UNITY 2008: The Wrath of Prawn: ACT I

                                                                                       From the screenplay Pulp Fiction

                                                                               By Quentin Tarantino and Robert Wray

(WHERE'S CITA?)

My grandmother thinks it's cool, but the truth? I hate to travel. I hate being away from people I care about, my Xbox and my tennis shoes. Coffee I can trust. I travel to lecture, do panels and stuff, but unless there is money involved, it's hard to get me on a plane. Conventions don't interest me. So when I got asked to be a on a panel for UNITY this year, I wasn't crazy about it, because I hadn't planned on going. I went to the last one, and it was just ok. No shrimp, but a few mis-adventures, which I'm always up for. But money and time are two things I don't have a lot of these days. But when Michel told me she'd be doing her show live from Chi and Rueben Navarrette was going to be there and everything, well... I couldn't really pass it up. I mean, I could, but I didn't.

Not much else besides the panel and the show interested me, so I made some arrangements to just be at the convention for two days, and I have to say, it's really the way to handle these things.  Nothing is happening on the first day, and nothing is happening as they wind down. Best to go smack dab in the middle, and chirp out as the action flows downhill. So that's what I did.

I hate airport food, because when I end up paying 7 dollars for a ham on rye, I'm always looking for Ashton Kusher, because I can't shake the sensation of being punk'd. Like, this could not be fucking for real, this sandwich. And it's worst imaginable sandwich, except, when you're hungry, it's the best imaginable sandwich. But then it lays in your stomach like a tumor until you land and search the O'Hare for a good bathroom and a clean cup of coffee. This, as it turns out, is about when the adventure begins.

I hopped an airport shuttle to the Hyatt Regency, only to find out that there are 6 Hyatt regencies, and my Pakistani driver named Buck told me he was taking me to The Right One, only to be dead fucking wrong, only to miss it by 22 miles or better.

So. I ended up on an El train, and it was a long, rocky ride. There was this older couple sitting cattywampus from my seat, and they were both ugly like oatmeal, he needing a style coach and a wetnap her, in need of a make-over--stat!--but they held onto each other as that train rocked, man. Like they were on an Italian gondola. He loved him some her. I just don't think I'm programmed that way anymore, so for the entire ride, I tried to mask my envy. That whole thing about love, in any parcel, is absolutely true. Trust me.

I made it off and out at Washington(?) and got a cab, as My Hyatt was only 6 dollars away. My cab driver, black, was chatty without subtitles. I only knew that I was his good friend and to have a nice day. In between, I took in the streets. And tried to imagine what people were thinking.

Later, at the bar, I don't know how I got there. Who's there, but Left Coast Nikki.

Left Coast Nikki, who famously locked me in the hug of death after screaming my name across a bar in Milwauki(SP?) at the NABJ there... I'm standing next to Omar, far more luminescent than I, and then I am in her clutch of luhv. Left Coast Nikki. Before I could stop breathing, we became friends. And I would see her at every one of these useless confabs, and this, in my mind would mark the beginning of Big Fun™ and some grand adventure.  Everything changes, after Left Coast Nikki. And she was rapping to Joeski Love, he who introduced Jason Blair to me as "this kid who's changing the game." Indeed. I wasn't planning on drinking-- I feel like, it's just not me--but the two of them together, my newfound freedom, and the siren call of Maker's Mark conspired to plot my dissent into drunkdom. 

So, with a toast from Nikki, it all began, my convention adventure, this "hunt for prawn."  Me, Joeski and Left Coast Nikki are like a Bermuda Fucking Triangle of Mayhem. No good can come of this trifecta. We only have to alighn for a few minutes, then Hang On Elizabeth. Having immediately secured libation, I took to the task at hand: I am here in Chicago, so where is the fucking shrimp? There was something called a President's Reception a few floors up from the bar, and I was sent to scout it out. And I know what your thinking, and yes, shrimp are quite presidential. But not this night. This night, the layout was like a large variety of small deserts--purse-fillers, I heard a woman call them--pastry, but nothing that looked like much.  I walked around and got the stink eye from many gathered, them, adorned in Lane Bryant and Men's Wearhouse, sporting the poor man's tummy, from a life lived on spaghetti and rice. These be hard times for journos, and everyone is here looking for a free meal. I just didn't have the good sense to dress for the occasion. These deserts did not deserve me. So. I chirped out.

I returned to the bar only to find a cast of thousands--or maybe it was the double vision, as the Maker's kicked in--many of whom I recognized, or inexplicably recognized me. Bernzie was at the bar, and I think I bought her a drink. I say "I think" because somewhere in this area is where the cocktails start running together, and the evening starts going black. Blackity Black. Not that I passed out, but there are tales told at the bar that shouldn't be told in other places. I am a veteran of bar tales--even if my beloved Whatley's has been long since closed because of rampant shootings and short-pouring--and I know the code. There was some thought I would not be well for Michel's show. But I think fear of Michel's wrath tempered my intake a bit, and I hit the sack.

The next morning, I am doing Michel's show, where I moderate a segment. Rueben Navarrette is there, in the flesh. Rueben is a rock star, and I can't believe it. We took a picture, Lee Hill, him and me.  Nick Charles and Diggy were in the house. Maybe you heard it. A good time was had by all.

Later, I ran through the job fair looking for people I knew. And trying to get a line on the shrimp. And here's the thing: I'm told there WAS shrimp to be had, but I'd missed it. Receptions were bountiful and resplendent with crab meat, free wine and prawn, from what I'm told. But nigga's lie, man. Niggas lie, but swag always tells the tale, and let me say that this year, in my bag, there was quite the selection of doo-dadds. There use to be a time when you could go through the job fair and take home a whole outfit: BET hot-pants, NYT t-shirts, flip-flops from the Washington Times, or whatever. Those days are over. But I got a nice bag, nice key chains, plus, the bomb-ass Root T-Shirt. And I saw all my Root people, which was cool. Omar was missing.

I went over to the BET booth and asked "Where's Cita?" They couldn't tell me anything about Cita or "Hey Monie" but said Cita was bringing down the network, and proceeded to tell me about the new show starring Cousin Jeff Johnson in the offing. Again, me, missing Cita. Cita was the bomb. I'd take Cita over Cousin fucking Jeff any day. Gina MacCauley is always crying about What About Our DAUGHTERS. What About Cita, Gina? What. About. Cita.

So, A few people came to this panel was on. This picture was taken before it filled up.