Author: The Fly Hobo

you tell me.

Obstructed

Little Andre knew there was something more. Rather, he felt there was. He had no idea what caused these thoughts to bounce around in his dreams; his intuition oftentimes caused him to lose sleep. On those nights, he would just stare out into the Southwest Atlanta night, beyond the terrace sprawling below him and past the apartment buildings stretching around him. Every now and again, a young boy would enter his frame of focus, but the image was always a blip of faint light that barely registered. This feeling would cut through all the distracting images flowing into his room and deafened the noises that accompanied them. Andre had it all figured out; he just didn’t know it yet.

Sasha took it all in. Everything competed for her attention and she enjoyed walking amongst the commotion. Her foundation was in this concrete jungle. Life began here and Sasha never figured- nor was she taught- that it could end elsewhere. These few blocks were comforting and provided a pleasant shroud of ignorance.

Sasha loved Andre because he was tall and funny. He liked to talk about things she didn’t quite understand, but she enjoyed the way he said them. They would sit out in the terrace and he would sometimes just sit there with an odd look on his face. Sometimes he would look directly at Sasha and she would look down as if she was searching for an answer to a question. She never really knew what his eyes wanted to know and maybe she should have felt uncomfortable, but she never did. She would just search and, for a few seconds, his gaze silenced the world.

Andre loved Sasha but felt an unexplainable sadness when he thought about her. He loved her spirit and vigor, but wished she could truly take it all in. He never understood how to live in the moment and was taken by Sasha’s ability to do so. She always seemed in such a rush to go nowhere, though. That’s why his favorite memories of her were always in that terrace; it was as close to subdued Sasha would ever seem to be. It was in those moments Andre could steal a few prolonged glances into her eyes. They were beautiful and busy and resigned to never leaving these few blocks. He knew growing apart was inevitable; he just hated that he couldn’t do a thing about it.

One particularly starry night, he sat quietly on a bench staring beyond them while she simply glanced in passing while resting in the only place in the world that mattered. The distance between them was never as abundantly clear than when Andre turned and asked Sasha what she wanted out of life.

“Baby girl, you ever think about what you wanna do when you get grown?”

“What you mean?”

“Just like…what you wanna be when you grow up?”

“…Alive.”

Andre looked directly into those busy eyes, hoping she was only downplaying her plans. It broke his heart to see that she wasn’t. He cast his stare back above the buildings that surrounded them both…

Time went on. They got grown. Andre returned home only to find Little Sasha was gone; her mama said she was ‘with some nigga that be treating her wrong’. It was saddening but not the least bit surprising. That summertime exchange on the bench all those years back had forced him to stop denying what he already knew. All the noises and blips of faint light that had harmlessly danced about Andre’s room swallowed Sasha whole long before she had realized it.

That bench is still in the middle of that terrace and whenever Andre comes to visit, he sits and thinks about Sasha. He also thinks about how those stars seemed to pull him away from his environment, even if only in his mind for a few detached moments. That was usually followed by the tinges of sorrow for those that could never find escape in them and preferred to remain distracted by their realities. However, like Sasha, these thoughts were relegated to the terrace and those buildings. They were left to linger as Andre stood up and walked off into that beautiful unknown.

A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Blackface

I’ll get to Dear White People in a second, but in honor of Halloween, please peep what is quite possibly the greatest Twitter exchange EVER (read from the bottom up):

Freddie Gibbs

Okay, back to what I was saying.

Dear White People was supposed to be a brilliantly biting satire that held a mirror up to White America to let them know they could be kind of ugly at times. I really wanted to seek out the first white person in the theater, sit beside him, and cast knowing glances in their direction after each resonating scene. The movie was supposed to end with me standing directly in front of the screen at its conclusion and yelling ‘see?!? Do you get it now?’ with my arms crossed to everyone and no one at…the…same…damn…time. This was supposed to be a film that was ingenious in its creation and flawless in its presentation. Dear White People was supposed to be writer Justin Simien’s Tour de Force, and it is…in the previews. It’s not that Dear White People missed its mark; I’m just not sure what the hell they were even aiming at.

