I've Been Real All My Life, They Confuse It With Conceit

Since I will not lose, they try to help him cheat
But I will not lose, for even in defeat
There's a valuable lesson learned, so it evens it up for me…

Are you learning life's lessons? Let’s talk about the consequences of our actions. It is an undeniable fact of nature, no...physics (because nature didn’t seem tough enough, it being all willy nilly with the randomness and what-not. Physics on the other hand is nothing if not rational, and I am reaching out to your rational selves right now. And we’ll call this an explanatory digression. Don’t cha’ love it? *Don’tcha wish your blogger could digress like me? Don’tcha?* ) that each and every action causes a reaction. And most of us spend our entire lives devoted to ducking, dodging or ignoring that very reaction that we cause into being.

Out of the night that covers me
Black as the pit, from pole to pole
I thank whatever [God] may be
For my unconquerable soul

I’ll tell you a story ‘bout my buddy ‘Ole Tex. Now ‘Ole Tex is a good feller, the type who will give you his last, and he is smart as they come. He has a fancy degree from one of those fancy (yet second tier) state schools where one of the presidents has their library. Yep. ‘Ole Tex is smart. And like many smart people, including some of y’all reading this here blog (can you tell that I am writing with a country accent? It is for effect. I’m adding ambiance. And this is a Hee-Haw digression.) he spends much of his smart-ness looking for ways to avoid consequences. That makes ‘Ole Tex as dumb as a bull with three tits. (Okay, so I’m no good at the ‘ole timey metaphors. Sue me.)

See, a while back, ‘Ole Tex ran into the type of trouble with a lady that would garner Willie Nelson one of them thar’ Plat-teen-num albums and a headlining show at the Grand ‘Ole Oprey. The kind ‘o trouble that happens to us all from time to time – least all of us who are actually living life – the whole "she lied and broke my heart" type of trouble. So, to soothe the pain, ‘Ole Tex found himself loving another lady. And this one, she broke his heart into ever smaller pieces. So, he found another one. And this one did too. In the course of 18 months, ‘Ole Tex went from a career, a car, a home and a lady to “none of the above.”

During those same 18 months, he had his heart broken three times. By three different (yet eerily similar) women. Today he has nothing.

Yet, he has the most precious gift that God has ever given man. Failure.

Failure is our friend. Failure teaches. Its lessons remain embedded in us, long after its wounds have healed. But make no mistake, failure hurts. But it is through our failures that we grow. ‘Ole Tex allowed his failed relationship to consume him. So he replaced it. Twice. He never bothered to face the pain of his original failure. Now he hurts even more.

I have told ‘Ole Tex the same thing that I am telling you today. We must face, and endure the consequences of our failures. Therein lies the gift of failure. Therein lies the opportunity for growth and advancement.

The name of this blog is “The Fell Clutch of Circumstance.” It comes from a line in the poem, Invictus, by William Ernest Henley. The title of the poem is the Latin word for ‘victory.’

I named my musings aptly. (Sonny “Oh-so-modest”Redd.) That is where each one of us find ourselves every single day, in the fell clutch of circumstance. How we handle the situation is what makes us who we are.

In the fell clutch of circumstance,
I have not winced, nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeoning of chance,
my head is bloodied, but unbowed.

We must face the consequences of our actions. If we fail, then we must embrace the consequences of our failure. So that we can learn. So that we can heal. So that we can come back stronger. Smarter. More aware. And yes…braver.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

Failing teaches us what we can endure. I have experienced bad credit, heart-break, poverty, hunger, loss and betrayal. I have stared down the barrel of a gun poised to end my life. I have been evicted, suspended, expelled, fired, over ruled, over turned, ostracized and double crossed. (Sometimes more than once. And this is an intellectual-honesty digression.)

And yet, today I find myself in a position that five years ago was unthinkable. Yes I have possessions. Yes, I drive a luxury vehicle that requires premium gas (but apparently, some of y’alls Pastor’s drive even nicer ones. This is a fore-shadowing digression.) I make more money than I ever have. More than entire households. Yes, my office overlooks the bay, and beyond that the Atlantic. But these things are not who I am, because these are but my successes. Who I am, I owe to my God and my failures. Who I am, I owe to my unwillingness to give up, and to my grand fortune to have family (because I don’t have friends, I have enemies. So if you’re with me, then that means you’re my brother. © Styles P.) who push me when I no longer want to push myself. Because when you have nothing to lose, you have everything to gain.

It matters not how strait the gate
How charged with punishments the scroll
I am the master of my fate
I am the captain of my soul.

Our failures are our greatest teachers. Yet if we do not face and endure the pain that we have earned – remember, our failures are our own – and take ownership of both the problem, and the course of action, we will do nothing but ensure more failure.

So, going forward, when failure strikes, how shall you handle it?

