THE CASE FOR TRUTH BEING STRANGER THAN FICTION. EXHIBIT B:The Day I Fell in Love with Those Pesky Lefthanded Cigarettes

Preface

"Sticking feathers up your butt does not make you a chicken." - Tyler Durden

Likewise, the act of smoking weed does not make you a smoker. Smoker in this context implies a passion for gettin blowed. Casually smoking at social functions doesn't qualify you as a smoker. Strategically smoking before events (and there are many) you feel merit psychotropic enhancement qualifies you. Having a contact for weed doesn't necessarily make you a smoker. When the dealer contacts YOU to let you know he's re-upped, you are a smoker. The first time you consider investing in paraphenalia, you might be a smoker. The first time you make paraphenalia out of household appliances, "might" is no longer in the equation. You, my friend, are a smoker.

Before August 25th of 2002, I was not a smoker. Before June 8th 2001, I was totally opposed to smoking. Those, "this is your brain, this is your brain on drugs" commercials with the eggs and frying pan, those SCARED THE SHIT OUT OF ME!!! I didn't drink or smoke for years. How I came to smoke was when I was fifteen my best friend, ER, persistently would try to get me to smoke. His logic was "You are the funniest motherfucker I know, you'd be even funnier high." My rebuttal for this argument was "Dude, I cant' stop masturbating, if I like getting high, I'll never be able to stop. I'm gonna get addicted." As much as he assured me that addiction was impossible, I remained steadfast in my position. So one day after having this argument for umpteenth time he said,

ER: Alright, make me this promise. The first time you get high, it's gotta be with me.

AS: Alright, I promise the first time I smoke weed it'll be with you.

Every good salesman knows that no only means no right now. Persistence is the key to all things and everything changes with time and circumstance. So fast foward to June, 8th 2001 where a very drunk AS and an equally drunk ER, who haven't seen each other in a year decide to catch up and throw a few back. ER had just broken up with his girl, quit his job, packed up all his stuff in a Ryder truck and was en route from DC to LA.

ER: Dude, we gotta get high together.

AS: Man, I'm good

ER: Ohhhh, COME OOOON!!!! I fuckin quit my job, broke up with my girl, and am fuckin movin to LA. We GOTTA smoke together.

AS: I'm good, man. I'm cool.

ER: You promised me that the first time you ever got high, it would be with me. Now how often do we even get to see each other anymore. COME OOONNN!!!

He closed me. I mean between a fifth of vodka and a childhood promise backed by 7 years of friendship, how could I refuse?

But on August 25th 2002, I still wasn't a smoker. I could count on my hands the number of times on my hand I had toked since then. I was more of a drinker if anything.

Wierd thing is this weekend marked the first weekend I hadn't had a drink in years. I had the pleasure of hangin out w/4 of the craziest muthafuckas on the face of the earth. The five of us were like Voltron except our Blazing Sword was usually a bottle of E&J. One of my closest friends and most loyal drinking partners, Malice, had moved back to Philly a week earlier. Malice wasn't a an alcoholic because "alcoholics go to meetings dawg, I say I'm a drunk." Malice is one of those people who is a DRINKER. So much so, that everyone experiences an increase in alcohol consumption by close to 50% within a 2 block radius of him . My other comrade in the War on Sobriety, Champagne Shane, was in France for 4 months "to conquer these hoes like Alexander The Great". This despite the fact that he had only 2 years of beginner's Spanish (that's right Spanish) under his belt. Of course, that's not an obstacle for CS because "these hoes understand the language of love, dawg."

The decision to not drink this weekend wasn't because I felt like I needed to slow down or anything. It was more of a "what's the point of forming Voltron with the head and the arm gone?" With 2 of the Fab 5 MIA, I had just resigned to give the E&J a break. It wasn't gonna be the same without them.

There were still 3 of us here, though. This story involves the remaining 3 of the Fab 5.

The Day I Fell in Love with Those Pesky Lefthanded Cigarettes
-or-

Pride'll Get You Fucked Up

The Fab 5 consisted of Champagne Shane, Malice, JP Morgan, The Violator, and Yours Truly. Violator and Malice shared an apartment which was Ground Zero for so much of our debauchery that, after a while, we just dubbed it "Headquarters." When it came time for Malice to depart Atlanta and move back to Philly, renewing the lease on Headquarters was no longer an option. The Violator was forced to find a new place and new roommates.