Without giving too much away, the story centers around a group of college students at a majority-white Ivy League school. The focus is on four in particular: Coco, a woman from the South Side of Chicago that eschews Black culture and has a myopic view on what it actually MEANS to be Black; Sam, a rebellious Mulatto woman entrenched in Pro-Black idealism; Troy, a well-to-do son of the school’s Dean of Students; and Lionel, who is just gay. Because gay is the new Black (insert blank stare emoji here). There are obviously white people as well, but we’ll get to them in a few.

Now that you know the characters, let’s look into their internal conflicts. Of course Sam has a white man on the side while dating a Black co-ed to maintain her ‘All Black Everything’ illusion. Of Course Troy has a white girlfriend. And OF COURSE Lionel and his struggle with being homosexual is the primary storyline. Because gay is the new Black and TOTALLY relevant when discussing race relations (insert blank stare emoji here). CoCo just doesn’t want to have anything to do with any of them because…Black. That’s all I gathered. Nobody ever explored what led to these feelings so…yeah. That’s all I got.

In what I thought was an excellent piece of character development by Mr. Simien, it becomes apparent that Sam, the Rebel and Troy, the Company Man, share an inherent understanding of Black culture while being at either extreme in regards to their personalities and interactions. Kudos for that. Even a trashcan gets a steak sometimes, apparently.

Maybe attending a Historically Black University sapped my understanding of on-campus race relations- I admit my base of knowledge is limited here- but each of these four characters has some romantic connection with someone outside of their race. I just wonder if this is realistic and question why every character needs to have this connection, either closeted or public. Addressing inter-race relations is all well and good, but why make it such a conflict with EVERY major character? But again, maybe that’s just me.

As I said before, the primary storyline is about Lionel and his struggle to find an identity and his place on campus. Lionel is gay and his sexual identity supersedes all of the other storylines that I thought the movie was SUPPOSED to be about. This post is neither the time nor the place to speak on why Gay Rights is important; the same is true about a film entitled Dear White People. Because white people can be gay; they can’t…do I really have to expl…man…moving on…

Now let’s get to those white people. I wanted ‘These White Folk Crazy’; instead I got ‘These Black Folk Really Want To Love These White Folks But We Have Trouble Loving Each Other’. Where were the figurative taps on their collective shoulders to remind them that some of the things they do need not be done? What are white moviegoers learning about their behavior? They damn sure learned about OUR behavior. Honestly, the only thing I imagine white people took away from Dear White People is ‘Dear White People…you might not want to wear Blackface on Halloween’. And that’s a shame.

I wanted so much more from Dear White People. I expected edge. I never got my ‘see, White People? See?!?’ moment. The writing suffers from tending to the wrong audience: Black people. It becomes apparent halfway through that Dear White People is for white people in title only. It’s much safer to point out Our collective identity crisis; God forbid tilting the conversation towards the white audience. We can’t risk having THEM in disillusionment and self-contemplation. This was supposed to be Our moment, solely because Our moment finally wouldn’t be about Us. Damn shame Justin and his team weren’t brave enough to fully follow through with it.

F–k ‘Dear White People’. I hope they make a re-boot like they did with ‘The Incredible Hulk’. Matter fact, I’ll do it. Let’s call it ‘Dear White People: For Real This Time’. A.J. Armstrong is the writer of ‘Dear White People: For Real This Time’. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Glass House

WE said WE would be better. WE would never become caricatures and outsized personalities that ooze braggadocio with each self-reported event WE attend. WE said WE’d be transparent, but not “transparent”. Our lies are broadcast unbeknownst to us, because WE’re fooling ourselves. So many of us have become strangers to our own entities, instead settling for becoming those WE have silently judged and deemed as inferior and savage.

WE said WE would never become That. WE would never share That situation, That dilemma, and That moment of WEakness. Never us, WE said. WE WEre staunch in our assertions, too. WE know, if presented with the same situation, That would never be us. Variables, be damned. That… THAT right there… could never be me, WE, or us.

WE said only God could judge any of us, right? Yet WE mock, ridicule, and shake our heads. WE know an entire relationship, financial situation, and mindset from our few glimpses, right? Their turbulence would have been our perfect calm, right? Better yet, their obstacles would have never presented themselves in the first place, right?

Of course, That would never happen in our perfect microcosms. Of course WE can talk about what WE would have done differently, because how could That ever be us? WE aren’t perfect- WE know that- but WE know certain things will never come hurdling our way…

…Until This happened. WE don’t know how WE lost our cool, our composure, or our head, but WE did and now WE need you to know how isolated this event was.

