less-statistically advantageous than winning the lotto, some of these women, those considered propitious, may get shined upon by God himself and meet one of the patron saints of promiscuity and become impregnated with the seed of Shawn Kemp and give birth to a demigod; thus insuring financial stability for all eternity. A weekend in which everyone is looking for the stars and hoping for a million dollars, all result from a game that doesn’t count towards the lifetime statistics of the athletes. In 1997, this entity manifested itself in the only city to never fully recover from the Great Depression… Cleveland, Ohio.

On Friday, February 7, 1997 I was in Viking Hall ironing some garbardine wool slacks and a silk and cotton Polo shirt. Myself and my Pittsburghian roommate J-Akshun, B-Roc, Mike Diesel and Logan the Shogun were pre-gaming in our room, which served as the unofficial headquarters for all things fun that took place in Viking Hall. While drinking some Bombay Sapphire and blowing some herb we pondered how fucking excessive this shit was going to be, for we young Clevelanders had never seen an influx of tourists to our rust-belt city. The east coast constituency, consisting of Sean Corleone and Moe Murda, were getting ready as well and announced they would link up soon. The Primate Foundation was on their way down from Shaker Heights. The presence of the Primates always guaranteed two things: our dorm room would definitely end up fucked up and the night on the town would be nothing less than impetuous. Our homegirls, Erica and Janice were putting the finishing touches on their respective fine-asses and we agreed that we would all meet up in their room in about an hour to really get bout it and leave from there. Janice and Erica were the link to the harder, white-boy drugs and they had an ounce of shrooms on the way which eight people had all bought an eighth of. It was to be my first experience with the drug. I had a knot in my stomach from anticipation. The stars were out and the constellations were perfectly aligned in Cleveland this weekend. I envisioned the Belt of Orion with myself playing the Alnilam between Queen Latifah’s Alnitak and Monie Love’s Mintaka. Ladies’ First. Yes? Yes.

I asked B-Roc if he could get the knock at the door since I was putting the crease in the sleeve of my shirt. I heard the door open and heard B-Roc say, “What up girl?” The voice of the young lady who replied made my stomach knot up even worse than before; to the degree that I could have shit. I knew exactly who it was without even having to turn around. I knew everything except for the one thing that mattered to know about the girl. Her name was Lissette Lugo. I was utterly fascinated with her. I met her the first week of the academic year at the dorm’s mixer. I thought her to be the most exotic thing I had ever had the privilege of gazing at. Lissette was 4’11”, and although miniature in height, as she said succinctly while grinding her ass into my crotch at said dorm mixer, “I’m little, but nothing else on me is little.” Fuckin’ A right. Her ass had its own personality. I used to waste time talking about some fairly meaningless shit just to keep her within my ken. She hailed from Youngstown, about an hour and twenty minutes southeast of Cleveland, which is an extremely gangster town considering its small population. I was 21 at the time and was not game tight, at least not in the vicinity of this little Puerto Rican vixen. We used to flirt to a degree that all of my homies would frequently ask had I hit that yet. An unwritten rule of life is that one can never lie on their dick, so I would always make a Thizz face and say, “Naw.” It must have been the fact that she resonated with my paradigm of beauty and that caused me to always nut up in the fourth quarter. A choked-up Chad is a rare sight to see, but my crew saw it every time this fine-ass broad walked on air around me. After I put that crease in my shirt I walked Lissette down to her room. She lived about five doors down from us in her own room at the end of the hall. She wanted to know my plans and whether or not we’d get to chill and take some pictures later. I told her that we had a few clubs that we planned to go to, posse deep, other than that, we would, as usual, play it by ear. Her and her girls had gotten tickets to some high-profile party that was sure to have those stars present. I was a bit jealous, as I always was when I heard things like that from her. I wanted her to say, “Chad. Fuck this star-studded bullshit. I just want to be with you, Papi. Take me now.” She ain’t say that shit though. She asked if she and her crew could come by in a few and smoke one with us before they headed out for the evening. I never said no to this girl. Wasn’t about to start. “Of course.” For whatever reason I mentioned to Lissette that we were all waiting for shrooms. She looked at me like a fiend of sorts. “Chad. Why do want to do that shit? You know I worry about you when you get too fucked up.” I thought to myself that maybe if I get fucking bonkers out of my gourd, I would be able to knock on her door ultra-late and she’d nurse me back to sanity as I laid in her buxom bosom drooling. I smiled and said that I’d see her down at my room in a bit.

J-Akshun was the host with the most. Admittedly, he was a hubristic asshole, but he did know how to make the ladies feel comfortable. We had the drinks and L’s rotating and Lissette and her crew were looking stunning. J-Akshun started to take some flicks of all the party people. I had just opened the bathroom door, nearly dressed and Lissette tells me how handsome I look. I tell her to come keep me company as I put the finishing touches on in the mirror. “Wow, Chad. You really look nice.” She said it like every other time she saw me I looked like a vagabond. We get to looking at each other in the mirror with that stare that goes about six seconds too long and ends in an awkward silence. J-Akshun busts in and is like, “Yo. Family. Y’all need a picture. I was feeling excellent so I swooped Lissette off her feet and held her like an injured dog and strike a pose. J-Akshun says, “We some more ambiance.” He then reaches behind me and turns on the shower and says, “Yeeeeeeeeaaaahh,” whiling pumping one fist. My drunk-ass kisses this fine chick on the cheek and feel honored for the opportunity. Click. Life is just a moment in time.