The first mistake people make is not acknowledging a failure. You have to take ownership of what you did wrong, or more often what you didn’t do at all. All of your failures are attributable to you. Period. End of discussion. It isn’t the fault of your parents, your teachers, your bosses or your significant other. Your failures are your own. If your relationship failed because your “SO” cheated, then you failed to see your “SO” for what they are. No matter the situation, you failed because you failed.

The next mistake that people make is that they wallow in the failure. Do not wallow. Do not bend the ear of every Tom, Dick and Harry you meet with your failure. You are not helping yourself. You are wallowing. And you will never succeed by wallowing. Hell, you can pour your entire failure into one heck of a depressing novel, sell 150 million copies around the world, because everyone can feel your pain, and go home and put a bullet in your head. Why? Because you wallowed. Don’t. Wallowing begets depression which begets more failure. Depression feeds on failure.

Want a tip on how to stop wallowing? Next time you feel yourself wallow in that depression, remind yourself of the fact that you are still breathing. As long as you are breathing you can win. It’s when you stop breathing that the game is over.

Next, set about succeeding. But with “baby steps.” You didn’t fail in an instant, and you won’t recoup in an instant. Rack up a few small victories. Build up your confidence. Measure your progress. For instance, if your failure is financial, take some baby steps. Grab one bill, just one, and make it your focus. Measure your progress. Every day, accrue another success.

Long-time readers will note that I spend little time belaboring what the white man did to us. We succeed or we fail by our own actions. You succeed and you fail by your own actions. It ain’t nobody’s fault but your own that you are here. And it won’t be because of nobody else but you that you overcome. (To those who think, “What about God?” You ever stop to think that God wants you to take some action. You know, “knock and it shall be opened?” Are y’all knocking hard enough? Sonny “if I add ‘in the name of Jesus’ here and there, maybe I can cop a Bently, too”Redd. Just wait till Thursday.)

Now, go out there and succeed.

To All The Christy's In Every City And Tiffany Lane's

We all hustlers, in love with the same thing

It's ya boy! But I am only stopping through. See, your boy done went corporate. Yeah, I got staff bitches. And not staph, like some people thought I would get (yeah, Sonnyredd also has a cleaning lady. Nothing says 'clean' like Pinesol, Lysol and somebody else's sweat. And this is a "I don't do Manuel Labor, but I'll give his mom a twenty to do it for me" digression.) but s-t-a-f-f. The Redd Squadron is in full effect. This is a movement, dammit!

Anyway, this little ditty ain't on me. Once again, young Lucky X will bless y'all with his meanderings. I have no real problem with it...'cept...(1)Fuck you in advance for what you say about Star. We are pro-Star round this way; and (2) next time you write "f-ed" in lieu of "fucked" I will personally get on a plane to Boston and beat the everloving fuck-shit out of you. We don't play that PG-13 bullshit round here, you bastard. We don't curse, we muh-fucken cuss! (Least I do. Most of my readers are far more eloquent than I, and as a result don't have a need to resort to potty-mouth. And this is a set-the-record-straight/bi-polar digression. Two in one preamble.)

Anyway, I proudly present Young Lucky X:

Superhead… One Rapper’s 'Hoe' is Another Rapper's…errr, 'Ho.'


If I were a ho…I’d be mad. I’d be real mad.

A few nights ago, I caught up on one of my favorite podcasts, NPR’s African American Roundtable hosted by Ed Gordon, the lackluster replacement for Tavis Smiley. It’s a 17-minute shout fest featuring a gaggle of crazy Nigs, conservatives and liberals alike. Good stuff.

Now it must be said that on this particular day, I made the mistake of watching a repeat episode of Diddy’s Making the Band. (A post on this buffoonery is forthcoming). Needless to say, I needed something to reaffirm my hope in Black folks. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t find it on NPR. I double clicked the podcast to hear the following guest list.

Mark Anthony Neal, associate professor of African-American studies at Duke University; Karrine Steffans, a former video dancer and author of Confessions of A Video Vixen; and Shaheem Reed, hip-hop editor at MTV News.

Karrine Steffans, I thought. That name sounds familiar. Who the hell is Karrine Steffans? Hmmm. Is she a bird (no, not if you don’t count chickens), is she a plane (no, but she’s probably f-ed [Editor's note - d'ya see how destracting "f-ed" is. Some unsuspecting child -- or worse -- a Mormon will read this and not know what Lucky was saying. Editorial digression.] some rapper on his private jet). THAT’S RIGHT FOLKS, IT’S SUPERHEAD.

SUPA-HEAD!!! Smack in the middle of a Duke Professor and a respected MTV editor is SUPERHEAD!! (Probably not the first time she’s caught up in the middle of an awkward 3-way.) Listening to Superhead preach to me about black female images in the media is about as tolerable as Condoleezza Rice giving me lessons on proper dental care.

