Fly

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

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

My Last Post About Women Ever, Part V: My Last Post About Women Ever (He’s Talking About Light-Skinned Women Again; You Probably Shouldn’t Read it. You Ought To, Though)

Racist Eggs

“One of the prevailing topics in your work has been the exploration of intrarace relations and- more specifically- the lampooning of “light-skinned” African American women. It is your red thread of sorts and has been a source of criticism. How do you respond to those that call your writing ‘sophomoric’, ‘undeveloped’, and ‘championing self-hatred’? “Well, White Reporter, there has always been this weird dichotomy between light and dark-skinned Black people. That divide has been there LONG before I started actually talking about it. I mean…look, all I know is America. I ain’t never been out of this country; all I know is how race relations- interracial and intraracial- have gone in this country. It interests me because the entire history of this country is checkered with questionable moments within those relations. It intrigues me. Honestly, I find humor in so much of it and in how people react to the things I say. It’s all so funny to me but I find the most humor in how light-skinned Black people- especially women- view themselves and others. That’s, I think, what I get the most enjoyment from writing, regardless of how other people feel about it. So yeah, I get why they feel that way but I’m way more self-aware than they give me credit for…” -2013 interview with the White Reporter in those Frontline Chappelle’s Show skits I always imagine that White Reporter. I even gave him a name: White Reporter. The funniest thing about everything I say is that I get everything I say. That’s kind of why I say it. It entertains me and antagonizes a group of people. Awesome. Derive from it what you will because that’s why I put it out there. I’m like those authors that write novels that high school English teachers overanalyze: “In this passage, the author makes mention of the red bed sheets in her bedroom. That signals the rage and emotion she was feeling during her struggle with her identity and efsdlkefvvjeoscowmemfpdpvpvjejfeejwqqocwfkf and some other ridiculous shit…” The bed sheets are red because that’s what Target had for the cheap, bitch. My ridiculous assumptions of light-skinned women are just that: ridiculous. Do I really believe all light-skinned women are soulless, self-serving narcissists that were born with 74 unread text messages? I’m lying…of course I do. You’re all terrible people that have been coddled by the white man and overly praised by everybody else. No light-skinned woman has ever helped me in anything I’ve ever done. Nope. Not one has ever shown any type of compassion at all. I made it through college all by myself. I don’t recall any high yellow woman assisting me in any way. There was no teacher taking interest in me and realizing potential I never felt was there. Never once did she help me with my schedule when my advisor wrongly placed me in classes I had no business being in. There were no Giant gift cards mysteriously placed in my Nike backpacks when I seemed a little sluggish. There’s no way in hell she would (rightfully) place her foot in my ass during a time of misguided ambition, blinding lust for the wrong things, and shallow intents for the wrong women. None of that even seems plausible. Not from anybody the color of the McDonald’s logo. Nah. If you’re stupid, you stopped reading a long time ago, dismissing this as more of that typical Fly Hobo nonsense. Good luck at the self-checkout, champ; your produce struggle is going to be SO REAL. Racism effectively hates an entire group of people while designating members of that same group as acceptable. The best example I’ve ever seen was on an old episode of The Jerry Springer Show when Jerry interviewed a Klu Klux Klan member that was an avid fan of Michael Jordan. Sometimes ignorance provides clarity. Sometimes somebody says absurd things in an attempt to hold up a mirror to society to show it how ugly we can be. And sometimes people are racist. Whatever. The White Reporter stopped taping a while ago. A.J. Armstrong dedicates this post to Mrs. Hope Jackson. No person achieves anything alone. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities. Pardon the swear words

My Last Post About Women Ever, Part IV: THOT-ful: A Jump-Off Story

Jump Off

Now, I’m sure most of you have a general idea of what a jump-off is; for those not as educated, Urbandictionary.com defines them as ‘a woman of dubious sexual practices’.  They go by many names (rollers, crankers, tip drills, shones, etc.), as do their…”talents”. I refrain from using more derogatory words because they have different meanings for me; if that’s how you choose to identify them, I can’t really do much about that, now can I?

Where was the avenue for these types of women birthed from? Nobody knows the true origin story of jump-offs, nor do we know the primary characters. We just know some dude found some woman to do what he “needed” her to do one day. While I don’t know the exact date, the creation of the modern jump most likely happened something like this:

OCTOBER 1991

Two dudes- we’ll call them Los and William- were lounging in a Washington, D.C.-area strip club in October 1991. Los, dressed in a black Champion hoodie, Karl Kani jeans, and Nike Air Max 180s, was in stark contrast to the well-groomed William who was clad in a grey three-piece suit and blue tie. These were very different men of two different generations, castes, and classes. However, what they did have in common built the foundation of what I speak on today.