Lissette’s posse leaves for their gala extravaganza, so we figured it was time to get busy ourselves. Up to Janice’s and Erica’s room we go. When we arrived the Primates were already there. M-Double-A-L was getting his game on Janice’s fly-ass. Janice was quite the specimen. She hailed from Columbus, Ohio and was one of the few women I knew that looked amazing with her hair cut extremely short. No bald-headed-hoe here, just a beautiful, dark-skinned young lady with an impeccable wit and infectious laughter. She was like a dude to me. Not in mannerisms, rather in spirit. Erica was also very gorgeous and had some rather shapely legs. She used to have a donkey-ass, but lost the majority of it when she began to exercise regularly. She still was pretty, but that former ass of hers was unearthly. I was always curious as to how good she was in bed, she had an inexplicable sex appeal, but I considered her a friend and never tried to go any further with that. Sucker. I also thought that she had a thing for white guys as her previous boyfriend was this wigger-dude that was always waiting for her outside the dorm no matter what time it was. Janice gives me my eighth and tells me to gobble them down because she and Erica were already on one. Never having tasted psychedelic mushrooms before I assumed they would taste like non-psychedelic ones. I popped some into mouth and started chewing, almost gagged and heard the family feud buzzer in my mind, for I was wrong as fuck. “These taste like shit,” I says. Chuck Dukie was crushing them up and downing them with orange juice and suggested that I do the same so that I wouldn’t have to chew them and get that disgusting flavor. I had brought up my fifth of Bombay Sapphire and started taking slugs from it while I waited for the effects to kick in.

Our crew was posse deep as fuck. There were about twenty people in Janice’s and Erica’s room. Janice was pumping Dancehall, as she always does, and I was talking with Erica as everyone else in the room was entertaining themselves and each other. About forty minutes after I swallowed the shrooms I began to see random sparkles of light all around me. I had only been privy to drunkenness and the high one gets from reefer, so this shroom shit was sort of freaking me out. I couldn’t stop yawning or keep my right leg from shaking uncontrollably. Life just didn’t seem quite right. Erica puts her hand on my leg and says, “Just relax and let it do what it does.” I looked her in her gorgeous green eyes and her light-skinned ass glowed radiantly like gold bullion and she began to look like a princess to me. Janice screams, “Y’all trying to watch a movie?” Everyone said, “Sure.” I didn’t say anything because the sparkles that I had initially seen started changing into Will O’ the Wisps. The fairies were floating around me and kept saying evil shit like, “Tonight you meet your doom, fatman.” My hands felt covered in glycerin and I began to sweat baby oil profusely, but Erica told me that I wasn’t sweating at all. I believed her only because she was now the princess, and I, like Super Mario, had a mission to rescue the princess.

In our dorm was this flaming gay guy who would walk Prospect Avenue at night in drag and turn tricks. Janice was sort of a fag hag, so this guy was often times in her room chilling and he’d leave a lot of his belongings, mostly his dresses and makeup, in there. This I remembered later. Janice puts an unlabeled VHS tape into the VCR and presses play. Everyone is either drunk and/or high off of reefer and/or shrooms, so all attention was on the TV. The TV shows a headshot of a man with his neck back and his eyes closed with his mouth open in ecstasy. Because I’ve been sucked off before I knew the dude was getting head. A couple of other detectives in the room figured this out about the same time that I did and one yelled with joy, “Hell yeah, nigga! I love head!” The TV then cut to a shot of the genetalia region. It took about 1.2 seconds for us all to realize that the muthafucka administering head had a mustache. “Arrrrrrgh!!” “Janice!!” “What the fuck?” “Turn that faggot shit off!!!” It was taking all I could muster to keep from hurling up the shrooms and this only made the sensation worse. I thought I was going insane. Those fucking Will O' the God-damned-Wisps came back with crazy force and I then felt reality shift. No better way to explain it. Sounds were distinct yet indecipherable. This must be what Matt Murdoch feels like. That Dancehall shit was driving me fucking bonkers too. After thirty minutes of that shit when I'm sober, I get queasy. Buju Banton was about to make me throw the fuck up. I had to get some fresh air and escape from humans.