Now, for those of you who don’t know the story of Superhead, here’s a quick summary. For starters, she’s a certified coke-ho (barely a step above a crack-ho). Steffans is a former hip-hop video dancer who, last year, released a best seller, Confessions of a Video Vixen. The book, billed as a ‘cautionary tale’ against living a ho’s life was filled with all sorts of gossipy trinkets. This includes ‘stars’ she’s allegedly smashed. Who, you ask? Among the list are Jay-Z, Fred Durst, Xzibit, Bill Maher, Vin Diesel, Diddy, Irv Gotti, DMX, Bobby Brown, Ja Rule, Kool G Rap, Usher, Shaq, Dre, Ice T and Ray J. That’s right… Ray J. Her pseudonym is self explanatory.

Okay…Okay. Enough jokes.

The discussion circled around the alleged rape at Duke University and focused on the images of black women in the media, particularly in commercial hip hop videos. About 3 minutes into the discussion Superhead, in a brazen attempt at articulation opens her fat mouth. The host asked why she chose to get into hip-hop-hoing. “I didn’t see many Black actresses in movies,” she said “We were only on BET. We were only in the Jay-Z videos.” She said she just wanted to feel pretty. Superhead stop. You knew EXACTLY what the fuck you were doing. You saw the dough, you saw the attention, and you saw the rich rappers. In fact, if you freeze frame the dance sequence in Mystical’s Shake it Fast video, you can see actual dollar signs in Superhead’s eyes.

She continued: “I want to get hold of our young girls and say, listen honey. Get your education first. Get financially stable first. Therefore you wont become desperate and have to take jobs that degrade your body.”

She wants to get a hold on young girls?!! Yes Superhead. Please, PLEASE help the young girls. I’m sure they’re listening. I’m sure Shaneefa and dem are tuned into NPR every evening in the vain hopes of hearing the lessons of some ignorant degenerate. I’m sure they purchased your book and were able to locate the positive message mixed in with the graphic descriptions of your many sexual entanglements. Sure you wear shirts that say ‘Superhead’ on them. I’m sure Shaneefa thinks Superhead means Super Smart.

She’s starting a movement. Yeah, she actually said that. She’s starting a fucking movement. She’s even applying to NYU. Right. What’s her degree going to be in? A Bachelors of Arts in Slaying Rappers with a minor in slaying singers like Ray J?! (No, I can’t get over this Ray J thing.)

Now don’t get me wrong. I have no problem with a person turning their life around and using their semi-celebrity status to speak to others. What bothers me is the shameless self promotion and marketing all hidden behind a cloak of patronage. She doesn’t care. She won’t visit an inner city school or church youth groups. You won’t see her seriously lobby for change in the hip-hop industry. No, those gigs don’t pay enough.

What’s worse is that you have to wait for shock jock pricks like Star (and Buckwild) to set the Superheads in the world straight (he destroyed her last year). Meanwhile, the more respected NPR types simply provide a platform for her hypocrisy.

Aren't You Sharp As A Tack!

You some type of lawyer or somethin’,
somebody important or somethin’?
Child I … passed the bar, [and] I know a little bit
Enough that you won't illegally search my shit…

I am a humanitarian. Me being the loudmouthed, argumentative know-it-all that I am, I volunteered to be a tutor for the upcoming July Bar Exam. Sonnyredd loves the kids. Because I am also altruistic, kind and loving (if not modest), I am going to give all of you, free of charge, Sonnyredd’s top ten study tips. Now these aren’t just for the Bar. I’ve used these same tips to do reasonably well on the SAT’s, LSAT’s, two state bar exams, one federal bar exam and most importantly, the Mensa admissions IQ test. (Let me say this, admission to Mensa, like pledging a fraternity, can take many forms. And like pledging, you can be paper, or you can be made. Taking the test…is getting made! Look at me, a King among nerds! And this concludes this self promotion digression.) So let me just say that these tips work. And with some tweeking, you can use these tips for any anxiety inducing situation. So, no more Freddy Adieu—



10. You know what you know. Don’t confuse yourself with crazy “what-ifs.” Don’t outthink the question. For bar takers, each sentence of a fact pattern has one fact to give, not 14. None of your questions will turn on the meaning of the word “is.”

9. Answer the question. No more, no less. Ignore anything that has nothing to do with the question. And for the love of God, don’t answer a question that isn’t there.

8. Focus on the task at hand. Baby-Momma/Daddy tripping? Fuck em. Best friend just broke up with their SO, fuck ‘em. Capital One bill late – oh well. You “SO” feeling neglected – if they don’t understand, they didn’t love you to begin with. You’ll buy another. Trust me. But for the death of a parent or a child, nothing should deter you from focusing on this test. Life comes down to but a few moments, and this is one of them. They’ll all understand. Except Capital One. But they’ll take your first check from the restaurant that you’ll be working at until the results come in.

7. Proper preparation prevents piss poor performance. (To the members of the elite eight- oh, I mean divine nine- you know the rest of that. And this is a keeping secrets digression.) Practice this thing over and over. You’ll get faster, and speed helps.

6. No one question will cause you to live or die, thus nothing on the exam is worth more than a moment’s thought. Do not dally (or for that matter, dilly.)

5. You don’t know it all. When you have that, “Oh my God, I have a deer with no eyes and no dick. I have No-fucking-eye-deer” moment, don’t panic. Just reason it out. Only 5% of life’s problems is the problem itself. The other 95% is how we handle it.

4. Be scared. Fear is one hell of a motivator, but fear the right thing. Don’t fear the exam, fear you not preparing yourself properly. Fuck the experts, anxiety is a good thing.

3. Don’t be stupid. The time before the bar is a marathon, not a sprint. Do a little more each day, and schedule time to test yourself, and see where you are.

2. Read a book and go to the movies, i.e. get a life.

1. Don’t change from what got you here. If you are a smoker, now ain’t the time to quit. I don’t care if you’re hacking up blood. You want to pass this thing, right? Caffeine? Don’t stop now. A little fat? Two more months won’t kill you.

As far as the practical side of things, take PMBR. (Me being the hustler that I am, I got mine for free. Bar-Bri too. But PMBR is king. You know what this is. A digression.) Play the percentages. The PMBR subjects will come up on your state portion. The odds are then, that if you know those core subjects, you’ll pass. Real simple. There are folks who take bars two and three times. Some of them are smart folks who have just let the thing consume them. But most of them are just folks who are never going to pass. They are the same 35-45% who don’t pass every year. And they may never pass. But I’ll tell you this much…every time I ask someone who failed if they took PMBR, almost to a man their answer is the same. No.

Damn it, I just gave a free fucking plug. I am ashamed of myself. Some hustler I am.

The Reason Why We Leading the Pack? This Is A Marathon…

So even if I slack, I got enough leeway
to put out “The Reason” by the Mack and “Philadelphia Freeway”
So I’m back, without leaving
I’m here, but you can’t see him

Yes yes y’all. It’s your boy Sonnyredd with but a few words before I hand over my platform to a gifted young thinker. He comes straight out of the halls of academia, so we're breaking his cherry. I’ve explained that we don’t stand on ceremony round here, and he has taken that ball and run with it. Don’t be nice, because I won’t. And y’all don’t gotta agree, cause I’m not sure I do. But please enjoy the prose and ponderings of young “Lucky X.”

George Bush Doesn’t Care About Black People… And Neither Do You!!

According to a military source, at the peak of the Hurricane Katrina crisis in Louisiana, Rep. William Jefferson (D) delayed two heavy trucks, a helicopter and several National Guard members for over an hour while he went back into his house to retrieve "a laptop computer, three suitcases and a box about the size of a small refrigerator". (Reported by ABC News)

So, let me get this straight. Not only is this bastard a self-righteous, two-bit hustler, but he’s also a selfish prick who needed a fuckin’ army to help him nab some suitcases, his Powerbook, and [GASP] a refrigerator-sized box. The shit probably was a freezer. [btw, kudos to Sonny for the ‘cheddar on froze’ quote.]

The worst part of the whole ordeal is the fact that RACE has once again reared its ugly head. Slowly though, I am coming to grips with the fact that racism is here for the long- haul, which brings me to my topic…

I recently encountered an interesting experience. I live in New England and I’m in the process of receiving an advanced degree from ‘a fine institution of higher learning’… no not that one. One of my favorite leisure activities (and I assure you, this is the most you’re getting from my personal life) is attending various educational forums – particularly discussions of racial issues. I can’t get enough of these things. Usually there’s some bombastic dreadlock-having, Kente cloth-wearing, harpy educating ignorant Keeblers on Negro particulars. It’s great fun. (One time, some pathetic chick didn’t know who Malcolm X was).

Anyway, the harpy was there, but this forum was different. Me, perhaps the only Negro in New England, along with a countless number of whites and Asians filed into a forum on ‘Racism in America’ – original huh? After a few minutes of introductory banter, the leader of the panel asked the audience “Who here thinks that America has a race problem.” Every hand, including mine shot up… an obvious response.

Me? I thought of the disenfranchisement of Black voters across America – the countless blunders made in New Orleans by the ne’er-do-well federal government (and other crooked politicians) – the recent Duke rape case where the mass media has played blacks and whites against each other – and my personal favorite, the new White House press secretary who channeled Uncle Remus in a recent press conference: “I don’t want to hug the tar baby…” said Mr. Snow.