Now, the place he found was a beuatiful duplex in Grant Park but why he picked, of all people Omari and Jason as roommates; I still have no fucking idea. These two made Rod and Todd Flanders look like Dr. Dre and Ice Cube. Omari, Vio, and I all attended the same church. Omari and Vio both being from Philly, more or less, hit it off immediately. Other than being a self righteous prick, he was a pretty good guy.

Jason and Omari came to know each other because they had been roomates since they both began the Teach For America program. Jason's nickname was Odie partially because he was high yellow and partially because he had about as much personality. J was a holy roller but for the most part mild mannered and easy to get along with. Omari, however, was a completely different beast. Zealot is the word that immediately comes to mind.

Now, my father pastors the church we went to and since the only people pastors can hang out with is other preachers, all of my "aunts and uncles" are preachers. Not only that but my mother preaches, my grandfather is a retired pastor, my other grandfather was a deacon, and my grandmother taught Sunday School for years. Dawg, I'm "church'd up", fo real. Up until about the age of 9 or 10, I thought EVERYBODY went to church. That being said,in my almost 27 years of life I have NEVER met a muthafucka like THIS. I'm sure in a past life (which, of course, is of the devil) he threw a meeeean witchhunt. It's one thing to live by your faith. I've grown up my entire life around men and women of faith. I understand the benefits of righteous living. O's actions bordered on fanaticism, though. It's as if he was "called" to deliver us all to his personal brand of salvation. A salvation which he crafted from very literal interpretaions of the Bible. I remember when we were helping him move in: I saw a prayer he had written in black magic marker going cattycorner on his matress. It said:

Lord, I plead your blood

upon this matress that

it may bind my flesh,

so that your humble servant

may not sin against you.

He signed the shit with a Jesus fish. The whole thing was just fucking wierd. He also had a way of trying to enforce his moral code upon everyone. But to quote The Violator once again, "Man, ain't nobody tryin to hear dat buullshit." And this is precisely were the conflicts began.

All though you might not know him personally, I'm sure, you can imagine that with a nickname like "The Violator" certain conflicts are bound to arise when sharing a living space with two indivduals as "on fire for Jesus" as OB and JB. These conflicts became glaringly apparent when we began to plan their housewarming party.

From the rip, I was charged with planning the party. Partially, because I was known for throwing the type of parties that made Moses come down from Mt. Sinai and smash his stone tablets and partly because when the cops (inevitably) showed up, I had an uncanny ability to talk my way out of incarceration and had saved all of our drunk asses on more than one occassion. Much like our president, I'm a uniter not a divider. I knew given our different lifestyles that this party would have a diverse crowd. When I casually asked for suggestions on the logistics of the party, O, immediately and ardently, stated, "there is going to be NO liquor in MY house."

I could hear Mills Lane's voice in my head:

ML: Gentleman, keep 'em above the belt. Touch gloves. Let's have a clean fight.

The argument that ensued was the verbal equivalent of watching two male rams fight over territory. Eventually, Omari decided that he didn't want anything to do with the party and that he & Jason would stay with a friend that night.

From my standpoint, this was perfect because we could just throw another heathenous affair.

By this point in my life, I had throwing a house party down to a precise science. The recipe is actually pretty simple. You get about $200 worth of liquor, make 2 gatorade coolers full of Everclear punch that you add a bunch of sugar to, to mask the taste. Find a Dj who'll work for liquor and invite only girls. Dudes seem to always find whereever women are anyway, so there's no point in inviting them. The last thing is if you're inviting Black people whatever time you want them to show up you need to tell them to be there 3 hours earlier. Ask me how I know this.

Everything, seemed to be great. Hell, we even had food which is something unheard of because any money put toward food, you can buy liquor with. My mom under the pretense of it being a nice Christian housewarming party offered to cater it. It was shaping up to be one for the ages.

Everything was set. Food was ready. Liquor was ready. The ladies had all RSVP'd. JP Morgan (a.k.a I. Rokwell) was on the 1's and 2's. Sun was shining. LET'S GET IT! But as I have learned in the car business whenever something is going too smoothly look out because the bullshit's coming.