The elevator was taking for ever to come. I saw the view of downtown Cleveland from east of it, the only way one should see it. The city looked grandiose. Regal even. There were lights going through the air calling Batman, bouncing off of skyscrapers comprised of ice with aurora borealis behind that. The elevator hated on me while I was in my zone, so I got on it and took it to the first floor and it felt like the first time I had ever been in the building. But if this was the first that I was in the building, then how did I get inside in the first place? Wait. None of this makes any sense. Stop. Did I bring that bottle of Bombay with me? Yes. Can’t I get arrested for this? Stop thinking. I exited Viking Hall and walked to our next door bar and pizzeria, the Rascal House. I bypassed the front counter, said hello to the guy that is always there and walked down the hall to the left past pinball machines and more contemporary video games, and halfway up said hall, turned into the bathroom. I turned on the faucet and it played “Baby Come Back” instead of emitting water. I turned off the faucet, the song stopped. But hold up. That song's the shit. Turn the faucet back on. “Doin' anything just to get you offa my mi-hiiiind.” I then looked in a dirty-ass mirror and told my reflection that, “I’m way too fucked up. I can’t do this.” My reflection answered back, “Quit being a bitch, nigga. This is All-Star Weekend. Get out there and find Queen Latifah. Take the good Will O’ the Wisp with you. That nigga got your back.” I looked to the left and saw a Wisp floating like a harrier. The faucet said, "All day long, wearing a mask of false bravado..." Then I looked at my reflection and said, “Thanks, man.” My reflection nodded his chin up and said, “Aight, my nigga. Be safe.” I turned off the faucet and left the Rascal House bathroom and walked, making very little noise, back to Janice’s room. Erica was like, “Where did you go?” I reply, “I had to talk to a wise man. I'm good. Take my arm.” She grabs my arm. The posse organizes as Janice announces that our cabs were out front.

I left Viking Hall and walked out to Fashion Avenue. I had to have been in New York City. There was absolutely no fucking way that Cleveland would ever be this exciting, populated and festive. Half men with the lower torsos of limousines were riding up and down Euclid Avenue leaving streams of baller’s champagne behind them. Myself, the Will O’ the Wisp, Chuck Dukie, Janice and Erica got into a taxi and sat in silence as we inched our way towards the Flats. It sounded like somebody died, which was appropriate since I was certain that someone, somewhere had died. "Up early in the morning, dressed in black..." I yawned and closed my eyes and when I opened them we were standing in line on some stairs in a narrow diagonal hallway. I felt like I was in an M.C. Escher. “Where are we?” I ask Janice who became the leader as she was the only one of us who had been on this crazy hallucinogen many times before. “I don’t know. Some club in the Flats.” I took a slug from my talisman and then I felt my psyche drop a level further into inebriatorial limbo. The stairs never seemed to stop until they actually did. Can’t stop. Won’t stop. The ladies got in without getting frisked by the sentry, who looked like a mutant wildebeest to me. Chuck got frisked and in, then comes my turn. “I don’t want you touching me,” I tell the wildebeest and he gives a look that would have punked Medusa, so I temporarily transform into a scarecrow and he pats me down, somehow not noticing the powerful talisman that only those gifted enough can lift. Once I change back to my Chad B. form he grants me entry. I go over to Chuck and say, “Yo. Why couldn’t he see this shit?” pointing at the talisman. Chuck grabs the bottle and takes a slug of elixir, smiles and says, “Because, nigga. It’s invisible.” We cackle loudly then agree to traverse the club and look for the queen. I knew she was there. Where? It doesn’t matter. The thrill of the hunt is all that matters. I see a woman whose breasts were growing out of her dress at a phenomenal rate. She said something to me that sounded like alien information. I can’t comprehend alien language, woman. I paid it no heed and told her, “I’m looking for the queen.” She tells me that she’s a Nubian queen and takes my hand and leads me to the center of a creature made up of arms, legs and human heads and it’s having an orgy with itself. We get sucked into it like Kaori into the mutating Tetsuo. "Hoes with no clothes, sho [lust]" was like a spiritual at a bacchanal. I almost became one with the creature, but was saved by a yearning for the elixir. I yawn and close my eyes and this time we are all out in the front of the club and Janice is hailing another cab. Hopefully this time, the cab can fly like the DeLorean at the end of Back to the Future so that we don’t have to sit in silence, mourning dead homiez too long.

I asked the cab driver if he could fly over to the west bank of the flats to save time. He called me crazy. I then wondered if I was indeed crazy. The Will O’ the Wisp, who said I could call him ‘Will’ now since we had become cool, guaranteed that I was sane, merely hallucinating. That’s reassuring. I thought I'd have to think like this forevermore. We crossed the Cuyahoga River, which I thought should have been burning, but then I realized that it wasn’t July 22, 1969. If it were, I would have been wearing a “Free Huey” pin. Damn that’s fucked up what Cointelpro did to the Panthers. “Chad! Get out the cab!” My bad, Erica. Shit. Save that aggression for our real enemy. We had arrived at the Powerhouse entertainment complex. Most of the Primates were there already as was my good friend Dru Haze. Dru Haze was the keymaster; he could talk his way into a Japanese brothel and leave his shoes on. He tells me to follow him. Word up, Moses. We walk upstairs past a line of people dressed in clothes that looked like they wouldn’t want to be in the same room with my clothes. Racist clothing. “Nigga! Come on!” Dru waves me into this fantastic ballroom with hordes of beautiful people who all seemed to be looking at me. Dru starts to work the crowd so I bite his idea. I notice that every guy in this ballroom is tall as fuck and then it hits me. I’m in Olympus. Dru Haze has gotten us in amongst the Gods and Goddesses. Impressive. I headed over to the bar to get something different than the elixir I had been consuming. I needed a different flavor. The bartender says, “Can I help you?” I yawned for four seconds and then told her, “Yeah. I would like something that tastes like something that a star would drink.” She laughs and says, “Will a Long Island do?” “Sure,” I say. “My family is from Long Island.” I take a slug from the talisman while waiting for my flight to Long Island. Amityville. De La Soul. Brentwood. EPMD. I ain't never been to the Hamptons. I think they have clothes like these people have and they don’t like my clothes. I get poked in the arm and hear, “How did you get that bottle in here?” I look to the side that got poked, my right side, the positive side, and see a Goddess. Whoa. It can’t be. It’s not real. Will tells me it is indeed real and that my doppelganger ain’t no lie. Completely in awe, the only thing that my mind allowed me to say was, “Queen L-a-t-i-f-a-h in command?” Her royal badness smiled and said, “None other.” I realized that since I was in Olympus it would be to my benefit to go undercover and act as if I too was one of the Gods. “So who are you?” At that moment the bartender gives me my flight to Long Island and I feel compelled to give her a tip, so I dig into my pocket and tip four dollars too much. Then as I’m double fisting a talisman and a Long Island, I tell Latifah, “I’m Chad B.” She then wrinkles her brow like she’s looking at the horizon, but she's looking me right in the face. That confused me, for I wasn’t in the horizon. “Am I too far away?” Queen Latifah was like, “Nah. I’m just looking at your pupils. What drug are you on?” I lean next to her ear and very clandestinely tell her, “A very, very awful one. I think I’m losing my mind.” Then me, my talisman, Long Island and Will leave the ballroom. I tire of the emperor’s clothes.