The list goes on and on, but I digress. The next question asked by the speaker was “Okay, who here considers themselves racists?” As you can imagine, every hand went down – including mine. Who me…I ain’t no racist, got-damnit! [Plus, no need to draw additional attention to my black ass]. But I got the speaker’s point immediately. How can we live in world that runs rampant with racism, yet includes no actual racists? How can we begin to solve a problem that no one admits exists?

So, after careful thought and consideration, I announce right here, right now, on my very first blog entry… I AM A RACIST. There, I said it. I am a big, fat R-A-C-I-S-T. And guess what? So are you! Just admit it to yourself. I guarantee you’ll feel better. What? You don’t believe me? Shit, let’s look it up in the dictionary…

rac•ism n: 1)The belief that race accounts for differences in human character or ability 2) The belief that a particular race is superior to others. 3) Discrimination or prejudice based on race.

There it is from Noah Webster himself (an actual racist, so he would know). The sad fact is that many Americans simply refuse to identify with this simple definition – specifically the first one.

But I can. To be absolved of all racist feelings means that you are able to forgo judgment of someone regardless of their race. It means that you don’t lock the door at the sight of a pack of dark-skinned brothas walking down the street – you don’t roll your eyes at the sharp-tongued Indian woman behind the Macy’s register (she’s a racist too, ya know) – It means you easily confront the two loud-mouthed black women talking loudly through X-Men 3 without fear that they might cut you (true story.)

In today’s society, racism has turned into such a pejorative term. We toss it back and forth at each other as an insult, while feverishly denying it exists within us. What the fuck!! Where the hell does that bring us?! Now that I’ve come out of the Ku-Klux-Kloset, at least I can withhold some of the negative tendencies that have been engrained in me by this fucked-up society.

So, what’s the next step? When you hear someone say ‘I’m not racist but, [insert ignorant racist sentence here],’ calmly remind them “Well ignorant person, we’re all racists. And the sooner we acknowledge it, the sooner we can work through it. Now shut the fuck up you nigger hater!!”

~Lucky X.

The Big Willie Get You Chilly When I Pass

*brrrrrr*

I got a question. Which one is worse, a black congressman who is crazy, or one that is dirty? Give up. While I hate crazy motherfuckers, I loathe (SAT word. I got vocab digressions, bitches!) fucking dirty sons of bitches.

Take William Jefferson for instance. Willie- fucking – Jefferson. If you get past the fact that his fucking parents saddled him with a name built to be the kid who has herpes on one of those “hard-hitting” episodes of Good Times or Welcome Back Kotter – Excuse me Mr. Kot-ter… Yes Willie? I am dripping from down there… (I should’ve been a screenwriter dammit! And this is a delusional digression!), then what you are left with is a straight pimp. Wassup Pimp! Shout-out to Big Willie! I see ya Playa! Catching stacks of cash, and putting that shit on froze -- or just in the freezer.

As May was melting away to the summer heat that is June, Congressman William (Big Willie) Jefferson, (D) La. [Yeah, I make C-Span notations – my shit is professional! And this too, is a digression] flush with a fresh stack, nay – brick – of cash that he received from an undercover FBI agent went home and put that shit in the freezer. The freezer!

What the fuck does this nig – no, I won’t deign to call this fucker that word… That word is a term of endearment. I hate this fucker. – what the fuck does this cocksucker (I like that one better) think he is, Rayful Edmond or some shit? (Editorial note, the Rayful comment you just read was designed to drive more readership. You’d be surprised to know how many niggas are looking that nigga up. And on that note; Aaron Jones, Junior Black Mafia, Alpo, Supreme Team. Now all you wanna-be gangstas can read something political and educational. And that was a dirty trick digression.)

Better yet, what kind of hillbilly- Louisiana-backwoods-depression era- moonshiner running from the revenuers - bullshit is this? Who puts their cash in the freezer? I can only assume that this cocksucker stopped off at Stacy Adams and copped a new blue suit, sheer socks, pointy shoes and a matching blue derby. Cause aside from that, I really can’t imagine who does this sort of thing. On second thought, you and I both know that he went home, put on a wife-beater and a doo-rag and was chillin. After all, he is a big willie.

Or, since his game was grown and he was a Harvard educated lawyer – with an advanced law degree in taxation to boot – maybe he’d prefer I called him William. I need to try that freezer thing. I guess it was a tax loop-hole I was unaware of. It don’t count if it’s in your freezer. So, why am I mad that this back-water bastard – a.k.a. cocksucker – got caught with his hand in the till? Not like he is the first, nor will he be the last. But he offends me for three reasons.