But This isn’t That; That was so much worse because WE deemed it as such. Please don’t lump This with That. WE didn’t mean to do This, to say This, to have This play out. Clearly, That is completely different, and how dare you for thinking otherwise. WE would never do That, because That isn’t human, nor is it just a terrible lapse of judgment. That is never okay; This is a mistake, and WE need to forgive and forget it all. That should never be okay and WE will never let them forget, ever. This is just a typo in an otherwise brilliantly written biography.

WE said WE would be better. WE would never become caricatures and outsized personalities that ooze braggadocio with each self-reported event WE attend. WE said WE’d be transparent, but not “transparent”. Our lies are broadcast unbeknownst to us, because WE’re fooling ourselves too. So many of us have become strangers to our own entities, instead settling for becoming those WE have silently judged and deemed as inferior. WE could never be That, nor could they ever be This.

A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Ratchet (Pinky Finger Up)

“You can have my heart or we can share it like the last slice…”

“Sweatpants, hair tied, chillin’ with no makeup on/That’s when you’re the prettiest, I hope that you don’t take it wrong…”

That’s cool and all, but forget all that right now. You see slim over there? The one with the streaks in her hair (my homeboy calls it that ‘Ghetto Blue Hue’) and the leggings? That’s my focus right now. It’s crowded and my Concords are sticking to the floor, but my eyes are glued to this girl across the room.

“I be eating nacho, cheese…GUAPO!”

Yeah, yeah…awesome song or whatever, but who is THAT over there? The one that ordered the House Cured Salmon Gravlax? That’s my focus right now. It’s crowded and I can see couples strolling the harbor in the large windows behind her. Trust me, I’m still focused on the girl inside of these glass windows.

“Africa must wake up, the sleeping sons of Jacob/For what tomorrow may bring, may a better day come…”

Cut that shit off, man. I only have one chance to book this broad and Nas and K’Naan are probably the LAST people I need to hear right now. I stopped in front of a car window and made sure my snapback and hand towel sat perfectly over my face and walked towards her. Her homegirls were busy talking to another group of people, so I grabbed her elbow gently and pulled her aside. Thank God I stayed for the let out…

“She gon’ bust it down for some damn Lime-A-Ritas…”

Come on, man; I’m about to walk over there. Her parents (I presume, anyway) excused themselves and left her sitting there alone. Let me pull my cardigan down a bit before I walk towards her table. I blew into my hand and made sure my breath didn’t retain the heat from the peppers in my Jambalaya Fettuccini. She’s smiling in my direction, but sweat is still dancing about my temples because I have no clue what the hell that means…

“One thing about music when it hits you feel no pain/White folks say it controls your brain; I know better than that…”

She looks at my console and I turn the radio to something else; what do I look like forfeiting my night plan over Dead Prez? We pull up at Outback and she checks herself in my visor mirror to make sure her eyebrows aren’t crooked. This is where the date gets interesting, though. She orders chicken wings and Moscato and starts rolling a blunt at the table. Dessert wines over an entrée would (and should) probably be an indicator of a lack of sophistication, but who cares? Look at what she’s holding in those leggings. I wanted to throw my cufflinks up and lean back in total judgment, but…those…leggings…though…

“54.11s, size 7 in girl’s…”

I laugh and love that she has no idea what those are. We sip mimosas over a Sunday brunch and share Bay Scallop Ceviche. We express our shared amazement at the city of Detroit being 18 billion dollars in debt. Detroit sucks. This is where this date gets interesting, though. She mentions her upcoming business trips and how she HATES men that wear snapbacks. I know I’m going to have to listen to Comin’ Out Hard until the stench of American bourgeoise is no longer permeating my cargo shorts, but right now, who cares? Listen to these six years of higher education stirring an intrinsic thirst for meaningful conversation. I wanted to throw my hand towel up and lick my fingers clean of Old Bay seasoning, but…this…conversation…though…

“Where is he? The man who is just like me? I heard he was hiding somewhere I can’t see…”

A simple hug and kiss on the cheek outside of her apartment. I don’t want to come in because I want her to recognize a gentleman. I’m just as happy to leave her feeling as if the night was “incomplete” as I am to cap it off with what she has been expecting all along. I sense all of this as I walk down the steps and out the building, feeling her glance from three stories up as I do so. I can’t help but smile as I start my car and reach for the Maxwell album stored in my overhead CD holder.