I’m in another taxi. Fuck that. If Cleveland can be Manhattan for a weekend then surely this taxi can be a DeLorean for my trip home. I'm in a DeLorean. It's just me and Will. I felt myself drop a level deeper towards insanity and asked Will, “When the fuck does this shit stop?” Will tells me, “It lasts for about eight hours.” My temporal awareness was all fucked up, so I ask Will how long have I been on this shit?” “About five hours. You know I’m about to leave?” “What? Why man?” “That’s just how it is. What you have to do, I can’t be there. You do know what you have to do, right?” I shook my head “Yeah,” and then Will phased through the roof of the DeLorean and I never saw it again. I get dropped off at Viking Hall and I exchanged money for his services. I felt cheap for eight seconds and then I got over it. Back in my room was J-Akshun, Corleone and Moe Murda all discussing what they ended up doing that evening. I finally was beginning to return to the land of those that think sane, but I was still having strange thoughts of the evil that men do, or maybe that was just me reacting to having met Queen Latifah. I began to ponder if I had actually met her or not. It could have been a doppelganger like the one I saw of myself in the Rascal House bathroom. Everyone’s banter was fucking with my sanity, for I remembered that they weren’t on shrooms like me. This could result in some serious shit. There was really only one place I felt as if I would feel comfortable, so I left the East Coast constituency. I then remembered that none of those guys were actually from New York. I was hitting the elixir as I boned out.

Close my door, turn right, take about sixteen normal-sized steps, stop, turn right 90 degrees, knock. The shrooms were making me quantify my every movement. This drug was honestly better when I was completely out of my mind. Coming down just made me think too much, which I do anyhow. Paralysis via analysis. The door opened, which shocked me because I forgot that I had knocked. Lissette was standing with half of her body hid behind the door which was cracked at a 64 degree angle. The first thing I noticed were her feet. God damn your feet are pretty as fuck. She really did walk on air. My eyes drove the parkway of her short, shapely leg; I got held up around her calve area though. She looked as if she ran sprints or played field hockey. But I knew she had only been a cheerleader. Fuck cheerleaders. By the time I finally looked her in the eye I had a vision of her in a one-piece white negligee that when I looked back down, I saw was reality. “Hey Chad. Come in.” She led the way into her extremely clean dorm room and I got the best shot possible of her ass cheeks cupping as she walked six steps to her bed. She slaps the bed twice and says, “Sit down.” I kick my shoes off and sprawl out across 62% of her bed. I’m big and the dormitory twins are fairly small. I offer her some Bombay and she swiftly uses her hand to say, "No thanks." She started rambling on about her night. I’m not listening at all. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her exquisitely shaped legs. I caught her catching me ogling. She looks me in the eye and says, “My skin is really smooth.” She grabs my hand and puts it on her thigh and I follow her lead and squeeze and feel nothing but silk with firm muscle behind it. It was indeed the smoothest skin that I have ever felt in my entire life. I wondered if it was really that her skin was that smooth or was it the shrooms or a combination thereof. “Stop Chad. That tickles,” she says, so I stop and digress back into talking.