First, he is a black man, and as such he represents us. Thus, his failure offends me, if only because he was neither capable nor suitable to hold that position. When you choose to represent us in such a public forum, you must us represent well, and paramount to that particular undertaking is that you must be beyond reproach. I know it isn’t fair, but when those of us who have been given the best of chances fucks up, those of us who are given no chance bear the brunt of that transgression. Here, Booker T. Washington and I are of one accord, we must master the world’s impression of who we are, and ‘crack-head’ mayors and cocksuckers who ‘put they cheddar on froze,’ tend to be remembered better than Andrew Young or Thurgood Marshall. It ain’t fair, but it is so. As a result, he betrayed his duty to us, and as I mentioned previously, if you fuck us, then I’ve no use for you. Beyond that, I guarren-damn-tee you that he will soon be saying that he is being “unfairly targeted” as a result of his “blackness.” Or, how about this one, “As a result of my tireless efforts to help those black citizens of my state who were so tragically and disproportionately impacted by hurricane Katrina, I have found myself a target of a politically and racially motivated investigation…” I hate this bastard already.

Secondly, he is also a bitch. He got caught, and he has a right to fight. I believe this in my heart of hearts. Hell, I’d take the case. But, rather than man-up and do the right thing, and step down from his congressional assignments, this bitch is like, “No!” No? No? Bitch, they got you on tape taking 90 fucking thousand dollars and putting it in your fucking freezer. (Can you tell, this freezer thing is blowing the shit out of me?) At least, you Harvard-educated-Georgetown - LLM obtaining bastard, have the fucking moral decency to resign your fucking committees! But no, he won’t. As an aside, he won’t because I anticipate one of his many-many defenses will be that he cannot be charged while in office. He already has moved to suppress the fruits of the search of his office.

Third, he is allowing the Congressional Black Caucus to stand beside him. Not only will he go down with the ship, but this cocksucker is willing to take our whole fucking navy with him. In his defense, them niggas (see, endearment) might need a good sinking, marginalized ass bastards that they are. But damn. Take one for the team, or failing that, at least let the team keep playing. Shit.

See, Cynthia Mckinney did something I thought was wrong and nutty. Largely because she is wrong and nutty. But aside from some mild electoral hi-jinx early on in her career, she seems honest. She honestly believes her shit. I don’t have to agree with her nuttiness, but I respect her honesty in being nutty. I can’t ever say I didn’t know. Hell, she knows. But this “Harvard” man (his website takes great pains to mention the illustrious Harvard education obtained by him and a couple of his children) took 90 grand and flushed his career down the fucking toilet. And took a little of our collective dignity with him.

This Is A Public Service Announcement

Sponsored by [Sonnyredd] and the good folks at [The Fell Clutch of Circumstance]...

This is more of an administrative post than anything else. I told you that there would be changes and developments over here at “Fell Clutch”, and there are. See there are a lot of you, relatively speaking of course (and you wouldn’t know it from the comments) who are coming through from all across the globe. That said, I am now a black man with a platform. Not bad for a side hobby, eh?

So when one has a platform and an audience, what does one do? Take over the world…oh, I mean, set up a regular programming schedule. See, the way I figure it, it is frustrating when that damn Redd ain’t posted in a week. Makes you not want to come back ‘round. And Sonny (sorry, all this attention makes me speak in the third person. I’m working on it. Sincerely, Sonny “Digression” Redd) can’t have that.

So, henceforth and forevermore (until I make a change), I promise you new posts on Mondays and Thursdays. This really means Sunday nights and Wednesday nights, but you get the picture. That means, I’ll be like the black Newsweek, ‘cept it’s every couple of days, and it is not a glossy magazine with ads, and no subscription postcards to fall on your lap. (I hate those. But I love digressions!)

AND, what a show we will have for you ladies and gentlemen. Because I am going to allow guests, guests who will tell you what’s what and who’s who. Yes. Other people have opinions besides myself. They are generally wrong, but they exist. And I love to offer opposing points of view. AND, and this is why I am a genius, if any of you have really hated…hated…hated (to the tune of “Marsha! Marsha! Marsha!”) any of my posts, email me. Perhaps I will offer my platform for your point of view. I’m magnanimous like that (and one hell of a debater, to boot.)

The point is, this site will grow, and you will grow with it and with us, or we will leave you where we found you.

Now, today is the last of the scattershot posts, and as a result, this one will be all over the place.

First, my initial reaction and review of the Washington Post article a week ago was wrong. Yes, like the masses, sometimes I can get swayed when someone throws me a bone. Fortunately, I was set straight. Can’t say it will ever happen again, but what the hell, credit where credit is due. Though I can’t credit the nigga cause he doesn’t have a “nom-de-blog” at present. Well call him “Lucky” because a cat that set me straight has to be lucky.