“I WAKE UP IN THE MORNING TO CIROC AND SOME PANCAKES!”

The night is far from finished, and I can tell that’s rare with her. There’s no kiss on the cheek because I don’t ever want her to label me as a gentleman. I’m more than happy to be what she is typically scared of, and I sense it as she walks me down the hallway into her bedroom. I feel the apprehension and can’t help but smile, all the while reassuring her that I’m not “them”, whatever that means. I wake up in the morning, grinning from ear to ear having penetrated Corporate America…

A.J. Armstrong struggles with discerning between what he wants and what he needs. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

End of My Rope

Simp: A seemingly genuine man that acts friendly, but is really trying to buy their way into a woman’s pants. They can be seen begging, being highly agreeable, and giving expensive gifts to women they just met, amongst other things.

-Urbandictionary.com

Great. Now you know what a simp is. Confetti.

*’’**’’’*’\o/**’**’*’’’

With that out the way, get Boyz II Men and their music the hell out my face. Bunch of no self-respect-having simps. Yeah, I know I’m about 17 years too late. And yeah, I know this is probably even more pointless because I’m pretty sure Boyz II Men moved to Venus or something in like 2002. I hear you. Don’t care. I’d rather listen to Young Thug sing hymnals standing behind a box fan. I’d rather peel duct tape in an empty warehouse with aluminum siding while Meek Mill tries to whisper in my ear. Bunch of saccharine-lined simps. You had me fooled for a while, Michael, Nathan and ‘em. But guess what? I grew up and realized how full of simpin’ y’all were.

Why do I even care about some barbershop super-quartet of yesteryear, anyway?

………I debated R&B music with a woman, that’s why. I walked onto a bumper car rink looking for an SUV, I know. Anyway, the whole discussion wasn’t even the clusterfuck I thought it would be. She named her favorite current artists, as well as her favorite Golden-Era groups (Golden-Era = 90s R&B for us mid-80s babies. We ain’t out here shoop-shoobee doo waaaaaah’in with The Chi-Lites or whatever) and it was cool. That is, until she mentioned Boyz II No-Man-Would-Ever-Play-Himself-THAT-Bad, while opening and closing her fist- and occasionally pointing- in front of her face. It looked like she was checking her nails after every other syllable, being Unbothered nshit. It was kind of hypnotizing…

“Blackstreet (open), Boyz-Tew (point; she’s from Baltimore, by the way) Men (close)…”

The very mention of those simps made my left eyelid close a little. Of COURSE women love them; they humiliated their way to the panties. Don’t believe me? Peep “End of The Road”. Some epic simpin’ begins here.

I even love how the video I shared spells the name wrong. Because…get Boyz II Men the hell outta here. Matter fact, let me write these words down so you can see the VISUAL, RIDICULOUS, PATHETIC SIMPIN’:

Wanya (Or Michael. The simp with the deep, Dresser-from-The Five Heartbeats-voice):

“Girl, I’m here for you. All those times at night when you just hurt me and just ran out with that other fella…baby I knew about it; I just didn’t care. You just don’t understand how much I love you, do you? I’m here for YOU. I’m not out to go out there and cheat at night- just like you did baby- but that’s alright…I love you anyway. And I’m still gonna be here for you until my dying day, baby. Right now, I’m just in so much pain, baby, because you just won’t come back to me, will you? Just come back to me! Yes baby, my heart IS lonely. My heart hurts baby, because I feel pain too…”

Wut

…………………………………………………………………………………………………….wut?

This is why I love the current batch of Ratchet&Blues artists. There’s less Boyz II Men and Keith Sweat simpin’ and more Chris Brown ‘I’m kind of sick of all of you crazy women but you don’t care because you’re still gonna listen to it and dance hahaha #swagswagswag’. It’s ironic because R&B used to be the music women ran to when they were tired of being called out of their names in rap lyrics; now they’re being called out of their names by dudes harmonizing at the same time. I don’t love today’s R&B because of that fact, though. Well, I kind of do. But I love it more because dudes aren’t out here begging QUITE as much.