She wanted to know which famous people I ran into that night, if any. “A lot of tall guys who I suppose were basketball players. I did meet Queen Latifah though.” “What? I love Queen Latifah! Is she just as pretty in person?” I tell her yeah, the queen is the shit. Lissette then one ups my celebrity sighting with a paparazzi picture even worth more than mine. “That party we were at, you’ll never guess who came up and talked to me.” I guess this was my clue to guess. I hate guessing. “I don’t know. Shawn Kemp?” She frowned up her face and was like, “Ew. No. Guess again.” I discovered guessing is even worse when one is coming down from shrooms. In the interests both of being a good sport, and trying to get some pussy, I say, “Kwamé.” She laughs and is like, “No. Not a rapper.” “I don’t know girl. I’m really not in the mindstate to be guessing shit right now.” “Brian McKnight." To this day I think I missed my cue to respond. "Brian McKnight came up to me and bought me a drink. Can you believe it?” Fuck yeah I can believe it. Grammy-winning Mr. McKnight sees a young Puerto Rican college-aged fox like you and thinks to himself, “Damn. Her little ass is fat as fuck. Maybe my status can bag this one without me even as much as biting my bottom lip.” At that moment I considered myself in competition with a man with the nickname, “Vocal Sex.” Fuck that. I had put in far too many hours and paid $20 for these shrooms. That night had to go perfect. So yeah, not to hate, but fuck you Brian McKnight. You’ve got it all; the successful career, the golden voice, the chiseled pretty-boy looks, Grammys, the wind blowing your shirt in your video... What have I got? Nothing. Nothing except for the fact that I’m here with this pretty-ass college girl instead of you and the fact that I’m going to win for once in my life. Ain’t that guy fucking married anyway? I had to change the topic from Brian McKnight quick. I saw her nipples getting hard just from talking about the dude. Fuck it. Brian done warmed it up for you, make it broil, Bilyeu. “Lissette. I can’t believe how fucking good you look.” Then I gave her the tuxedo once-over. Her eyes got really big like no one had ever told her that and did they eyes like that at the same time before. “I think you are so handsome, Chad. It just doesn’t seem like you want me.” Then she looked down and pouted. I didn’t say shit else, I leaned over her from behind and started to kiss her neck slowly and cautiously as I grabbed her legs tight like I did before. She angled her neck up and grabbed the back of my head and moved it towards her mouth and kissed me like she’d really been waiting for too long to do so. There was no thought, at least not on my part, and little sound other than her feint gasps of ecstasy and the sound of me slurping her down. Me eating a hot bowl of chili probably sounded about the same. I started exploring parts of her body that I had previously only pondered and put on pedestals. The shrooms were keeping me cool and in control. I could tell she was impressed by my ability to lead after being so coy for so long. Her breathing was getting carnal and her manner more voracious… for [lust]. I had finally gotten past the point that she was too good looking for me and then entered into the realm of “I’m about to knock the dust off this pussy.” Just as I had a hand cupped on her inner thigh, about to check her humidity, the phone rang. I stopped licking her down, watched her look at the phone, then me, and then pick it up. “Hello?” All the while I’m laying next to the this fine-ass Latina waiting for her to hang up the receiver so we can continue exactly what it was that we was into, or rather that which I was not quite into, yet. I didn’t pay any heed to her conversation until I heard, “Hold on one minute.” Lissette then, looking disheveled with one titty out of her negligee, tells me, “Oh my God. Chad. It’s Brian McKnight.” Then she starts jumping on the bed like I used to think teenage girls did daily. I’m still laying on the bed and while I was appreciating the asscheek and neathage views, I felt nothing but disgust. I get up and start straightening up my outfit and grab my faithful talisman. Lissette was on the phone with Brian McKnight talking about whatever things superstar R&B singers and college-aged women talk about. I slipped my shoes on and headed towards the door. As I was on my way out the door I heard Lissette yell out, “Wait! Chad! Don’t Leave!” Fuck that. I was already gone.

I went up to Janice and Erica’s room. Janice was sleep but Erica was wide awake. We finished the Bombay and smoked a spliff to help with the coming down of the shrooms. As we watched informercials, Erica revealed her attraction for me. We started to make out and she told me that I smelled like a woman. I told her I had no idea what she was talking about. Erica adamantly refused to do any penetrative sex until we both got tested for cooties. I wasn’t mad since she gave me the best handjob I ever had in life. By the end of that weekend, she became my girlfriend and remained so for about 18 months or so. I guess I rescued the princess, indeed. In August 1998 I moved to DC to attend Howard University. On one of our many reconnaissance missions to the female floors in our dorm, I heard this one girl playing some sappy-ass shit real loud. “Who’s that you listening to?” She tells me "Brian McKnight." I stopped and listened to the lyrics and discovered that that pretty muthafucka McKnight wrote that “Anytime” song specifically for Lissette. "You like it?" I look at the girl like she's the messenger that's finsta get slayed and say, "Naw. Fuck that pretty muthafucka."

Hate all you'd like Chad... "Anytime" was the shit, and I'm sure Lissette is still fine as fuck. Here's to short women...

Ghost Ride the Whip...

“Yo son. The Celica is definitely tight, son.” His contacts made his eyes the same hue of blue as the sapphire on the Prague crown jewels. Dark-skinnedidid Rob Bacon was the owner of a lovely red Acura Integra that I had once posed in front of for a picture prior to a a raucous evening at the Ritz. I was intending on false-flagging as if it were mine for sake of the photo, not knowing it belonged to him, the same guy I later showed the picture to. The little light-skinnedidid mulatto guy in the back, Amahl Grant, who just so happens to be the best photographer I know, says, “Yeah, it’s tight, nigga. But you know you way too big for this bitch.” Maybe he's right. It's just that the other model we test drove signifies "family man", which doesn't really represent my cosmopolitan lifestyle. Per contra to that, it did fall in line a little better than "rice rocket" ever would. Considering both of their opines as I get out the car, I throw the keys back to the Toyota salesman and tell him that I’ll take the 2000 Camry; in black of course.