Anyway, Lucky pointed out that the article said “one of the boys is likely to be locked up or headed to prison. The second boy -- if he hasn't already dropped out -- will seriously weigh leaving high school and be pointed toward an uncertain future. The third boy will be speeding toward success by most measures.” This was the opening paragraph of the article. Can you see what, or rather who is missing?

Me neither. At least not until Lucky pointed it out.
Lucky said, “Okay, I see the college dude, I see the thug dude, and I see this other dude who ain’t in college and ain’t a thug. Seems to me, we once called that nigga Fred Flintstone.”

Wow. This article called the future for every single non-college educated Negro in America uncertain. And my elitist ass fell for it. Wow. My bad. I got a homey who I went to high school with, (HAIL NORTHEAST, HAIL NORTHEAST, loyal all are we…1-5-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh! I got school sprit digressions.) who is the epitome of what it means to be a black man in America. He has a wife, 2 children, and has maintained the same gig for over a decade. And he might have 15 college credits to his name. We’ll call him “Mack.” My man, Mack is a stand up guy. And he was not represented by this article that appeared in the Post. And that is a travesty. Especially considering that most of the black men in America aren’t me, and they aren’t Tupac. They are Mack. I stand corrected. (Now let’s never speak of this again.)

Finally, it seems that our US forces got Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. I will say this on the record, something – aside from the fact that he was shot dead in the middle of the street after the bombing – seems fishy. I can’t quite put my hand on it. I will say this though, we probably knew where he was for weeks. We left him alive because the fire you can see, you can contain. However, due to the crushing defeat of the ghey marriage bill, the powers that be needed something…I am not saying that I completely believe my own conspiracy theory…I am merely pointing out that I don’t entirely believe the story thus far reported either.

That’s all for me. I’ll see you on Monday!

Signed,

Your Friendly Neighborhood Sonnyredd!

I’m America’s Worst Nightmare...

I’m young, black and holding my nuts like,’yeah’

The Black man. (As a homage to my hip-hop roots, I am going to say this once then not again, “No Homo”. Also this will serve as my lone digression, enjoy!)

This blog of mine serves as a real time manifesto of sorts. I have always been slightly self-absorbed and as a happy by-product of my self absorption, contemplative. The notion that I could put my thoughts and feeling on paper, in real time, is one that sits well with me. And while I agree with Glory, that I need a larger platform, I understand the need to start small and build. That is the grind, and as a self proclaimed “hustler”, the grind is what separates the successful from the merely lucky, the unfortunate and the failures.

The purpose for this blog, beyond the occasional self deprecating remark (which, given the amount of, “Sonny, you are so arrogant/self-righteous/cocky/confident/insert adjective here...” that I get, y’all ain’t buying it. As a result, I can stop doing it, and we’re all the happier for it. And that will be the second digression. So I was wrong.) is to contribute what little I can to the success of Black people in America. All I have to offer is my personal success and my thoughts. And from where I’m sitting, my ideas and thoughts are as good as any others I’ve heard from folks with more letters behind their name than I have. So, I write.

What I haven’t really touched on, outside of an occasional ramble here or there, is my group, the Black man in America. I mean to correct that right now, aided – more than ever, by Shawn Carter. Hell, he has better ideas than half of the “PHd’s” who write book after book on utter nothingness to maintain or achieve tenure, so why not?

The title of this post, and the lyrics in the body, come from the song "Young, Black and Gifted." You may not have heard it because it was released only on the S. Carter Collection Mixtape, which you only received in the box with the first S.Carter Collection sneakers. I mention this because this is one of the best songs he ever did. And without further (Freddie) Ado—

Y’all was in the pub, having a lite beer,
I was at the club, having a fight there
Y’all could go home, husband and wife there
My momma at work trying to buy me the right gear ... I grew up thinking life ain’t fair.

The Black man faces perils that the larger country does not experience. I realize and acknowledge this. Growing up, my first girlfriend lived in South Philly, on Tasker Street. Think I was taking Septa out there to see her by myself? Sheesh, are you freaking kidding me, not on your life. Niggas was robbing niggas down South, even back in 1990. Shit, I think Beanie Sigel himself tried to get me for my Polo Ski Jacket one Tuesday night. As a result, I adapted. I adopted many ways and means that weren’t in my nature. While my Dad always said, “a good run was better than a bad stand”, I was/am a little too proud, a little too light, a little too ill tempered and most importantly a little too slow for such. My thing was always, “If I hit you first, chances are you won’t hit me back.” But that part of me wasn’t me. I had to be brave enough to put that away. That took real bravery, and didn’t happen completely for many years. Even now an errant comment will cause me to consider a relapse , but verbally now, intelligently now, peacefully now. As longtime readers will note, my temper has been known to get the better of me at times.