“But what about REAL R&B artists like Maxwell, Erykah Badu, and Ji…”

Shut up…nobody cares about those Shea butter songs. Nobody other than the people I talked about in this poem. I ran out of jokes for those people a year ago. Let’s move on.

Matter fact, let me run down your R&B icons right quick. Usher and Trey Songz died to me in 2010, Keyshia Cole’s music stopped being good after life got better for her, Tinashe is too new and please don’t get me started on Beyonce. To hell with Jhene Aiko’s…maaaaaan…nevermind (word to Kurt Cobain), The Weeknd, August Alsina (Miguel, you’re cool) and Party Next Door. All hail Chris Brown.

Breezy is quite possibly the greatest R&B singer and magician ever. The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing us he didn’t exist, right? The greatest trick Chris Brown ever pulled was making these women love him. I love it. You hoes ain’t loyal- yet dance…kinda unloyally, really- to his slander of you. Hahaha #swagswagswag.

I don’t even actually know what my point is. I guess…Boyz II Men is the worst thing ever? Yeah, we’ll go with that. There have been so many R&B songs/groups to just really put men in unpleasant situations, I’m cool with Young Breezy. Thank God I wasn’t old enough to get a woman’s side-eye at Wanya’s (Or Shawn. Whatever simp that was) Simp of the Decade on “End of the Road”. Praise Jeebus I didn’t have to deal with the Jagged Edge “Let’s Get Married” fallout. I’m lucky to never have to ‘beg like Keith Sweat’. Sorry. However, I love, love, LOVE being able to yell ‘these broads ain’t loyal”.

A.J. Armstrong doesn’t hate women at all; his mother is a woman. He loves how your beloved Simp Music has forsaken you, though. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Here’s Some Things

“If I’m pitching [and] they see my fastball, they get kind of scared [and] I just strike ‘em out…”

-Davis, after her six-strikeout, complete game

Those words, spoken by the Anderson (Philadelphia, PA) Monarchs pitcher, came deliberate and direct to reporters. Her hair flies over her left arm while the right uncorks fastballs at 70 mph, faster than her male counterparts expect, given her slight, 85-pound frame, to be sure. How awesome are the quotes? How awesome is that glare of hers under that blue cap? How oblivious does she seem to the fact that she’s only the 17th girl to compete in the Finals in the 68-year history of the Little League World Series? Super awesome.

I know they lost Sunday, but did you see this from Thursday night’s LLWS matchup between Jackie Robinson West (Chicago, IL) and Lynnwood Pacific (Lynnwood, WA)?

How cool is that kid and how cool is that team? Look at that kid; most of his fan base isn’t even at the game. Easy to imagine a large part of that 12-2 Illinois win were attributed to a couple dozen rollover minutes on the team bus. Can’t you picture Trey hitting a two-run blast and circling the bases while winking at the girls in the stands like Antoine Tyler in The Sixth Man? And seriously, how COOL is that?

What about him? Have you heard about this guy?

Dr. Raymond Burse, President of Kentucky State University, was curious about the number of employees working for below minimum wages. After discovering there were quite a few not making a livable income, he decided to help out in the best way possible: by donating $90,000 of his own $349,869 annual salary to assist in increasing their pay. Even better? This man is President on an interim basis. His tenure- and that $300,000+ salary- is only expected to last 12 months. The University has also left the door open to explore possibilities to continue this upward trend. The best may be yet to come for these underpaid workers.

Hey, what about this?

Dan Davis, a Detroit lifer, took what was one of many empty lots in his hometown and turned it into an area for neighborhood kids to enjoy themselves. In a city facing mass departure, economic and political failings, and overall terribleness, this man is creating a sliver of hope. It may be minimal in the grand scheme of things, but change is neither rapid nor completely quantifiable. Hope, however, is limitless and spurring.

