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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:

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.

Hip-Hop and the White Critic

If you haven’t yet read Amiri Baraka’s seminal piece on jazz, please read it here.

“Most jazz critics have been white Americans, but most important jazz musicians have not been.”

-Amiri Baraka, 1960

54 years later, our critics are still primarily white, our art is still being viewed through eyes that do not quite resonate, and jazz is dead. This has become a reality in the years since, an acknowledgement that what we create is open to critique by those not able to fully comprehend the context of which it was created. In 1960, it was the conception of jazz being appreciated and yet not quite understood by those white critics. Today, hip-hop has been swiped from our collective bassinets.

“As one Howard University professor said to me…’It’s fantastic how much bad taste the blues contain!’”

It’s all noise now. A garbled collection of expletives set to deep basslines. It’s not spoken truth over hypnotic backdrops- it never was to a certain generation, regardless- it’s just hyperbolic boasts in sync with noise. Or it’s noise that has stolen elements of funk, gospel, rhythm and blues, and, yes, jazz in the name of youthful ignorance. It’s why those middle-class Black Americans locked jazz away in closets of shame, and it’s why hip-hop, of any era, remains undefended during times of attack, ridicule, and outrage. It’s fantastic yet unclaimed by those that “matter”.

“…The major flaw in this approach to Negro music is that it strips the music too ingenuously of its social and cultural intent. It seeks to define jazz as an art (or a folk art) that has come out of no intelligent body of sociocultural philosophy.”

They (read: WE) focus on what you “shouldn’t” say. They (read: WE) don’t investigate. “Fuck Tha Police” is too violent, “Fight the Power” is too militant, and “Brenda’s Got a Baby” is too divisive. It’s always too…something, and therein lies the problem. It can’t ever be a reflection; they (read: WE) have to place these songs as depictions. Depictions of what’s wrong with us and not the system or environment in which they (read: WE) escaped in a different fashion. They (read: WE) hear a message but they (read: WE) don’t quite heed it. It’s just an angry noise that- at this point- only emanates from their (read: OUR) children’s bedrooms.

“Most jazz critics began as hobbyists or boyishly brash members of the American petite bourgeoisie, whose only claim to any understanding about the music was that they knew it was different; or else they had once been brave enough to make a trip into a Negro slum to hear their favorite instrumentalist defame Western musical tradition.”

They (read: THEY) knew Doggystyle was unlike anything they’ve ever heard before. They knew Harlem World had a lot of samples from songs they grew up critiquing. Tha Carter III made them love OUR thing. But they didn’t walk into Roscoe’s House of Chicken and Waffles on East Broadway before then. They didn’t venture to Uptown Manhattan until Clinton quelled their fears. They still haven’t walked the streets of Hollygrove; they just knew Wayne’s 16 songs both eschewed the “norm” and placed them in the midst of his chaos. They can analyze and review, but they can’t be us. However, the sad part of this is: they seem to appreciate it much more than we do.

54 years ago, “Jazz and the White Critic” seemed to hint at a defining piece of Black culture slowly being taken from us. Has that occurred with our newest creation? Not fully, but there are ominous signs. Wu-Tang Clan paraphernalia is a Hot Topic “Hot Topic”, Tupac resurrected at Coachella, and Macklemore just Macklemore’d the Grammys (even he was surprised, apparently). Is there anything wrong with any of this? Of course not; they (read: THEY) are remembering and channeling some of the best we have had to offer and that’s awesome. It’s only slipping from our grasp because we don’t cherish our creation. We can give it to whomever but can’t we still bob our collective heads to it? It’s not enough to paint a masterpiece; every once in a while we should stand back and admire what we created.

Rest in paradise, Amiri Baraka. A.J. Armstrong is the humbled creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Kesha Bear Speaks

“I’M RUNNING FROM THE PIGS SO LISTEN UP! I GOT SOME THINGS TO SAY! FIRST OFF…OW! MUTHA…ARGHHHHHH…DON’T TASE ME, BRO!”

Welp…my best friend got tasered again. Not surprised at all. Homeboy dumb as hell. I love the dude but…shit…rap music completely messed his whole life up. This the homeboy Kesha Bear; I’m just tryin’ to help the boy.

Look, I’m older than ol’ boy. I was 2 looking at him chillin’ in a baby seat on top of a big ass floor model TV. Thank God his parents ain’t put me with him at first because I ain’t need a lil’ nig slobbin’ all over me. That boy ain’t care about anything besides putting electronics in his mouth and throwing them out his presence when it shocks him. My boy was born stupid, I know. That fool sat for months on the top of that TV in Atlanta sucking on G.I. Joes he dropped in his diaper. I ain’t finna judge the guy; he was born without etiquette.