And that is the Black man’s burden. We fight. Constantly. Like itchy and scratchy. It is who we are. I will argue about the best MC, the best sneaker, suit designer, president, fraternity like my life depended on it, no matter where I am. The bus stop, the barber shop, the water cooler. That is who we are. We fight, because the streets watch us like a hawk. We fight to stay sharp. We fight, because hell, we’ve been fighting since the playground. Why stop now? What we are trying to learn is channeling that fight into positives. I may have succeeded, though it helps that I fight for a living.

How can I get a real job, china white right there?
Right in front of my sight like,
“here, yeah, here’s your ticket out the ghetto, take flight right here, sell me you’ll go bye-bye here.”

We hustle. I hustle. I *heart* hustle. And I also know that the girls didn’t like broke niggas in high school, and that when I got that one inch herringbone and Porche Designs (I’m an early 90’s Philly nigga, What!?!?!) “before I was handsome, but the money made me gorgeous” (c) Lord Finesse.

The fact is, and the point that the Al Sharpton’s and Oprah Winfrey’s of the world miss is that the struggle of the 1960’s took us from the back alley to the lunch counters. But being at the lunch counters sucked if you didn’t have a dollar for a slice of apple pie. And hip-hop (before the current bullshit) reflects that. Moreover, the black businesses that we built in the 100 years between reconstruction and the “Movement” were not built to compete with the larger white businesses. Other than funeral parlors, we didn’t really need the local black business any more. Sure, barber shops and hair salons were nice, but they just weren’t pulling in the big bucks like they used to.

On the other hand, we gained the right to go where we pleased, be taught by who we pleased, and buy what we pleased. Only thing was that we didn’t know how to make that happen. There was a step in our growth that was taken from us. Those who knew how to make money in the larger society wouldn’t tell and those who would tell didn’t know.

So rappers started to point out the obvious. Not like I didn’t know about hustling. Not like I didn’t know hustlers. Not like I wasn’t broke too.

So, I halfway crooked it. And we know how halfway crooking turns out. Actually, I struggled with Hostess’s favorite emotion...shame. I was all set to acquire the Lexus by High School graduation (true story, I B.S. you not), but I didn’t want to get locked up and disappoint Aunt Martha. I really thought that my arrest would disappoint my great Aunt, and I couldn’t bear to do that, to waste my talents and disappoint my Aunt, for a car that I can buy cash money today. My Dad would often chant, “Education is the key to success, without it you’ll be a great big mess.” Unlike his stand/run poem, this one resonated. Largely because I had nursed enough scrapes and scuffles, and been jumped enough to figure, “Okay, I’ll try it your way...” Thanks Dad!

There’s a different set of rules we abide by here
You need a gun, niggas might drive-by here ...

As previously mentioned, being a Black man can be dangerous. But it isn’t just the fact that other Black men will try you in ways that they wouldn’t dare try a white man. I’ve come to expect that. Comes with the territory.

No, what gets me is that it is also dangerous to be a Black man and get pulled over. They could shoot my black ass. They were ready to shoot me for crossing a bridge in my own damn country while I was trying to escape a flood. And God forbid if I get angry. Apparently, when I get angry I become dangerous. Thus I cannot raise my voice in the face of bad customer service, lest security (who is likely one of my own) come down and remove me, or the local PD cite me for unruly conduct. And while the greater white society at large doesn’t understand why one little misdemeanor citation will make a difference, when you are interviewing for a federal clerkship, somehow that comes up. Funny thing that.

Sucks being the suspect. Sucks even worse when your own people believe it. But if the refs are crooked, do you quit playing the game? Hell Fucking No. You run up the motherfucking score. Thus I rail and rabble rouse. I stand tall at every chance, to be a success, to transcend the stereotype. I get a degree. I tell all. New job, raise, yep. If I don’t then what good am I?

I’m Chuck D, standing in the cross-hairs here...

This is what it means to be a Black man in America today. Not because my reality is shared by all Black men, nor because my reality is unique or particularly special. What makes this what it means to be a Black man in America is the fact that this reality is imputed upon all of us before we open our mouths to say “Hello.” What we do to change the game is on us. This is why I write.

I guess June is going to be a heavy month.

UPDATE-6/2/06 at 11:25 am

There is a thoughtful article in the Washington Post today about this very issue. Thanks Cool AC!

Please check it out here. For those who want a taste, this was particularly inspiring:

"It doesn't bother me if people say I made it with affirmative action," says [Colin] Powell, who joined the Army ROTC in 1954, just six years after President Harry S. Truman ended segregation in the armed forces, and eventually became chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. "All that matters is what you do afterwards. When I heard complaints, I'd say: 'It doesn't matter if it was affirmative action or not. I got it, you didn't.' "

Powell, who is now active in an array of mentoring programs, offers his own history to young black men who worry about the limitations others may place on them. Your achievements, he tells them, need not be accompanied by apology. (Emphasis added.)