The decision was partly due to brand loyalty. I used to own an ’87 Camry that served me quite well despite the fact I treated it like shit. Sort of like my bitches. I dubbed that car “Captain Diesel”. Not due to the fuel it required, but rather due to the fact that I ran it into the ground and got in several accidents, none of which were my fault. No matter how extensive the damage inflicted, the car kept ticking. I remember back then when I got mad I’d kick the side panel of Captain Diesel and rust would fall from the cracks near the bottom of the doors. Towards the end of its servitude, Captain Diesel required as many jugs of water that could fit in the trunk because of a temperamental radiator that needed a fresh gallon to be poured in it before you could start it. The passenger side window was gone due to a fiend or a teenager, I can’t tell you which since the two parties commit similar low-paying, idiotic crimes, that broke the window to take a pack of Black & Milds from my car seat. The doors didn’t lock, so whoever broke the window could have merely checked the door first. Captain Diesel had one good headlight so it looked like a motorcycle from dead on in the twilight. Since the antenna had been broke off, the radio didn’t work; but radio sucks anyhow, so that was of no consequence. My Kool G. Rap & DJ Polo cassette, Live and Let Die, was stuck in the player; thank God it was a classic, rolling album and not no tape of my ladyfriend's, or no bullshit like that. I knew death was inevitable when the gas tank began to leak while the engine was running idle. Imagine at the light stop, there's a guy next to you. "Hey Pal. Your car's leaking fuel." "Yeah thanks. I know." The day it didn’t start I took off the plates then removed the battery and put it in my 1981 Ford Econoline van that I was living out of at the time with my ladyfriend at the time. I left Captain Diesel in the old Giant Eagle parking lot at 3rd and Rhode Island NW. It got towed about three months later.

The other reason for my purchase was due to my initiation into the Secret Society of Good Credit. Having finally paid off all of the bad checks that I wrote for Polo garments in the early nineties, I was shocked to learn that my credit union decided to give me a car loan. Aight, it’s on. My salary wasn’t large enough to get anything too fly, but I definitely wanted a new car, so the 2000 Camry in black with the V6 engine, sunroof and leather seats became the new chariot I rode into battle. Like all new toys, I did an admirable job of keeping my ride in top-notch condition. Vacuumed and washed it once a week; the oil got changed every three months or 3000 miles, whichever one came sooner; diagnostic check-ups were the habit and even Armor-All for the tires was kept in the trunk. Considering the fact that I never once washed Captain Diesel, I was post-it-on-the-refrigerator-proud-as-fuck of myself for maintaining this car better than any of my previous relationships with my former bitches. Unlike R. Kelly the women didn't remind me of my car, as my car was more logical and always started up when I wanted her to.

I have heard a few folks, usually women, make comments likely learned in some sophistic school of thought, claiming that I can’t drive. What they don’t realize is that on the East Coast the average speed is always faster than the posted speed. Most have heard the expression, “Faster than a New York minute.” So, considering this statement to be true, it shouldn’t be hard to comprehend that since everything else moves faster, including people’s pace of walking, fashion, trends, the hot song and even the transfer of money, naturally then, so does the traffic. It's cutthroat. In New York they are much more adept at it. Someone sees an opening, they don’t hesitate… BOOM! They take it! As a driver coming from Cleveland, this was the antithesis to how we cruised the blocks. There’s no need to rush like that in the C-Town. Most keep a gingerly pace, cause most really ain’t got shit too pertinent to do. Cities in the rest of the country usually don’t seem to be on that frantic, ambitious, caffeine-driven mode. In Cleveland I used to keep it suave, playing some UGK, in no rush whatsoever, hitting the corner one more time to see the booty from behind. Nowadays I go back to Cleveland and cuss out everyone in front of me as I have synergized with the tempo of I-95 and the eastern most cities that it traverses through. With that said, Washington DC becomes a beast all its own. Imagine, the East Coast impatience for traffic coupled with the second worst traffic in the nation multiplied by the presence of drivers from the world over, most of whom have just recently moved in the errea, most of whom are scary-ass, sub par drivers. The shit equals disaster. So as crazy as folks think I drive, it’s because one must drive as such in DC. However, the truly astute ones will notice that I never tailgate. My driving style is calculated with such precision that a novice may miss the science behind it. Defense wins games.

I’m driving Captain Diesel down Connecticut Avenue NW, back in the Howard days, with my dark-skinnedidid homie Jamiel (“Damn player. That ass is on swoll.”) riding shotty and the aforementioned Amahl riding in the backseat. We had just come from the CD/Game Exchange in Tenleytown and it was getting fairly late so we were trying to get back to Slowe Hall with the quickness; muthafuckas had pussy to get. I’m tearing down the block, weaving in and out the track like four African women doing one head of micro braids. Maneuvering nothing too wild, yet nothing too tame, again, like my bitches. At one point I zip from the farthest most right lane to the center lane headed southbound. There was a slow-moving car ahead of me, so I glance at the left side view and see that I’m good to go on that side. I zip over into the left most southbound lane and hit the gas. As soon as I hit the gas I realize that there is a stationary car about 50 feet in front of me that is making a left turn in a spot where it shouldn’t. I look at the speedometer. I'm doing about 43mph. Then I look back over to the middle lane to the right of me, but by this time I have caught up to the slow-moving car which is riding right next to me, followed by a car that was tailgating him. At this point there’s no escape on the right side. I move my ken to the rear view where I see that if I stop, I’m about to get rear-ended something deadly by a SuperShuttle van. All this took about three seconds to process. By the time my brain hit the fourth second, I risked all of our lives by passing the stationary car in front of me to the left of it, which just so happened to be the fast lane for the Northbound, oncoming traffic. I said “Insha’Allah” to myself and cut over into the oncoming traffic. Allah was willing cause I was able to blindly dart into the oncoming lane to my left and have enough time to cut back to the right in front that fucking idiot trying to turn left. No one said shit for like 26 seconds until Amahl was like, “Damn nigga. You can drive your ass off.” Now, I do realize that defensive driving could have kept me out of that situation, but the point of the matter is, forced into the situation, I ain’t nut-up and end up killing us all. I kept my cool and the result was three homies lowering their adrenaline levels through the therapy of laughter. This is not the only time I have maneuvered as such, but no need to get redundant with it. You all get the point. The kid can drive.

But, somewhat like a fiend that’s been walking the straight and narrow for years, as soon as they get that first bump, its back to the fast lane. I got my first bump on the Camry while en route to work back during my Mason days. As I was getting onto I-295 from Landover Road, a van in front of me, for whatever reason, stopped abruptly in front of me on the on ramp where they should have just kept proceeding. The van’s actions took me by surprise, but since I don’t ride muthafuckas’ asses on the road, I was able to stop and keep from ramming into this dude’s bumper. Not so for the woman that was riding my ass though. BLAOW!!! I glance back in the rear at a lady, that was probably on the deaconess board, cussing like a sailor. Then I see the white van that could’ve passed for the alleged vehicle of choice of the DC snipers, about 70 feet away about to pull onto I-295 South with no concern over the accident that it had caused, but wasn't legally responsible for. I got out the car to exchange insurance information. The lady says to me, “Did you get that car’s license?” I says, “Yeah actually I did, but it doesn’t matter.” “Why not?” “Cause Ma’am, I didn’t hit that car. You hit me, and whoever hits someone from behind is always at fault.” She looked like she wanted to spit in my face and says, “Who are you? A lawyer?” I look at her with my insurance card in hand and say, “Nah. Just an educated Negro.” Turns out the lady had Geico, and like the ads claim, their customer service was phenomenal. I rode to the estimate shop over on Baltimore Avenue and within ten minutes I had a check for $1400 in my hands. I went to Amsterdam three weeks later. Somehow, that dent remained in my bumper.

After that, my formerly fresh Camry went the way of Captain Diesel. The next act of destruction took place in Cleveland rolling down Euclid when I fell asleep at the wheel with B-Roc riding shotty at about 7am. I woke up abruptly with my hood looking like an open sardine can under the rear end of what looked to be a Sanford and Son truck. The guy gets out and looks at my car and is like, “Good luck with that.” and drives off with his steel bumper spotless. Yeah, we had been inebriated earlier, but that was far earlier, probably at about 1am. Any buzz I had was long gone by the time of the accident. We had been over Chuck Dukie’s crib shooting the shit and watching movies and I merely passed out due to fatigue and sleep deprivation, not being drunk. At the time I was staying at my pop’s house, and where he believed me, I know that till this day my stepmother thinks I was high as Lebron dunking over Rasheed Wallace in game 3. A few months after that I fell asleep while driving on the Baltimore-Washington Turnpike. The sound of my left side view mirror being ripped off by a sign woke me up. Quickly I calculated that I was veering off the road, with my left arm out the window nonetheless, so I very calmly steered the Camry off of the median’s grass, across the rubble of the shoulder and back onto the asphalt. I delved into an apathetic state with my car. I’d bump the shit out of people whilst parallel parking; my bumper looked like Hell Rell’s face, who’da noticed another scratch or dent? I’ve gone through five side view mirrors so far and one day on I-95 en route to Philly, a pebble hit the windshield and now there’s a crack that keeps growing across it that looks like horizontal lightning. I got so fed up, the day I paid the Camry off, I took out a Krink marker and tagged up my dashboard. This always created a topic of inquiry within women. “Why would you do that to your car?” “Who cares? It’s just a fucking car.” The DUI didn’t help any either. To make a very long story short, (since this event is in itself a chapter for a later date) I blacked out and blasted into a parked Benz. When the police found me around the corner I had no recollection of the accident. The six months of my suspended license were probably good though as I didn’t get into any automobile accidents.