Oh, I came across this lady, as well:

Dr. Sheena C. Howard

She is Dr. Sheena C. Howard and she is a recipient of the 2014 Eisner Award, one of the highest honors in the comic book industry. She, along with co-editor Ronald Jackson, was awarded Best Scholarly/Academic Work for their book, Black Comics: Politics of Race and Representation at Comic Con in San Diego this past July. Although the Eisner is considered The Oscar of the Comic world, you could argue that isn’t the most impressive recognition she has received. Her dissertation (which, I am sad to say, I could not locate) garnered much acclaim as well, including the 2010 Doctoral Dissertation Award from the National Communication Association. She is a champion of geeks and intellectuals alike, and apparently, they DO make some awards for that. Trophies…

Here’s something pretty interesting…

826 National is a nonprofit organization that seeks to help students of all grade-school ages with expository and creative writing. Since its formation in 2002, the organization now includes eight locations across the United States. Each location contains a tutoring area, as well as a storefront that contains items as varied as the storefronts themselves. For example, their Ann Arbor location boasts a Robot Supply and Repair area and sells items such as RoboPandas and Positronic Brains. Their mission is to provide as much one-on-one attention as possible to these grade schoolers in a hope to nurture and support unique thought. Numbers don’t lie and thus far, 826 has served over 24,000 young people and published over 900 literary works with the kids serving as the main authors. Pretty dope, right? Interestingly enough, the late Robin Williams provided the forward for their latest publication, Home Wasn’t Built in a Day. Bittersweet, of course, but really dope in whole. In 2013, the Library of Congress presented 826 CEO Gerald Richards the American Literacy Award for these innovative and inspiring efforts. Teaching kids to read is awesome; however, teaching them to also create is overlooked many times in that process. 826 gets it, nails it, and looks super dope doing it.

There are probably so many other stories similar to these. That’s kind of the awesome thing about life. Negativity can permeate so much of our lives even if we try our best to ignore it. Maybe these people are just little packets of instances that make us smile before we tuck them away into our fleeting consciousness. But they were little packets of instances that made us smile. Never forget that.

A.J. Armstrong is the Creator of the Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities. He also wants to acknowledge and give special consideration to The Detroit Free Press, The Library of Congress’ website, loc.gov, and ESPN.com. Humanity is alive and well. He would also like to give a special thank you to the creators of Good Black News. Check them out and maybe bookmark them below your CNN news page.

You Might Die/While We’re At It…

Racial Profiling

I’m not raising a little Black boy, so maybe I’m not qualified to speak on this. Wait, I forgot. I AM A YOUNG BLACK MALE. I almost forgot because, fortunately, police haven’t drawn weapons on me in many years. So there’s that.

Don’t let anybody place what’s happening with these police shootings of Black kids in any “context”; young Black men are getting gunned down unjustifiably. The issue is not- nor has it ever been- what we can do to prevent this. The issue is that this keeps happening. What are you all telling your sons? At this point, what on Earth CAN you tell them?

“Never wolf-whistle at white women…” (1955)

“Don’t wear a hoodie…even in the rain…” (2012)

“Don’t be a Black man…” (Every Black man’s whole life, I think)

Seriously, what can you tell them?? Nothing comes to my mind, at least. You white, you Ben Affleck; you Black, you have an increased chance of getting shot down for something that can’t possibly be deemed worthy. I hate that this is even considered a part of real life. I hate when people say this and I hate myself for saying it, but I have to say it: we as Black people (cringe) are never supposed to accept that. However, I will never accept the types of reasoning some have expressed regarding such horrible situations:

Screen shot 2014-08-12 at 10.13.03 PM

Naw. The notion that who a young Black man is, what he is doing, or what he is wearing is somehow in direct correlation to an increasing proclivity to shoot our kids is ignorant, shortsighted, and, quite frankly, some all around FUCK SHIT. We can be poetic or we can call it what it is. Some. Fuck. Shit. So the emergence of rap music, the absence of Martin and Malcolm, and, um, whatever other fuck shit people are trying to use is a valid reason Michael Brown got gunned down for leaving a QuikTrip? Did I read that right? What about the dozens of others? Same thing, huh?

That type of thinking is not relegated to weirdos in bow ties, either (please look this guy up on Twitter. @theonebmiller. Bow tie). The post-Trayvon crusaders called for everything from keeping Black kids out of hoodies to keeping that rap noise to a minimum whilst “being out here with these white folk”. Naw. I refuse to address an issue by suggesting how I can make myself “less Black”. All the J. Crew in the world isn’t going to keep a cop from filling me with enough lead to supply Sherman-Williams with enough paint to kill us all before they realized lead-filled paint would kill us all and run-on sentences are so cool when you make obscure references and it helps to quell my anger because people are stoopid sometimes and I purposefully spelled stupid wrong or whatever but get back to the topic, A.J. I’m not telling my son to take his hoodie off in the rain. I’m not lecturing him on going smack at white women. And I damn sure am not going to tell him to let some white man tell him his music is too loud.

I will tell my son to dress for the occasion. I don’t care what you wear on your way to 7-Eleven. I will tell him to be respectful of women and that he’ll probably look like an ass if he goes at any girl recklessly and that he deserves all the ridicule in the world because of it. And 28 year-old me would probably tell young Little Homey to ‘turn the music a level higher and return the Devil’s fire’, but then my father would look at me and I’d get scared and tell him to respect other people and to not be a douchebag and I love run-on sentences but whatever. Look, having your music too loud in your car is a pet peeve and pretty douchey, but not worth taking a life over. My son will not be raised to be scared to be himself. He will be raised to understand that there are injustices in this world, and that there will always be. I refuse to have him thinking that his actions- his innocuous actions- are the sole causes of conflict. Because groupthink on this issue will be veeeeeeery conflicted once another Black kid is shot down while wearing a suit.

While we’re at it, let me address this Ray Rice issue and Stephen A. Smith’s comments regarding said issue. Everybody should stop hitting everybody. Now shut the fuck up. Ok…bye.

A.J. Armstrong is sleep tho. That’s the new motion, right? He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Play Me Off

Media

“Daddy, do you think I don’t have a soul because of my wires?”

I froze; this little girl stared at me with those big hazel eyes and clutched a beat up brown teddy bear. At this moment, I knew she deserved the truth. I swallowed, knelt down and grabbed her shoulders.

“Baby, I love your wires. You don’t have a soul because of those; you don’t have a soul because…well…baby, you’re light-skinned…”

*RIMSHOT* PLAY ME OFF, JAMES!!!

Let’s talk about social media, James. Remember when sane people were the only ones allowed online? No? Neither do I. What I do remember, though, is when people didn’t take it to such extremes. My homeboy would ‘poke’ 5 females a night on Facebook in 2005 and we all arched our eyebrows and commended his boldness (Eds. Note: Facebook was created and originally intended for college kids; I know 2005 seems early to some of you). Today, girls hold roundtables to determine maximum selfie ‘like’ time and some Central Nigga sits and creates random memes that take hold of the Twittersphere within minutes of anything newsworthy occurring. That’s all cool, I guess, but let’s talk about some people that need to just chill. Like forever.

Remember that Instagram post we saw yesterday, James? The one with the ‘model’ bent over some community pool with heels on? Yeah…that THOT. THOT is here to stay, James; don’t look at me like that. That THOT…THOT…got 128 ‘likes’. I ain’t mad at all, but the comments section made me purse my lips a bit:

“Daimt lil mamaa…”

@ric_slick_thick

“You got twwwo migetts in yo bacc pokets”

@show…SomethingTheNameIsReallyLongAndStupidAndImNotRepeatingItBecause…Stupid

“U need some street D numba 980…”

@SomeGuyThatWasAboutToHaveHisNumberAllOnThisPostForTheSakeOfMyArgument

Hahahahahaha…and this is some girl that lives in suburban Detroit.

How about these Twitter clowns though, James? The ones that…what’s that? Steak them? Oh…you HATE them…I do too, man. I do too. The charm of Twitter is that you have to write words to express your point. The sad part of Twitter is that people can’t spell (even with a Smartphone), can’t form whole sentences and sound ridiculous. The Gucci Mane rant was probably the funniest thing I’ve ever seen but damn…why are there periods in random. ass places, Guc’? Instagram is why women have left Twitter in the dust though. You don’t need a personality when you’re taking pictures of yourself in a dirty bathroom mirror with water spots dotting the bottom of your filtered posts. James just pointed out something really poignant about Instagram women but I won’t repeat it because…it’s not like those girls can read it, right? Bunch of THOTs.

#FelonCrushFriday. Remember when that doofy shit happened? Women need to explain why that was ever a thing. Not to me, though; I saw how ridiculous most of you all were on Father’s Day. How did you convince yourselves this was okay? The worst part about it all is that it spread SO quickly. I mean, I’m sitting back watching my Twitter timeline and I see the same felon that was on my Instagram feed. Then I open Facebook and I see the same felon that was in my homegirl’s GroupMe conversation. What makes it even worse is that I watched the BET Awards and I saw the same felon being mentioned by a famous THOT that was…play me the hell off, James.