I was born August 28,1984 in a J.C. Penny factory in Plano, Texas. As soon as my eyes were sewed onto me, I was in a box headed to College Park, Georgia. Those suits can suck my stuffing; I told them I wanted to be shipped to L.A. because I heard this Reagan guy put some good dope and automatic weapons in Compton. That was right up my alley at the time; if the Fabric-Cloth Rag Doll Provision of ’85 would have passed, I would have been sent to a Black family in Watts equipped with guns in my midsection to kill these bothersome Black people. I lost the vote but I won something else, I guess.

A Negro family presented me to another Negro family on the night of January 2, 1986. By this time, I figured these Moon Crickets would be my final destination. However, when I saw that little big-headed Mocha child emerge from the legs of some lady, I knew I found my mate.

This kid was a petty Negro but he shared my racism at an early age. At little over two years and seven months, I was laying beside him when his father gave him a handful of little green G.I. Joe action figures. My homey bit the heads off every last one of those toys, threw them off that TV and mumbled ‘fuck the police’. I knew right then this was my guy for life.

Since that glorious militant moment, Anwar became the raging racist I always knew he could be. At nine, he forced a white kid to run on a treadmill, only to trip him up and break his nose. He laughed like I taught him to. At twelve, he threw a kid off a trampoline, breaking his ribs. What did my guy do? Back flips cackling after every sniffle from that little dork.

My man is 27 now. I still chill in his room. I remember when his stupid roommate, dumb friend, and naïve mother kidnapped me. They dressed me as that coon Trinidad James and placed me back on my man’s dresser. He laughed. He fuckin laughed. He let these Negroes- Negroes we have fought so hard against- embarrass me and dress me up as a remedial, snaggle-toothed fool. I was inseparable with this dude for 26 years. Anwar, A.J., or whomever this fool calls himself nowadays is dead. I called Chucky; you better make peace with this fool ASAP.

Now he’s running from persecution. Please stop him. We haven’t been cool since he ‘All Golded Everything’ my person. Fuck that guy. Please shoot, stab, or tase this man. HEEEEELLLLLP!!!! Not me! Not me!! Point those things at HIM! C’mon man! Don’t…don’t….AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH…

A.J. Armstrong is best friends with a borderline racist stuffed bear. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities.

January 2, 2041

“Aye! Aye!! Come here, gul! Slim, you! Redtail! Redtail!! I know you hear me, gul! Why you gotta be like that gul?? Come on now, gul! Don’t be cruel, gul!”

My 55^th birthday party (which WILL be at The Park at Fourteenth in D.C. – or whatever replaces it) will play out JUST like that. I’m gonna see to that. By then, I figure the kids will be onto something else, so my pants will be alllllllll the way off my ass. Red Berry Ciroc for everybody! I’ll dance in my own world to the hits of my time: everything from “Gangsta’s Paradise” to “Right Thurr” will have the chickenheads…um…chickenheading…? Trust me, DJ Soulja Boy will have my Old School night jammin’! Yeeeaaah…ooooooohhhhhhh! Kill ‘em, Terio! Better yet, just manage your Huddle House. Sorry for the interruption, T. Feed ‘em. Girbaud jeans, Iceberg sweaters, and, of course, the final wardrobe piece of a man who’s lost touch with the times and couldn’t care less about it: the infamous Flying Durag.

Look, old people. 55 ain’t really that old. You can still do plenty of things like…I don’t know…use your Wii Fit twice a month and buy iPhones and use them to actually call people. Okay…those weird “dances” you do when “All Night Long” plays do make me chuckle a bit, I admit. Seriously, though; 55 is only old to a 27 year-old Black male that was fairly certain (and a little disappointed) that he’d be gunned down by SOMEBODY by now. I guess an awkward Rumba to ol’ Lionel is in order for me, too.

55 isn’t old at all. 55 is when you…settle down (maybe…? I don’t know how this life thing works) and read actual newspapers and suddenly forget how to use a computer. But it’s also around that glorious time you just stop caring. You fart in public (although SOME of you younger folk should be ashamed of yourselves; you ain’t earned that yet!), write checks at the grocery store, and enjoy how people’s opinions no longer matter. Let’s be clear: I do some sociopathic things but if I wear black FUBU jean shorts on U. St. on a Friday night, I’ll fall apart. 55 makes you blind to all that. Hence, the infamous Flying Durag.