“Lemme get a quarter to call my girl,” Los asks over his shoulder, eyes still fixated on the voluptuous Carmel-colored woman on his lap. Two songs and $10 later, he grabs the quarter and saunters to the pay phone. Placing the quarter in, the only thought he could muster in his hazy mind is broad better be woke. After misdialing twice, a ringtone finally becomes audible in the receiver.

“Aye…you woke?”

“…Mmm…”

“Get up, young.”

“For what, nigga?”

“I’m trynna see you.”

“…Bye.”

As he hangs up the phone, he subconsciously scans the dimly lit building for an answer to his sexual tension. Three hours in a strip club tends to do that to people. Unable to find anything of value that wasn’t on the stage or the pole, Los, in an act of desperation and excitement, pulls aside a waitress. “I got a hundred if you trynna do something.”

The indignant look on the high school senior’s face probably would have been an indicator to a more sober and rational Los to stop, but the Crown Royal only urges him on.

“One-fifty, slim…no wait…two hundred. Only cuz I ain’t seen ‘em,” he adds with a sly grin as he points to the frilly lace bra she wore.

Something about money- the prospect of receiving it in particular- really piques a true jumps interest. The waitress, who had been disgusted and offended at Los’ crude courting, was not seriously considering his offer…at first. All of a sudden, she senses an opportunity to bargain with the young man; he doesn’t even look that bad, she rationalizes.

“$300.”

She knew Los was not going to accept; she just wanted a place to begin negotiations. Los’ arched eyebrows of disbelief were a bonus.

“Hell na…$250. That’s all I got. If you would have hit me up sooner, I might’ve thought about three. Your bad, slim.”

“$250?”

“$250.”

“…Mmm…I’m with it. Lemme finish giving these drinks out and I’ll come get you.”

William, noticing the whole exchange take place, shared Los’ dilemma. Not only was his wife sleep, she was in Arkansas. His problem was further compounded by the fact that he was a high-profile public official. Hell, even being at this club at two in the morning was questionable. Being high and tipsy made this situation downright scandalous. There was too much risk for him despite his urges to do exactly what Los had so fearlessly done minutes prior.

FEBRUARY 1996

While on a conference call, William motioned to a young intern to enter his office. As this was the fourth or fifth time, the slightly overweight 22 year-old was well aware of what he desired. Taking her position under his desk and away from view, she began her spectacular and sudden ascent into pop culture infamy. The scene in the club had stuck with him all these years and he reveled in finally being able to wildly live out those whimsical fantasies. The intern’s careful positioning under the desk proved heady, because shortly afterward, the office door slowly creaked open to reveal an aged man with a stack of papers in his arms. “These are urgent and pressing documents you need to address immediately, Mr. President.”

Now you know how jump-offs became popular knowledge, by a man in a strip club and the 42nd President of the United States (sure, some of those facts are debatable but that’s how I remember it). That totally true scene also…er…okay, this is absurd. This was also probably not the best story to share with my little cousin’s third grade class. I’m going to go re-evaluate my life; I’ll see you guys next Thursday for the My Last Post…finale. In the meantime, you can read Part I, Part II, and Part III to occupy your time.

A.J. Armstrong will be finishing his five-part exploration next Thursday. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities…? Right?

My Last Post About Women Ever, Part III: Faded Pictures and Old Playlists

burning heart

Is it weird I still think about them? What about the fact they routinely pop up in my head in the form of wistful nostalgia? How about the fact I still have pictures of them in my phone, even though some of them were two or three cells ago? Would you judge me if I told you I still pull up those pictures from time to time? Or that I stare at them longingly, wishing I could somehow relive some of the moments that continue to play on in my dreams? And the damn songs. Those songs all of them ruined because they send those complex emotions rushing back to me and make me relive the memories so often. Sometimes I sift through those pictures and replay those songs in my mind silently, some more somber than others…

“As she turned through the pages, a tear rolled down her face/I could see her reminiscing…why her life had to be this way…”

I was in love with her at 12. By then, she lived 688 miles away in a city I had just left but loved just as much. I grew up with her and fell for her temper. We fought so damn fiercely, I knew that passion would eventually be channeled into something mature and timeless. I just KNEW it would. The song doesn’t really speak to what I felt and what I wanted her to feel; she just used to sing it off-key on the couch when I visited her. That picture of her smiling at me while an Ebony Magazine sits open in her lap always conjures up the love I have for the summer of ‘99…

