Rays from Hotlanta

Sing it with me y'all ... And with a pen and pad, I compose this rhyme to hit you and to get you equipped for the summertime.

Will Smith, a.k.a. The Fresh Prince, probably didn't have a professional conference of writers in mind when the poet from Stratford Upon West Philly penned this now-classic ode to summer. But, it's a fitting song that describes the good time that was had in Atlanta last week at Freaknik '05... I mean the national convention of writing brown folk. By day, journalists discussed the happenings of the day, from hearing from T.D. Jakes on the mega church's place in the black community to voting rights education from everybody's fave baby dad-- the admittedly oh so fresh and clean Rev. Jackson (True story: He was staring hard...I mean long enough to take a picture... from two tables away as I lunched, clad in pearls and Jones New York, with a mentor of mine...*Shaking head* Uhm, no comment. And no, Mahogany me was not interested in becoming baby momma #2 LOL).

So anyways, of course yours truly was at everyone of these in depth, thought provoking discussions (that statement is absolutely true... if Al Sharpton doesn't get a touch up every other month and if Flava Flave has a dental plan in use.) Okay, so maybe I wasn't actually at any of these talks. Instead, I was chatting it up with a host of media moguls trying to get them to cosign my goal to take over the world. LOL. But, although the heavy hitters abounded, what seemed to draw the real news was the constant partying.

*And now for an illustrative song break* "3 in the morning, the pancake house, 4 in the morning you can hear [us] start to shout, 5 in the morning, calling a cab. 6 in the morning, talking bout the fun [we] had. 8 in the morning, just gettin' home, talkin' bout the overnight scenario--scenario."

One had only to look in the hotel lobby to see the culluds making use of the space as macking grounds... As dawn approached, the staff would turn the air conditioners on in the hopes of possibly luring the legions of negroes away from the public area, but a tropical people who have survived slavery usually find a way to adapt. Chilly air? We put on sweaters. They put the chairs up? We stand in pimpin' pods (circles) like whaat?! Club Lobby was in full effect every day... as Naughty by Nature once said, till the break o' break o' dawn. Unlike many locations that you can find M. Elle at, this location saw no discrimination. There we were, young and old (and real old) mack professionals, amateurs and aspiring mack artists. (*Sidenote - Why is it that, in addition to the rare occasion of the said rebum *shaking head* I always attract the attention of old and/or effeminate men? Clutching pearls... Um scuse me, if you have four grandkids, a mortgage and outstanding alimony balance, kindly step to the rear. Toe thong sandals and a Burberrry sarong? Please follow the gentleman in front of you. *singing w/ Ms. Cracky Houston* "My name is not [Terry]/ So, watch what you say/ And if you still need her, then be on your way! End note*)

Still as it was the place to be, on one of these said nights, a triumvirate of friends journeyed to the lobby to see what we might see. We got to chatting with a brotha (and his friends), a professional at a media organization that shall not be named and learned that he was Dave Chappelle's seemingly long lost cousin (or at least in spirit). The man delivered a spontaneous comedy routine over the span of at least an hour that left us all in stitches. Unfortunately, I didn't bring my notebook, but here, from my wiz bang memory, are excerpts...

On marriage and money: After asking me whether I would ever consider signing a pre-nup (Of course not), this man, we'll call him John Q. Negro, commenced on said speech. If I walk into a situation with three kwatuhs (quarters), I want to leave with my three kwatuhs. Even if I'm dead. I want them to lower me in the casket and then have somebody flick my three kwatuhs in there with me... (After a possible split) If I have to pay, at least make me think that I'm paying the baby's tuition or somethin'. Don't be up in my house that I paid for with another ni---ah. Then I'd have to have a prob-a-lem. I'll be in the bushes everynight nekkid with gloves on. And, I'm stabbin' everybotay!"

On upward mobility: John Q., although a successful media pro, told us of his aspirations to aspire to greater heights. Over his bed, he said, he has a picture of Oprah's beau, Stedman. For he is John Q's deepest inspiration. Every black man should aspire to win a woman with millions, he said. Every night, I pray. I touch his head and pray (mimicking the preachers that push folks down at the altar by touching the wall) and I say, Lawd, you know what I NEED!

To a homeless man: The man came out of nowhere as the group of us walked down the street. Granted it was past midnight, but the man should have known better than to ask him this. Or at least, now he does. Homeless/crack man: "Ey yo', mista can you come with me to the gas station?" John Q. Negro looking at the man like he has three eyes, "Man, I don't know you!" Homeless/crack man: repeats question. John Q, "Nuckah is you crazy?! Yeah, Ima go to the gas station with you stranger killah. Where's the gas station? Oh, in that dark alley? Okay, let's walk down the alley. You gonna get yo' boys to jump me? Okay cool."

[END NOTE -- Thanks for your patience with me, y'all it's been quite the hectic, with school starting, traveling, job hunting, and general buffoonery. More soon, I promise!]