“THESE FOLK WON’T HOLD ME BACK! THESE FOLK WON’T HOLD ME BACK! *Loses breath* THESE FOLK WON’T HOLD ME BACK!” Listen to that Rick Ross song again; he got tired after repeating it twice and fell off beat! Listen! Anyway…

I can see my birthday party now: all of my friends gathered around and their wives and husbands side-eyeing and judging them for still keeping in contact with me. The DJ spinning Youngbloodz records while I A-Town stomp happily. Me pulling on the elbow of some 22 year-old hardbody named Carlita telling her EXACTLY what I was doing in 2020. Flirting with the female bartender in an accent that inexplicably changed over the years to sound like the South Carolinian and Southern Georgian roots that combined to make me. And that damn infamous Flying Durag. That glorious Flying Durag. It’s almost as good as an A.A.R.P. card: you might not like me but, damnit, you will respect me for living this long! There I will stand: dressed in my leather and my Timbs like it’s 1998, throwing money at the yellow broads (do older men just get older and suddenly like light-skinned joints exclusively? Always wondered that. I’ll do some research…), and banging on the DJ table, yelling for him to play some Ma$e. With my infamous Flying Durag flowing in the breeze the entire time. Now, you tell ME: who hot, who not??

A.J. Armstrong looks forward to putting his arm around a young man wearing an ‘I’m a 2010s baby’ shirt and consoling him. He just doesn’t know, the poor soul. Saying I’m a 2010s baby is like yelling ‘vote or perish because of your lack of participation’ when the cooler kids just scream ‘vote or die’. Just saying. He’s also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities. My born date is also 1.2.86. Just in case you didn’t get the context clues. I want presents. Good presents. Amazing presents for entertaining you all. Hit me up for ideas on my presents. Seriously. You have less than two months. And don’t laugh, y’all; we’re all gonna get old at the same time. Have a nice day and get off my lawn.

HERE YOU GO

MY MAMA SAID I WRITE TOO GOOD. SHE SAY I TOO SMART FOR PEOPLE. I NEED TO NOT BE SMART NO MORE. EVERYBODY NO GOT COLLEGE DEGREE SO I DON’T TALK GOOD TO THEM. MY NAME A.J. AND I LIKE RAP SONGS AND FALCONS THROWING BALL BUT THEY LOSING. LAWD IT LOOK LIKE I SHOUTING AT EVERYBODY. that better? no more shouting. i want to talk about new eminem cd. Its good. he rhyme words so good. i want to describe how good cd is but i no be over heads. cd good.

marshall say words i no be able to say to y’all. mother say you too stoopid to understand. me disagree but me don’t know better. i just say words good and you no understand says her. she say relate and dumb down. i relate and dumb down. me no yell because big words too much for you. i think you smart but mom say you not. so me want to relate to you so me say words stoopid. me used to want to be smart and clever…no…no clever. me used to be tricky with words. that stoopid mom? me dumb down for the dumb people. me personally think you smart but mom say you not. mom say be stoopid so me be stoopid. me like marshall cd. cd good. you should listen cd. cd good like kendrick and nas.

A.J. Armstrong is smart. A.J. Armstrong tries to write smart things for people he knows are smart enough to understand it all. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities; a site that isn’t afraid to be smart. Thanks, mom.

The Dissolution of Jay-Z

Thank God Nasir never made hundreds of millions of dollars. I’m happy Marshall still cares. I’m talking, of course, about Eminem and Nas. They are arguably two of the most influential and recognizable rap artists ever. Along with Jay-Z, these three represent an era of rap music that I really didn’t think was possible when I was younger: aging rappers still every bit as viable as their younger counterparts. They are all over 40 and selling just as well- if not better- than any other current rapper. Nas’ 2012 release, Life is Good, earned him another Grammy nod. Eminem is releasing The Marshall Mathers LP 2 on November 5. Both of these artists are still rapping at incredibly high levels. Why then, can’t the same be said for Jay-Z?

I might as well preface everything by stating firmly I have never been- nor will I ever be- a huge fan of Jay-Z. I have his entire catalog but I don’t CHERISH most of it. For every classic (Reasonable Doubt), there’s a total clunker (Vol. 3…The Life and Times of S. Carter, anybody?). With that being said, I’d be a delusional hater if I didn’t acknowledge that the great musical moments far outweigh the less stellar. The dude has been around this long for a reason. After listening to his latest release, Magna Carta…Holy Grail, I’m not so sure that’s a good thing.

I’ll keep my review of Magna Carta… brief: I hate it. I hate his super simplistic lyrics. I hate his endless references to his opulent lifestyle. I hate that 16 STELLAR instrumentals were wasted on this effort. However, what I hate the most is his willingness to bow and conform his flow to what’s “hot” today. It wouldn’t be as offensive if Mr. Carter hadn’t been so insistent about being the leading trendsetter in Hip-Hop. Clearly that isn’t the case anymore if he’s out here rapping like Young (insert name) from the South.