About 2 hours before the party Odie's friends called and told him that they wouldn't be able to put him up for the night. That was cool, though. He understood that it was a house party and just asked that we do our best to keep things down so he could get some sleep. The party was cool, though. People were dancing. You had people outside on the porch drinking, playng spades and talking. There was a veritable cornucopia (I LOVE that word) of women, food and liquor. A real chill vibe.

It started to rain around 10pm but I didn't think anything of it. In English class, I believe they would've called this foreshadowing, though. Somewhere around 10:45, I gotta call from DF. Apparently, the "Canopy" had opened in Buckhead and because she had forgotten to roll up her windows, her car was now in about 2 ft of standing water and undriveable. She called me to come pick her up. To be honest, this was the last thing I had on my mind at this point. The same way a proud father wants to see his son walk across that stage on graduation day, I wanted to see this party crest into the wave of debauchery I had planned it to be. But I am nothing, if not loyal, so I grab my keys and jacket and head to my car.

Right as I am about to get onto the sidewalk none other than "Mr. Crunk 4 Christ" himself is being dropped off in front of the house. For some reason, Mozart's Dies Irae (Latin for Day of Wrath) started to play in my head. I, immediately, go into fireman mode and try and come up with a preemptive sol'n to what I KNOW is going to be a problem.

AS: What's up man? You home?

OB: I don't have anything to say to you. Where's Flip (aka Violator)

AS: He's in the house. You alright, man? I thought you where staying w/ Tracy tonight.

OB: I only want to talk to Flip. Where's Flip.

AS: Relax, dude I'll go get him.

Now even though he deserved to be smacked in the mouth for talking to me like that one of my personal mantra's is pride'll get you fucked up. Seeing this party continue and develop was more important than any confrontation I'd have with him at this point.

When Flip finally came out we did our best to find an option that would satisfy both parties. But it just wasn't happening.

OB: This party's over. I gotta be in the pulpit at 8 in the morning and I need to get some sleep.

AS: Dude, how bout this I'll give you the keys to my place. I live by myself. It's quiet. I'll just crash here, tonight.

OB: Nah, I already told you I don't have anything to say to you.

Vio: How bout this, you getta hotel room & I'll pay for half of it.

OB: Nah, you pay for ALL of it.

Vio: I can't afford to do that. I'm still in school. You work full time. It's a sacrifice for me to do half.

OB: If you don't pay for all of it then I'm staying here

Vio: FINE, Stay here then.

OB: I want the music turned down and I don't want to here any profanity. JP better ONLY play the clean version of these songs.

He was dead ass serious. This muthafucka, actually, wanted us to play the clean versions of everything for the rest of the night. I don't even know where to get "clean versions" and if I did I sure wouldn't plan my fuckin rotation around them. Recently, I saw Short Dog's in the House in the used section of one of my favorite record stores. It was like $5 and I'm a huge Too $hort fan, so I went ahead and copped it. I pop the CD into my CD player, anxiously waiting to hear an album I haven't heard in over 10 years, and it's the muthafuckin clean version. I WAS PISSED. I felt like I had been tricked. I thought about filing a complaint with The Better Business Bureau. I hate the clean version of anything as a matter of fact. Can you imagine this blog as: "Minus the Bullcrap, Life's Great!" It sounds fuckin retarded, right? All clean versions are retarded because the intent of the artist is still there and you just compromise the integrity of the song by removing or changing words. Words are just tools, anyway. What makes things vulgar or obscene is intent not words. For instance, if I tell a friend, "Nigga, no matter how bad shit gets, just know that I got yo muthafuckin back." It sounds more genuine and heartfelt than if I said, "I will always be here for you." That's an expression of unconditional love and support. That's the essence of how Jesus taught us to treat each other. On the other hand I can tell a woman, "I want to have unprotected anal sex with you." which sounds way worse than "I wanna fuck ya in ya ass, raw."

But I digress.... Point is O was being completely unreasonable. We asked JP to turn the music down but to be honest the whole situation had stressed me & Vio out to the point where we outside to vent about the whole thing. He bummed a Newport off some one and started to take drags, something I've never seen him do before. I spent the next 10 minutes calming him down. When I finally got him to relax a little bit I sat down on the porch next to VB and began to tell her the situation. Partly, because I figured I fill her in on the situation and partly because I needed to vent. Talking about it put me at ease, though. I felt the ol' sangfroid returning and was finally starting to relax.

Of couse you know this means that the bullshit is imminent.

Everything seemed to be getting back to normal, when all of a sudden I here the music stop and the speakers start to make a loud electric humming noise. Then I hear people screaming in the house. At this point, I figure I better investigate.

When I walk in the door, I see what looks like a bona fide rumble. It appears to be just all out random violent chaos. When, I look closer I realize that it's really just ONE nigga beatin TWO niggas asses... at the same time. I remember when I was little I watched a lot of wrestling, the only thing I can compare it to is when they used to put Andre the Giant in the ring with like eight midgets and he would completely demolish them.

How this situation came about was "I. Rokwell" was halfway finished w/ his 2nd 16 0z cup of Bacardi Orange(straight, no chaser). At this point, he's so drunk he's not even attempting to blend songs anymore. He's just playing whatever he wants to hear. So when he puts on T-Shirt & My Panties On by Adina Howard well... he just wanted to hear T-Shirt & My Panties On. O, apparently, did not want to hear T-Shirt & My Panties On. O marches downstairs and tells a very drunk I Rokwell that he did not want to hear T-Shirt & My Panties On or any songs that sounded like T-Shirt & My Panties On for the rest of the night or else or else he was going to personally shut the party down.

So you can imagine that when the VERY NEXT song played by our favorite DJ is Put it in Ya Mouth (the dirty version, of course) by Akyinele it didn't go over too well with Moses and Aaron. This time both Odie and O come downstairs and tell JP....

OB: That's it the party's over. You got 5 minutes to pack up your stuff and leave

JP: Ay man, Go get Flip

OB: I don't need to go get Flip. This IS MY HOUSE. When I say the party's over, IT'S OVER!!!

JP: MAAAAAN, SOMEBODY GO GET FLIP!!!

Pride'll get ya fucked up, everytime.

The asswhoopin that ensued could've been avoided. If O had, simply, put his ego aside and taken my offer or Flip's offer or EVEN his next door neighbor's offer to sleep away from the house: situation avoided. If he had, simply, done as JP had suggested and gotten The Violator to mediate the conflict: again, situation avoided.

But alas,The White Tiger called Pride will get you fucked up everytime.

Everyone knows that touching the DJ's equipment is the HOV lane to an asswhoopin. Especially, when that DJ ia an ex-con who spent half his life in New Orleans and half his life in Kansas City, two cities notorious for producing the craziest niggas in the world. And when that same DJ is the drunkest dude at the party and the liquor has suppressed the rational part of him that keeps him from killing yo punk ass, you definitely DO NOT touch his equipment.

But alas, The White Tiger called Pride will get you fucked up everytime.

Now, I don't know if it was the fact that 5'9, 155lbs Odie was standing beside him or the fact that he taught at one of the roughest middle schools in the city and had slammed a few unruly 8th graders or it could've been he felt that he was covered with the "breastplate of righteousness" or perhaps it was because he was an active member of our church's Christian based Karate class: Kickin' for Christ but, whatever it was, obviously he didn't fear the consequence of his actions.

Ultimately, it was pride that made O pull the wires out of those Technics SL 1200's and pride got him royally fucked up. J vaulted the table and went straight in his jaw. The asswhoopin flowed forth in abundance. Apparently, they hadn't gotten to blocking in Kickin' for Christ because J was getting in his shit. I don't know if he was on some non-violent resistance shit but he didn't even get in a chance swing. It was ugly. It was like seeing slaves getting whipped. By the time I entered the scene it was utter chaos and carnage. Remember how bad you used to beat up on Glass Joe on Mike Tyson's Punch Out? Well, it was worse than that. It was like watching a live action Tazmanian Devil at work. At one point Odie tried to tackle/pull J away from OB by grabbing J around the waist. I shit you not, J was simultaneously deliviring a series of vicious right hooks to Omari's face and dropping elbows on Odie's head with his left. The whole time he just kept swinging & screaming,

JP:YA PRUH-TIIN-CHUSS MUTHAFUCKAS! YA SELF RAI-CHUSS SONOVA BIITCH! YA PRUH-TIIN-CHUSS MUTHAFUCKAS! YA SELF RAI-CHUSS SONOVA BIITCH!