I had been doing an excellent job keeping the Camry out of harm’s way for about two years. All that ended about a fortnight ago. There’s a spot in Clarendon, Virginia creatively called the Clarendon Ballroom. I met my homie Mike and his woman Kate there. Evidently Kate had some friends of hers that she was bringing along. The legend for the last few months was that her girls were really cool and they’d be down for interviewing a yungplure such as myself. I got there and was pleased by the Clarendon Ballroom which was exactly what it said it was, but none too pleased with Kate’s girls as they were a little too bleached and blond for me. It seemed that I was probably too big and black for them, so everything was working fine thus far. Mike was egging me on to try and buss out my killer dance routines on the floor with Kate’s girls, but that would have been wasted time on both of our parts. I started to do my dancefloor Indy with the bar serving as the pit stop. After about the fourth lap and refueling, I catch the eye of a bad-ass Ethiopian thanger giving me the Medusa. I decide to walk by her and she reaches out and grabs my hand and leads me around to her ass which was an entity all its own. This girl was ridiculously zaftig; her lower body was incredibly powerful and made her look like she could’ve taken over for Atlas while he went on a smoke break. Her calves were the size of an Abercrombie girl's thighs and she didn’t suffer from cankles, so it looked lovely. I thought I had the world in my hands, but it was only her left and right asscheeks. Those Ethiopian, Eritrean and Somalian girls are so fucking banging and always got a gang of ass. After we get down for a while, she introduces herself. “Whatup girl? I’m Chad.” “What’s your name?” "Chad. Like Central Africa.” She had an extremely drunk Ethiopian girlfriend with her that said I was cute and commenced to kissing me on the lips. The thick jont didn’t even trip as she said, “She does that all the time.” Word. Mike, Kate and friends leave and I wave to them, since my evening has suddenly presented itself with some options and opportunity. Most of the thick jont's girls leave save for the very drunk one who we had to accompany to her car. She was insistent on driving, so much so that not even the Clarendon policeman could convince her to quit looking for her car and to just get into the thick jont's ride. After forcing the drunk Ethiopian girl in the Thick jont’s car with the policeman, I tell her it was good meeting her and to get her friend home safely. She tells me to get in the back seat cause she ain’t finished with me yet. Being a prudent student, I followed her orders. We dropped off the drunk Ethiopian broad and headed back to her spot were I spent the next few hours slapping it up, flipping it and rubbing it down. The thick jont was on the same tip as me and gave me the number but said that I couldn’t spend the night. No problem. I really didn’t want to be all booed-up anyhow even though this girl put an F350 to shame with her extended cab. Anyhow, I had a plane to catch to the ATL at 8am. She swooped me back over to Clarendon where my car was parked, gave me a really sloppy nasty-ass kiss and bit my lip until she drew blood, said “Call me” and peeled off.

I was feeling like a fucking winner. Not only did I get some pussy, I got some new pussy and the pussy was good. That adds up to the best type of pussy you can get. And as an added bonus I got to check another race off of my Ethnic Pussy Checklist. I smelt my left index and middle fingers and got in the Camry. As I was coming across the Key Bridge, I decided to take the quick route home, that being the Whitehurst Freeway to the Rock Creek Park. I exited off the Key Bridge still smelling my fingers which were now locked in a gun formation. For whatever reason as I accelerated onto the Whitehurst a thought popped into my head, “It’s been a long fucking time since I hit a hundred in this bitch.” Without further contemplation I floored it. Now, it’s important to know the science behind this Evil Knievel stunt that I was attempting to pull. At its longest, the Whitehurst is 0.8 miles long. From my entrance point I probably missed about 0.1 miles of that, so my runway was at the most 0.7 miles. About 0.1 miles from the exit which leads to K Street NW, there’s a fork in the road which creates a hellified curve going either way. I forgot about this. I also forgot that the Whitehurst is elevated as well, probably about 30 feet from Water Street NW, which lies directly below. A 2000 Camry with the V6 engine accelerates from 0-60 in the low 7 second range. Now, I’m no physicist so I don’t know the proper formula for acceleration, but I do know that I certainly did end up hitting 100mph. However, I hit it nowhere in time for me to stop the car before reaching that fork. While trying to slow down I ram into the guard rail on the left. My car hits so hard that it starts to go up along the side of the guardrail on some Bo and Luke Duke shit. At this point I seriously thought that I was going to fall into the chasm that would’ve had me and the Camry falling 30 feet down to Water Street. By the grace of God, the Camry veers back to the right, bashes into the other guard rail and slowly comes to a halt at the bottom of the Whitehurst. I get out to see a dude waiting at the light headed towards K Street NW looking at me in utter disbelief. “Are you alright?” “Never better,” I said as I got out of the captain’s chair, “thanks for asking.” My hood was pointed straight up to the heavens, possibly as a hint as to why I was still walking at that moment. The front was completely rammed in and there were all sorts of white scratch marks on the left side where my car had ran against the guard rail. I looked around. No police. Fuck it. I put the hood down and quickly discovered that if I hit more than 30mph, it would fly back up again. So I tied the hood to the grill with a shoelace and drove the Rock Creek Parkway slow as fuck all the way to the crib. I got out and looked at my car for about five minutes wondering why in the fuck I had just did this.

Needless to say I overslept and missed my plane to Atlanta. After purchasing another one way ticket and arriving in the ATL, I was awestruck by the southern hospitality of the beautiful sisters that actually smile and speak to you if you offer up conversation. I completely forgot all about the whole incident until two days later when me and my homie, DJ Reemycks, saw an accident go down on Spring Street. I tell Mycks the whole truth that I just told y’all and he looks at me like I’ve got somewhat of a problem. “You sure are rather nonchalant about the whole thang.” “Who cares?” I said right back, rather nonchalantly. “It’s just a fucking car.”