This one loved the song “Like You” by Bow Wow and Ciara. I sit and look at my phone, amazed that somebody so pretty then could become more beautiful years after that youthfully ignorant pose that smiles back at me. I remember that song because it blared from her phone and I knew that someone she was more interested in was calling. The bridge is a run-on sentence that ended with what my heart screamed silently at her: IAin’tNeverHadNobodyShowMeAllTheThingsThatYouDoneShowedMeAndTheSpecialWayIFeelWhenYouHoldMeWeGon’AlwaysBeTogetherBabyThat’sWhatYouToldMe- and I believe it- cuz I ain’t never had nobody do me like you….

I still hate the man on the other end of those calls, even though I never formally met him. The fact my feelings were embodied in a song reserved for another dude pissed me off. Despite it (or because of it), that drove me harder to live out those lyrics during our aimless drives in my Ford Explorer…

Love can be either a continuous melody or a painful bookend, which is why Ms. “Like You” will forever be remembered by a Ghostface Killah song, too. Not even a song, actually; the instrumental to said song…I had some SHIT to say. Is love really being up late writing angry lyrics over a Ghostface track? If you’re angry enough…it makes sense to you, trust me. The “Back Like That” beat played in some shitty iPod headphones while I scribbled a message I desperately wanted to shout in her face…

Jay-Z’s “Dear Summer” made me a stalker. The copied-and-pasted Facebook pictures of her posing in her dorm room made me weird to the people that didn’t understand what love really is. If they knew, then they had to know why I wanted to stalk her. With that song playing over and over from an iPhone 3 perched in the bushes situated below her kitchen window. She would never notice my actual presence…but she would absolutely feel a certain discomfort at the amount of weird things happening around her. Simple things like me gluing the hair in her combs to her bathroom mirror in vague messages. Or weird, square-shaped patches missing from her beige pillow covers. Or her Twitter account being followed by @ImUp_IAmAlwaysUP_AndWatching_You. Thank God that’s not a long song, my Dear [Redacted]…

The next image is hard to look at; it’s harder to describe the impact such a passing moment continues to have. She stood in front of a fountain- one I walked by daily to a building that had professors that changed my life and women that made life hard and a department that dared me to be great- and held me like she was in love with it all without her really knowing so. My Little One.  The single mother that was both thirsty for knowledge and unaware of her immaturity. When somebody so young is the anchor of her entire family, her saying her ringtone for you is “No Better Love” is special. I couldn’t even come up with a decent quip for it; it’s awesome, period. I hear that song and just imagine she still smiles whenever it gets played. It’s my only bridge to a past that easily could have been my forever. Maybe it’s my ego whispering to me that I will always matter within those three or four minutes. Maybe I just like the damn song and misremember how special it really was to her. Whatever. I don’t miss her. Nope. I’m not trying to convince myself at all…

Man, she stole MY song and made it OURS. That motherfucker. That humble, pretty, stacked motherfucker. I played a song I loved and she loved the song and now we love the song. “Time of Your Life” went from being something that elevated my mood and made me smile at the ridiculous nature of day-to-day life to becoming a burgeoning couples’ mood music. Her pictures are explicit so I won’t describe them (but I damn sure will keep on looking) but what the hell…?

This last picture is always hard because I never know how to feel. She deserved better from both him and I. I never knew what she was telling him when she laid in his apartment and I’m sure he never knew about our conversations. The only picture is one I snuck while she was looking at the video to our song, too drunk to even notice the flash. Did she play our song for him? Did she introduce him to the music video with her head so perfectly nestled under his chin like she did with me on my couch? She was never mine; she was either under me or him and the influence. I wonder what that kind of tugging did to her psyche, but I never asked. I just kind of waited for her to blurt it out in her weaker moments…

“8 doobies to the face…fuck dat/12 bottles in a case…nigga, fuck dat/2 pills and a half-weight…nigga, fuck dat/Got a high tolerance when your age don’t exist…”

My Beautiful Mistake makes those words seem so surreal. Who gives a shit about growing old when living in the now is so much more pleasurable? She had no concern to even know she would forever be suspended in that nonchalant pose. I wonder so many things when I stare at it. It feels ominous and dark; it’s also telling and intimate…

“Got a high tolerance when your age don’t exist…”

Timeless photos…

A.J. Armstrong listens to a lot of Drake late at night and tends to reminisce hard; this post was supposed to come out two days earlier. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities