UNITY 2008: The Wrath of Prawn: ACT II (FINI)

So before I go much further, some photos that may help illuminate the previous entry

 
This is the oft-mentioned Joeski Love, preparing to do a headspin and/or bust a rhyme for the delight of all the ladies.

 This is me and Michel.  I need coffee.

 
This is in the engineer's room, just before we went live in Chicago. Rueben is coming in. Michel is in the far studio.

 
Okay, so jumping back before jumping forward, after doing Michel's show, I took in the breakfast buffet downstairs at the Hyatt. As a rule, I avoid buffets because--let's face it--they suck. There is often no sneeze guard over the food, the eggs are powdered and the sausage meat is questionable. But I was broke, so I didn't have a lot of options. I figured to fill up on breakfast food and not have to eat the rest of the day, until dinner. Ultimately, this plan worked. The buffet was kind of on point, and they had the nice chef making omelettes to order, a decent spread of meats, pancakes, waffles--I could complain, but for $22.00, all you could eat, I don't know how I could knock it. I ended up rolling with the heavy protein breakfast: sausage, eggs, raw tomatoes and croissant. Twice, I filled my plate. The other big problem  with buffets is, there never seems to be enough tongs, so you either use your fingers or your fork, and I don't know which is nastier. In this case, there was a nice black woman with an Ipod on redoing the buffet, and the set-up was like, a tong short. So she took the sausage tong and put in it the waffle bin, leaving a fork of unknown orgin in the sausage bucket. So if you were a vegan, or allergic to pork, trying to get your waffle-on >shrugs< sucks for you. She didn't care, and I didn't care either. That sausage was good as a muthafucka.

I had a hot sauce accident on my LJ shirt but I needed to do a Diana Ross anyways, so I pearled back to the room, threw on a nice pastel button-up joint and some sandals and caught a shuttle to the convention, which was a few miles away, I guess. It was there that I would run into folk and do this panel thing I was there to do.

I'd been trying to catch up with Sherri since I was there, and I did. She was wonderful, her and her friends. We took pictures, but none I am sharing. Not like that, but whatever. She liked my sandals, and I said they were from Israel. Upon examining my feet she said "The sandals may be from Israel, but that ash is straight from Cleveland." NICE.

We laughed at the folks walking around with sweaty resumes in their hands, applying for jobs that do not exist. I mentioned earlier that there was some good swag to be had, and far and away, NPR had the best, most practical stuff. They had a keychain shaped like a microphone and some kind of apparatus to wipe your cellphone screen off with. Yeah, I know! But in the grand scheme of things, they won out, right behind The Root, what, with the t-shirt/hat combo. My opinion having nothing to do that I am currently contracted to both companies.

I went to the Harpo table, and any convention I go to, when I approach this table: They seem like they have an ATTITUDE. I don't know if they have my picture on file or what. Anyways, this time was no different. I noticed they were giving something away that looked suspect. "Is this a suppository?" I asked. "We don't go there," responded the plump-ish white woman manning the table, as she rolled her eyes. Apparently, she doesn't watch Oprah, who has recurring segments about the size, shape, smell and beauty of bowel movements, so she didn't actually know how plausible it was that Harpo Inc. might be giving out Oprah-brand suppositories. Turns out, the suppository? Was an ink pen. I took it and kept it moving.

Everyone gave good pen this year, and this is a sign of good things. You can always tell how the economy is doing by the quality of swag being dispensed. This year was slightly better than last year, when companies were just handing out stick-ems with hand-drawn company logos on them. But, like Bello, who was serving hunks of meat on a biscuit at their reception a few years back? They laid off 14% of their staff the day after Unity. Anytime your company is giving out soup kitchen food at their reception, this bodes badly for your future. The writing is on the wall. But, as I recall, that year, they had one of the best receptions going, which is how I knew shit was really getting deep.  Who knows what kind of meat that was but it was a good-ass biscuit.

I digress.

I took a nap at the Job Fair and woke up just in time to find my way to where I was doing this panel thingy. I got lost, but eventually made it to the room when who do I run into, but Left Coast Niki. Which means, it's on and cracking. The session before my panel isn't done, so I dip into the bathroom and do a Clark Kent, switching out my button up for my t-shirt from The Root, because although I ride for at least three different shops right now, I was on the panel riding for The Root. The session ended, so me and Left Coast ran up in that piece, her by my side. "Who's this?" asked one of the organizers, as most people were suppose to come through another door. "She's my entourage," I said. Left Coast got a premium seat up close to the action. That's what rolling with The Iz will get you.

So.

 Michel was on the panel, Diggy too. Also, Father Flager, aka the white Jeremiah Wright and the HARDest working man in radio, Tom Joyner filled out the forum. NPR's Michelle Norris (inexplicably, WITHOUT Robert Seigel) stood in for Suzanne Malveux as the moderator. For reasons that allude me, there was buzz about this panel. I know this, because people told me. And soon, the rather large-ish room we occupied filled up, and the walls filled up, and there was a line to get in from the outside. The topic was "Jena 6, Jeremiah Wright--who got it right?" or something like that. Father Flager wasn't slated to be there, as far as I know--he was a late addition. But it was nice to meet him and be up there with all these hitters. I mean, I was really out of my league.  So, there we were, getting ready to do our thing.

And it's a lot of fun. I almost dump water on Michel, trying to help. Then comes the moment that people seem to be talking about, so I guess I'll talk about it too.

Tom Joyner is kind of the King of All Blacks, radio, and he wears this crown with the kind of humility you might expect from someone who would essentially coronate himself as such in a room full of storied media professionals. I didn't dig that--as I thought it was kind of gauche--but whatever. I'm not known for my humility either. The disconnect for me came when he purported to singlehandedly rile Black America to march on Jena, that black radio was at the vanguard of this mainly misguided, media-manufactured kerfluffle. I had a problem with his assertion because it was factually inaccurate. I had a hard time listening to him lay out his case, and an even harder time not understanding how a room full of reporters could let him get away with it. So, at my first opportunity, I said something like this:

"Respect Tom to you and your 8 million listeners.  But most of us here know that Jena  was born on the Internet, and radio eventually picked it up. The problem with your kind of activism is, yes, you have 8 million listeners, and you get Al Sharpton and all the rest to come on the show, but if you have it wrong, and Al has it wrong, then all you have in the end are 8 million people who have it wrong."

Or something like that. And there as an audible gasp, with a smattering of applause. I guess you're not suppose to disagree with Tom Joyner. Some people didn't take it as a disagreement: some people read it as a hard chin-check. I didn't see it that way.  I saw it as a clarification of the facts in a room full of people who ostensibly broker in fact. I mean, c'mon. There's keeping it real, and then there's keeping in right. I prefer the latter. From where I was sitting I couldn't really see Tom, but I understand he made a face. But he didn't dispute my statement. And we kept it moving.

Then, it was QnA time, and someone asked how we--as in the panel--can help improve the character of the misguided youth of today, and this flummoxed the panel until I grabbed the mike and said something like "I'm just trying to raise MY kids," which is my stock line for that. No one ever asked William R. Morrow, Buddy Holly or Fatty Arbuckle to help raise their kids--that, of course, was back when there were two-parent families. Now, Mom's at work and Snoop Dog or Cousin Jeff is baby-sitting. I think depending on anyone who works in the media to bestow character on your rugrat is asking too much. People can really only be held accountable to do their job. I mean, I pay taxes so your kid can go to school with the lights and water on---you want me to tuck him in too? Seriously?  

The session ended with some nut asking some question from far afield, and that was that. I stood up, steadied myself, glad-handed a few people and made my way over to Tom.

"Hey Man," I said "I'm not fan, but my grandmother loves you." He shook my hand and gave me a hug.

"Well, I'm glad somebody in your family loves me," he said, "Why not let's take a picture for Grandma?"

And we did.

Tom was good peeps, a real pro in the game, obviously. All this, except for the last part, is apparently on C-SPAN, where you can basically view the whole thing for free or buy it for 30 bucks. I only know this because my phone starting ringing late last evening amd I got a bit of email from people that saw it. Me? I'll wait for the bootleg.

I got lost and later ended up at the goofy dance thing they have at every convention of every year on Friday nights. I hate going, because these parties are always over-priced and the smell of desperation--something between Ladies' Speed Stick and MagicShave--wafts through the room like fart cloud. You hear and see unspeakable things from people that should, by all rights, no better.  Tom Joyner hosted last year, and he hosted this year. The Dj was obviously someone's cousin, because he sucked. But I'll tell you this: many of the same women you read writing about the "misogyny" in rap music and such. Well, they were on the dancefloor in miniskirts and four-inch stilettos singing "skeet skeet skeet!" My hand to God. I'm not gonna front anybody, but you know who you are, man. The good news is that women probably outnumber men a good 4 to one at these conventions, and three of the four of them are just banging. Those three? decided to skip the party, and that one is almost always front and center on the dancefloor, doing The Dog in her girlfriend's outfit. True Story. I stayed, but let after a few minutes. The truly beautiful people prefer to hang at the bar.

This is where I ran into Roland Martin. Roland looked fresh from his vacation in "Da Motherland" and has dropped a few pounds. His Cesar has officially been overthrown, with his hairline hauling ass for the nape of his neck.  He wore this wonderful white suit, with a pink and white tie.

I could not get his head in the picture. Sorry Roland.

Roland and I, while not on the same team politically, get along pretty well. We're kind of like, Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr., if Martin was say, Barney. From his perspective, it's probably closer to MLK and JJ Walker. I'll take that knock. That's fine with me. The worst thing I can say about Roland is that he is living his dream, the same dream he was dreaming when I met him all those years ago trying to sell me a hunk of beef jerky, some bushwick and a self-published book in a deal he called the "Black Power Pack" (true story). I don't like what he does, but hey! It's not my dream. People ask me for my take all the time on Rolly, and I only dispense as much criticism as necessary, the same I give any meatball in the media, and  then I say: "He's living his dream. How's your dream doing?" They get quiet then. It's true: he's a trip. But let that brother live his dream. I'm living mines (lightweight) let him live his. I hope he dreams himself a better tailor, though. Seriously.

My trip ended where it started: at that damn bar@the Sheraton, hugging and kissing, telling tales out of school, lying magnificently, getting my hair pulled, leg humped (there are pictures somewhere), fielding marriage proposals (no ma'am) and celebrating the rest of my life. Left Coast walked me to the lobby, and I vowed to stay in touch better, because I sincerely love her as a quality person in my life.

Marriage is like playing hacky-sack: if you are not good at it, you look like a fool trying to do it over and over again. People laugh at you and your sack of beans, convulsing wildly, trying to manage this fucking wild thing with your knees, your ankles, your head. You stupid fuck. Try hacky-sack twice, max. If you aren't good at it, leave it to white folks, the experts, or the poor saps too stupid to know they aren't as good as they think they are. That's my thought of the night, and it goes over big: got me a lot of free drinks. But that was then.

So, it' s just me in the Chicago night, here in search of large, angry prawn, only to find myself walking the bridge back to the hotel, in a place where I've lost time, in a sky I don't know, buildings I haven't conquered, wearing shoes I adore, on my way forward, one foot after the other.