The carnage had to be stopped. Flip runs in and scoops Omari up and I run and grab Odie. Flip heads towards the kitchen and I head toward the entrance of the duplex. As I'm running out the door with Odie, J is running beside me, screaming and tagging Odie in the face. I continue to pull Odie into the hallway that separates the units of the duplex from each other. Someone runs in and tries to tackle J but at 6'2 225 he's a little tough to bring down. J, some how grabs the person and slings him into me and Odie and the 3 of us go CRASHING THROUGH THE DOOR into the other side of the duplex. The neighbors looked like they were just 4 average college white kids who were planning on sitting down with there dog and watching Saturday Night Live in spite of all the hip hop playing next door. I just remember the look on their face was one of complete surprise mixed with uncertainty about their personal safety.

No sooner am I able to pick myself up off the ground then I hear Omari yelling at the top of his lungs, "I'M STILL HERE, I'M STILL STANDING, I AIN'T GOING NOWHERE." Like a bull who catches a flash of a matador's cape, J takes off running after O. I get up and tackle J onto the couch and restrain him there. J keeps yellin:

J: Al, get off me.

A: Not until you calm down

J: Al, GET OFF ME!

A: NOT UNTIL YOU CALM DOWN!

We go on like this for a few minutes until I see his breathing start to slow I let him go.

Black people are a colorful people full of personality and a joie de vivre(?) unmatched by any other race. You would think this incident might elicit some sort of shock or dissapointment from the spectators. Nope. Nia, who despite the fact that she was 7 months pregnant still showed up to the party in a black catsuit, was the first to break the silence. Chicken wing in hand, she unequivocally declared,

Nia: DAAAAM, Shawty got his AZZ WHOOPD

PRH, another native of KC, walks over to Omari and sincerely asks him.

PRH: Dog, are you okay. Maaan, How does it feel. I mean, you got your ass beat in your OWN house. I mean this is technically YOUR house party. I mean what's it like to get beat up at your OWN housewarming party. that shit is FUCKED up. And come ooon. By the DJ? You REALLY gotta be feelin bad right now. I mean, damn....

My mission instantly switched from:

OPERATION: KEEP J FROM KILLING THESE DUMBASSES

to: OPERATION: PACK J'S SHIT UP AS FAST AS WE CAN AND GET THE FUCK OUTTA THERE BEFORE THE COPS COME AND J GETS KNOCKED FOR VIOLATING HIS PROBATION.

I packed up his Chevy Blazer with lightning speed and German efficiency. Since he was too drunk to drive I became the designated driver. On the way to his house, a very drunken and repentant, I Boxwell asked me over over agian why he was always doing stupid shit like this and why can't he just live right. I told him I didn't know but that the good news was that he could choose to change anytime he wanted to. The sight was one of the saddest things I had ever seen. He really regretted his actions and wanted to change his ways. I helped him get into bed and unpacked his records & equipment in the rain. Right before I left he asked if he come to church with me tomorrow. I told him, "Fo sho, man, I'll pick you up round 11." I closed the door and headed back to Flip's to see what else I could do to diffuse the situation.

When I got there The Violator was outside handling the police. I went inside to survey the damage. There were only a few people left. P was helping the neighbors try and fix there door which we had ripped off the frame. Some friends of Flip's were straightening up the kitchen. Omari and Odie were sitting on the steps. Omari had a steak over his eye and began slowly rambling to Odie and himself.

O: I can't believe what just happened. The boy attacked me, like a wild animal, in my own house. I'm gonna press charges.

Shit.

I spent the next half hour swallowing huge amounts of my pride, agreeing with shit that wasn't true, apologizing and managing my own temper in an effort to get him to NOT press charges. In the end I had to go to scripture and remind him that as Christians we are to turn the other cheek. And despite the fact that he had so many cheeks turned for him that night, it was his duty to forgive him. He didn't like it but his pride wouldn't allow him to be seen as a hypocrite, so he bought it.

After all this, I get a call from DF cussing me out for leaving her stranded in Buckhead. I am emotionally taxed.

Somewhere, around 3:15 am I finally get home. I open my box where I keep my coin collection and pull out a halfa blunt that my ex gave me. I put on Deadringer by RJD2, fired up the skunk and watch all my anxieties and tension melt away in the music like frost on a heated windshield.

That was August 25th, 2002.