Facebook died when old people could get accounts. I hate everything about Facebook. I hate the women so in love and insecure about their relationships that every uploaded picture is of her and her man doing…stuff. Mundane, pointless, annoying, stupid stuff that only serves as a confirmation to themselves that their boyfriend is theirs and only theirs. Crazy THOTs. I hate every teenaged picture of me floating around that terrible place. I don’t want to play Slotomania Slot Machines, yet I get invited twice daily by weird old women that probably use their two index fingers to type Facebook chat messages to people that aren’t even logged on. I hate Facebook so much. I really do; my feed is filled with God and Worldstar fights. Dear Jeebus, can you just send BOTH of these people to Hell for being douches? That actually might be my next status. Just pray for the babies and the THOTs, please. Play me off, James.

A.J. Armstrong really doesn’t get you people. He’s also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities. He also understands the irony of sharing this with his Facebook friends so…shut up

TAoTFH Part II: The Return Home

The Fly Hobo

“You see…to live is to suffer. To survive…well, that’s to find meaning in the suffering.”

“WELCOME TO CLEVELAND, BITCH!”

DMX had to be talking about the people that live in this city. As nice as they are, there’s no reason they should be living like this. Downtown Cleveland had me fooled; it wasn’t the most skyscraper-laden city I’ve ever seen but it fed me optimism about what I would see when I ventured past these few large buildings. Downtown Cleveland is a horrible liar.

There’s a North Coast here…that leads to a lake. A lake, homey. A lake. Regular ass people with no edges can make lakes. There’s not even a beach there; there’s a body of water that’s cut off by rocks or a beaver dam or a pile of sticks or something-I don’t know, really-that doesn’t let boats venture out away from this terrible place. It’s like they acknowledge it took a miracle to get people to live here and they can’t risk losing a single taxpayer. Now I get the “Crossroads” video; that wasn’t the angel of death that kept taking Clevelanders’ lives; it was a recruiter from Happyland taking selected folks from the nothingness to anywhere else, USA.

I almost bought a Johnny Football jersey, though. Party Boy Manziel is the post-LeBron hope these people seem to tie their laurels to. The audacity of hope is what makes good dreams great and great dreams billion dollar corporations; Cleveland hope is an 8-8 football season. I’m not poking fun; I’m just stating facts that you’re free to refute. The old Cleveland Browns moved to Baltimore, drafted Ray Lewis and Ed Reed, won two Super Bowls, and made us all forget that Baltimore is still the worst place I-95 could ever take us. But you all have Johnny. Poor Johnny. That money dance is going to offend a lot of people here, I’ll bet.

I didn’t want to leave DC but I felt I had to. Every shift from the black, white, and gray Sobiato sweatsuits to the red H&M skinny jeans nudged me to this point. Each gentrified neighborhood and random condominium construction ate at my love for a place I never planned to defend so fiercely. When did D.C. become a destination city for young people? I get it now; everyone wants to move here because there are places like Cleveland, Ohio. The people are really nice and helpful-don’t misconstrue what I’m saying-the city itself has just given up. Clevelanders deserve better. I thought the fire on Lake Erie was a hilarious accident. Naw, son…naw. That oil was running away from the city and I kind of don’t blame it at all.

“Welcome to Baltimore-Washington International Airport.”

I tried to run to an obscure place but couldn’t. Going back to Atlanta would reunite me with so many of you college douchebags, I sometimes regret lamenting to people I was born there. I’ll resign to living in Uptown D.C. and smirk at the hoards of people clamoring to live in this expensive, arrogant, bougie (that’s how I spell it. To hell with your comments) city. I will learn to deal with seeing white folk walking their dogs down H Street at 9:00 PM without a care in the world. I guess I’ll get used to seeing the Cordas being torn down, leaving its residents to relocate to Southern P.G. County. Whatever. I’m here and I’m the prince of this city; I tried to leave but…I went to Cleveland. You’d love your city, too.

A.J. Armstrong is the motherf*cking Prince of Washington, DC. He’s also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities. He now prays daily for Clevelanders; you shouldn’t have to live like that at all