Magna Carta…, to me, confirms what I had suspected for a few years now. Jay-Z doesn’t care anymore. And why would or should he? The man is worth millions upon millions of dollars. Jay has been known to phone in whole albums at times (Vol. 2: Hard Knock Life was a literal sleepwalk for him), but this feels different. What I heard the three times I ran the album (because I just couldn’t take it after a certain point) was a man just done with trying to make art. Tom Ford reference here, Givenchy name-drop there…we get it, dude. You have a lot of money. And I also get that this has been Jay’s thing since day one but the difference here is that there’s no creativity to it. “Imaginary Player” was dipped in sumptuousness too; he just made it sound so INTERESTING.

So has Jay-Z fallen off lyrically? Yes, but only because of his lack of interest. If Shawn Carter wanted to craft another Blueprint-like masterpiece, Shawn Carter could craft another Blueprint-like masterpiece. But why would a man that has everything care to put forth that kind of effort? What kind of fool still actually CARES about making good music at this point? The people are going to buy it, regardless. How dare he make an effort to make the purchase worth it, right? I even have a name for it: The Kevin Hart Syndrome. You made the people listen to you and now that you have their ear, fuck what you babble into it.

I don’t hate Jay-Z. I just want him to quit and never rap again, that’s all. Yeah, it’s stupid that I still care about the art at this point, what with 2 Chainz and Future…doing whatever it is they call themselves doing, but I do. Jay-Z is rap’s Michael Jordan (and not in the sense that he was the greatest ever, so you Jay Stans stop. Just stop); we admired his dominance for so long that we have effectively convinced ourselves that his stint with the Washington Wizards HAD to be a success as well. It wasn’t. I live in D.C. Trust me, it wasn’t at all.

Shawn, your mark on the culture is indelible. You had fans from Delaware to Idaho wearing Yankee caps, unaware of how much I hate them (because it’s clearly about me at this point). You were why I wore a button-up on my first date in college. You’re why Rick Ross has completely ran with this whole Maybach theme. That’s kind of hyperbolic…Rick Ross clearly hasn’t run with anything EVER. You get my point, though. We owe you for keeping the culture going. Let us buy you a cake and a gold watch and exchange your microphone for a brochure for some beautiful Miami condos. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think Marshall has something to say. Ok…bye.

A.J. Armstrong is the rap fanatic debating your top ten at your houseparty and the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Welcome to Goodbye

“I’m done. Eff this. Pack that computer up, pack that cord, pack tha-…all that sh*t! I’m done! I retire…” (Me, 25 minutes ago)

I officially announce my retirement from writing and blogging. I enjoyed myself for the better part of two weeks but it’s time to move on to other endeavors. Maybe I’ll start a non-profit with Drag-On and The Dixie Chicks. It’s pumpkin season; maybe I can hustle some of those off Route 29. Don’t worry about me; I have options, son.

I just know this blog thing isn’t for me. It’s a young man’s game nowadays and I don’t watch nearly enough Basketball Wives…or whatever you people watch and tweet about while I read them and take my frustrations out on some poor Grand Auto V hooker. It’s all good, though. I just realized that none of y’all need me. Why read when Draya thinks for you (she’s such a pretty little terrible woman) or…or…one of those other non-Draya broads does something mildly entertaining? Pardon my side note, but SIDE NOTE: why does Draya even do anything?? Just sit there and be the cute little bird you are. Sit there and wait for me to make some money and realize how shallow I really am and you’ll never have to be stupid in public again. I’ll even get you a Twitter coach so you can avoid those ‘aw, bless her little ignorant soul’ moments.

Well I’ll be damned; my deviance proves why I’m not needed. It also could have provided a tragic example of why I’m SO VERY needed. The Fly Hobo might not be for Draya-heads but there are a lot of y’all that only want to be stupid for that one hour. The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities is for you. Basketball Wives (or Love and Hip-Hop…whatEVER) is good but The Fly Hobo is for the children! The Fly Hobo is for that woman standing in the lobby of the Atlanta Ritz-Carlton waiting for Derrick Rose or Matt Kemp to get off the elevator. The Fly Hobo is for anybody that dances to 2 Chainz, laughs at Gucci Mane, laughs even harder at Drake, and does super unmentionable things to Nicki Minaj videos. The Fly Hobo’s world has Taylor Swift blasting through the speakers, throws parties with the Bieb, and eats sunflower seeds on the train. Word, son.

I’m totally retired still; I’m never coming back. BUT if I ever contemplated it, I need a few things from y’all. I need y’all to agree with me, argue with me, learn with me, laugh with me, and think with me. Lord only knows what will be posted on this blog; just roll with it all. Don’t make me do that Stewie Griffin Incredible Hulk walk away. Just go ahead and follow this blog, the Twitter page (@TheFlyHobo), and whatever other social media site I stalk Draya on (I mean…I’m not the only one. But I WILL be the last one hahaha…I mean…*ahem*…). Look, I just want to get enough money to get my girl a Twitter coach. Ok…bye.

A.J. Armstrong is the still-retired creator of the Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities