Vibes and Stuff.

I witnessed a gluteus so rotund, it made me question my existence.

I wanted to approach the maiden to inquire, “How did you procure such a curvaceous figure? Pray, let me fondle it, for the night is young.” I would grab ahold firmly, and squeeze for dear life. Oh, the cellulite would feel wondrous and supple underneath the satin garment!

But alas, she evaded my view for the remainder of the night. Miserable fortune, I doth protest. 

I went to my first traditional Nigerian wedding yesterday.

It was a very serious thing. I could imagine how it would have played out hundreds of years before the white man mucked up our whole solitude thing.

This is how it works: The bride’s family and friends sit on one side of the hall and the groom’s family on the other. There are two MCs who represent the respective groups, who officiate things and are singing constantly. Everyone is in native attire- no oxford shirts, no pants, no ties. Only things sewn in Nigeria. Keep your boring European clothes at home.

The first two hours of the the ceremony were straight praises to God. No one even considered the couple because they couldn’t enter in anyways. After that, they had the mothers (one being my aunt) dance on the floor and get sprayed with money.

The actual, serious officiating began. The eldest daughter from our side (my second oldest cousin) read a letter stating the the groom’s family wanted to usher my cousin into their family to wed their son. The groom finally dances in with his best friends behind him. And oh, when I say dance, I don’t mean pop-locking or anything like that lol.

The bride family’s MC basically has to grill him with questions before he officially bows down to the bride’s parents and extended relatives. She asked him if he was fit to love her, physically fit, and financially fit (the last one requiring him AND his friends to drop money in a bucket.) She then blessed him double-double, and said that she hoped he would have six sets of twins (in Yoruba culture, having twins is a very good thing. My mom and the bride’s mother are twins.) He got kinda shaky after hearing that, but he was down for it. He finally bowed down to first his family’s side (bowing down here basically amounts to lying flat on the ground for an inordinate amount of time.) She then gets them up to do it again for the bride’s family.

Back in the day, that was a very serious thing. If the bride’s parents already didn’t like the groom, they could keep him there for hours and then say no. Of course nowadays people get their parents’ blessing beforehand, so during the ceremony, it’s about respect and thanks to the family.

There’s more dancing, more garnishment, and more money-spraying until they read the letter of acceptance from our family. Then the bride finally dances in. Yo, she had some really fine friends. Real talk. The bride’s friends surround the area as the bride greets her family and then greets her new extended family. She finally does more dancing until she sits by the groom on the special loveseat. 

To cut things short, a pastor comes, blesses them, and they kiss. The marriage is official according to our customs. After that, they cut the cake and since it was the groom’s birthday, there were two of them. The ceremony converted into a dancehall into the wee hours of the next day.

AYO I BE SWAGGIN MAYNE

aye wutup fam ya boys back like motown jack ya feel me lol just tryna hit yalls up with the good news n shit haha so yo i was bangin dat loud up n down fondren namsaying teachin dese nigga howta boss like ross when dis mark ass trick come up ta me talkin bout soshul desensee n shit fuck atta here mayne yiu aint bout dat lyfe den i let da fodie-fo blow! haha real talk i was sanctified in da blood of tupac at a urly age n shit he was my pops real talk i flew atta dat niggas loins n shit das why i keep a clean bandana on me fo when shit gets real namsayin gotta keep it real fo da brendas n da mamas out there grindin n yo unlike ma pops i aint got nuttin wrong wit da fat muhfucka BIG aight dude had da shit bangin like a real nigga so i could respect dat so yeah im drinkin dis purp blastin ugk n bjork on 1-10 makin ma way to da girlie haha she moved her fat ass to fukkin pasadena i was like gurl yiu no dam well gas cost more than two baggies n a snack at da stop n go how imma hit yo ass up n she was like if yiu don’t hit me up sommun else will so shit like imma let dat happen haha niggas gon be runnin up dere wit dey dicks in ney hands huffin n puffin to get dem vulva walls down namsaying yiu gotta protect yo assets n shit oh shit its hard to text n weave through traffic yall bitches stay trill aight peace.

De Modiis Populorum Adulescentibus.

The jock strives to dominate in his athletic prowess. The diva obsesses toward an inconceivable beauty. The nerd wallows in his ability to assert and compile information. The geek, in a similar field as the nerd, comprehends a singular topic or item to its granular minimum. The gang member, the urban extension of tribal tendencies, fights a futile war for a territory that yields little fruit.  The slacker chooses complacency and immediate comfort to guide his actions. The punk, the most American of them all, desires liberty, and by any means necessary.

Each of these reappearing “archetypes” of the teenage population all suggest a need to carve out a personal identity from their surroundings. These notions, while general and certainly not exhaustive, point to biological and philosophical imperative in the teenager to move away from the innocence and assimilation of youthfulness, and into the duty and reality of adolescence.

Yet notice how each of these fails to truly achieve that goal. The jock becomes prone to anger in instances where caution and good reason must arise; the diva focuses on the ephemeral instead of long-lasting skills; the nerd grows cold toward his fellow man due to the excess of knowledge, and likewise, the nerd idolizes the inanimate over the living; the gang member lives his days as a fascist, creating false barriers which only intensify those placed upon him by society; the slacker, subliminally resistant to change, suffers from social inertia; and the punk destroys and blasphemes all, finding everything, including himself, worthless.

Their wayward reaction to their formative years does not hearken to a lack of parental guidance and rearing. The limbo between child and man plays out like Houston weather, cool and calm in the beginning and ending with a cadre of meteorological phenomena in between that renders permanent physical and mental change. How unruly or quiet the storm is depends on the individual, but a clear and present danger exists.

In turn, the teenager begins to churn the waters by clinging to a catalyst in their environment. The fledgling gangster, for example, admires the affluence of his peers in stark contrast to the poverty-stricken world he inhabits. Although constantly persuaded against falling down this treacherous path, like the harrowing narrative told in “Shook Ones Pt. II” by Mobb Deep, oppression cultures a mind jaded to reason. 

Nocturne Sub Runs.

Probably in the near future, unless it has already come to pass, a collection of statistics will surface showing the number of people who are prone to buying food at night.

I for one fit perfectly into this theoretical block of data when it comes to Subway.

This doesn’t seem to be a conscious effort, mobilizing in the wee hours of the night to get the mythical “five-dollar footlong.” Obviously, something that cheap can’t be a truly healthy alternative to more orthodox fast food in the long run. But my trips are few and far in between, despite occuring so many times that I realized the trend.

Whats irks me is the unknown reasoning behind this trifling dilemma. One possibility could be the distance. As there are two Subways relatively equidistant to the crib, it seems logical that they would gain my ill-timed patronage.

Another could be the assumed guilt that comes attached with extra-curricular eating. My ethos is not at all credible when it comes to fitness & diet (believe me, losing weight is not easy when there’s a lot of it) so I could be compensating this with the bologna cold cuts and regular mayonnaise.

The most appealling possibility, however, is the business model. For five bucks and some odd cents, I can purchase a good-looking, good-tasting sandwich the size of my arm that barely incapacitates my college budget. And to seal the deal, I get to decide the type of sub and what goes in the sub beyond the proprietary meat selection. My ego can barely remain humble at the amount of gastronomic sovereign I can control behind the sneeze guard.

My last visit happened a couple days ago. After waking up from my makeshift yet much needed nap, I could not even think well enough outside of getting something shoved down my throat. How did my car end up hugging the curves of that familiar path shrouded in trees and darkness, eventually pulling up in front of the iconic white, yellow and green sign, the January chicken flatbread melt ravishing my eyes as the door shifted to the side? Only God knows, but at least my wallet was with me.

I was the third person in line, the first shot-calling the final touches on her meal and the second fidgeting impatiently, even more so when she noticed me. I took stock of the menu, wondering which item would work with the current mood. Meatball marinara is too much right now. Turkey breast is eternally boring, as is the chicken breast. And I make my own tuna sandwiches at home, thank you very much. How about something premium? The Philly cheesesteak or roast beef make great visceral teasers, but of course they fall too far out of my monetary range.

My internal torment was put on hold when she, the primer/deli artisan/cashier, asked for the bread. About 5’3”, plump but not fat. Black hair tousled underneath the mandated hat, and her worn expression had the slightest bit of hope for better days. Plus she was genuinely attractive, all that other mumbo-jumbo about height and what not was pretty much scrawl. I chose the jalapeno bread.

“Can I get the veggie delight and the buffalo chicken to count as one footlong?” It was all for naught, as she sadly explained that the combination would exceed my range. Disappointed, the cold cut seemed like the safe bet. I made an off-hand comment about trying the veggie sandwich, and she cooly offered to help me out. I agreed. There had never been such a nicer time spent in a restaurant than that one, her taking a specialized license with the contraption and me looking on in unsure anticipation, only opting to choose the chipotle sauce and not to have tomatoes.

When it was all said and done, she even gave me a free drink for my horrific anxiety when initially buying the food. While my confounding legacy of midnight Subway trips still remains a mystery, it has truly blossomed into something magical, at least for that particular visit.

And she was right, the mayo would have been better.

Uh.

I started school again.

OK crawling back to my corner now.

Most of the white people I know either like the trashiest rap music,

Or don’t consider it music at all.

About to grill some animal flesh.

Omnivore shit, you guys are too mainstream to understand.

Indie Band Names I made/collected.

• Moldy Hamsters
• Broken Pencils
• Disgruntled Turnips
• Edgar & The Pops
• Caustic Jam
• Eraser Shoes
• Loose Change
• The Octo-lacto-vegetarians
• Middle Child
• Screech Factory
• Halibut Warriors
• The Raging Tulips
• Those Brown Doors
• Potholes and Possums
• Backdoor to Oz
• Alice and The Wonderband
• Apple Store Hobos
• Zeno Scene
• Fish Ointment
• NO CELLPHONES
• Hyrule Hipsters
• The Denim Jackets
• Garage Sale Bandits
• ….(Awkward Silence)
• Porcelain Tigers
• *sigh*
• That Goat In Town!
• Time FLEAS
• Murder, Arson, and Jaywalking
• Cyber Dinnosar Nazi Pirate Ghosts from The Beginning of Time
• The Mutts of Babylon
• Rise of The Flagellants
• Fans of Neutral Milk Hotel
• Columbo Rock
• Refused Building Stone

Wu Tang Clan is coming to Houston next thurs.

Pero no tiene moneys….

What should I name my guitar?

I only have three so far- Guinevere, Priscilla, or Quinishanique.

So… College next week.

Ugh.

I just had an amazing idea.

I’m going to make a really cool dubstep remix of an album, from an artist I like a lot.

No one man should have all that BYORWOOOOOOOOOOOOOR

I don’t think more than three of my followers are over 21…

But it goes without saying that you should be safe tonight. Don’t drink so much that you lose consciousness. Have a designated driver. Spay and neuter your pets.

Happy New Years.