Dawson's Ink

Thirteen, in the ninth grade*. A year younger than everybody else. Barely 5 foot 2. A year shorter, too. It may have been the other side of Queens, but it felt like a world away.

First time taking the train alone. First time outside of the circle of friends that followed one another through elementary and middle school. First time out of the comfort zone that was the neighborhood.

There were a lot of firsts that fall, which was my first semester in high school. A lot of changes, a lot of adjustments, a lot of experiences that have made my book worth writing. A new slew of teachers and characters that would be a part of my world for the next four years.

It was the “Wonder Years” before the sitcom. It was Doogie Howser-like in that I was the youngest, the most out of place, considered pretty smart since I was a year ahead… but not really sure if I’d fit in. If I’d be accepted. Just an awkward teenager in every sense of the word.

So, to be sure, there were changes that would occur. There were adjustments to be made. To say I’d be experiencing a host of firsts would be an understatement.

And then… there was that first. Read the rest of this entry »

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Hopefully, by now you know how this all works. On any given Friday, I attempt to come up with a few stories (usually four), each made up of 50 words. The catch? They’re all fiction. All. Of. Them. Then, I challenge you to do the same. Deal? OK, cool.

Let’s GO!
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He made the painful decision to stay away, thinking she was unattainable. Unapproachable. Never realizing that she felt the same way for him, that she was waiting for so long for him to make a move. Now, it was too late. She was now spoken for. He was now speechless.
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This was definitely her time. Everything was falling into place. She worked hard. Loved harder. Her well-earned promotion to the company’s top spot put her in a position of ultimate power. Men loved her. Ladies admired her. Only, none of it made her happy. She struggled mightily with her success.
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It was the longest trip he’d ever have to take. Back to the house where he was raised. The one from which he tried so hard to run away. Ultimately, he couldn’t. He went back to care for his ailing mother. He sat on the plane, lost in the memories.
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Her voice? Ethereal. Delicate. Heavenly. If she nailed this audition, her life would change. Which meant a new life for her. Her family. Sadly, the wear and tear from the long week of rehearsals rendered her hoarse. No voice. One chance. Her turn. She stepped to the microphone. And prayed.

Your turn… whatcha got?

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About this time every year, I descend upon the city of New Orleans for work, visiting Xavier University and speaking to their students about life after school. This year, when I go, I’ll do just that, and also take a moment to remember Louis Daniel Armstrong, who died a month before I was born, his sunset coming just before his 70th birthday, and just after a national holiday, the 4th of July, in 1971. 

It could be argued that his death should’ve spawned a national day of mourning, especially in my household, where my father was a huge fan of the man with the distinct voice and innovative trumpet-playing style.

For many growing up in the first half of the 1900s, like my dad, Louis Armstrong, straight out of “Back of Town,” a rough neighborhood in what was called Uptown New Orleans, Louisiana, was an icon. The Jazz standard. His music was all I heard growing up, from his swinging trumpet solos to his rollicking collaborations with his favorite sparring partner, Ella Fitzgerald–they all blared with aplomb from the basement’s stereo speakers on Sunday mornings. Read the rest of this entry »

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Sometimes, there are certain songs that you just can’t escape, no matter how much you might try. I promise, there are times I’m driving (outside of NYC, of course) and a song will come on the radio, and before you catch yourself, you’re nodding your head to the beat. Or worse yet, *gasp* singing along before you catch yourself and press play on the CD player.

Well, since the whole premise is that you feel guilty for listening to, and maybe even liking said song, today I’ll reveal three of my guiltiest pleasures when it comes to R&B and pop (rock and contemporary will be saved for a separate, future post. It could get ugly). Calling it THREE THE ‘HARD’ WAY. And yes, it could get ugly here, too. Sigh.

Here goes…
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OK. Confession time. A few weeks ago, while at the GRAMMY after-party at the Convention Center, we walked into the literal circus-like atmosphere to the strains of Ne-Yo, who was the first of the night’s featured performers. He was going through his entire catalog. Even brought out Jamie Foxx and Fabolous to sing their hit “She Got Her Own.” It was cool. Something to listen to as we surveyed the room for the shortest line for food.

And then, a bit later, when I heard the track for this song, something inside me said it was a good idea to run to the front of the stage like a groupie. Man, I was grooving like I had a writing credit. Just plain idiocy. But that’s what certain songs do to us. So, yeah… for those four minutes and change, I was a Ne-Yo fan.

Damn you, Miss Independent. Read the rest of this entry »

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[The following was a Five Word Challenge. I had to use the words bookshelf, mantel, shampoo, slinky, tinker toys. Here's how it went down.]
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He was just about done packing all of his things when he stopped in his tracks, gazing one last time at the mantel where their family portrait sat.

Theirs was a love that went on a downward spiral of Slinky proportions the night he walked in from an alleged business meeting smelling of hotel shampoo.

It was the last straw, she’d declared, right before advising him to call Tyrone to help him move, and just after hurling an encyclopedia from the bookshelf in his general direction.

No more would he get to treat her heart like tinker toys, taking it apart with his indiscretions and attempting to put it back together with his words.

No, this time it was over.

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Over the past few weeks, there have been so many things that made me cringe. Slap my forehead, even. Which made me blow the dust off of one of my favorite features: an homage to Bill Maher’s end-of-show presentation from Real Time.

That’s right, for the first time in 2010, it’s already way past time for some New Rules.

Let’s go.

There were so many commercials during the recent Super Bowl that didn’t make sense to me. None more than the one starring former NBA standout and current analyst Charles Barkley, who is now shilling for Taco Bell. First of all, the last thing Sir Charles needs to be doing is promoting fast food, seeing as he’s the poster child for staying away from the stuff.

And if his face being part of the project wasn’t enough, MC Barkley puts his “rapping” skills on display as well, spouting what can be loosely called lyrics that would make Dr. Suess feel like he was Dr. Dre. It’s just shameful, and makes a once-menacing figure look like a buffoon. Granted, a very, very highly paid buffoon, but one nonetheless.

Stop, Charles. Just stop.

To all my friends on Facebook, I get it. You’re fascinated with the applications. You feel like you must post something to let your friends know that you’re thinking about them, or that you’re ready to celebrate the latest holiday, or that you have computer skills, or that you’re perfectly capable of and willing to be annoying.

Whatever it is, believe me. I get it. So just stop. Please. No more pillow fights, or heart transplants, or Blingee videos, or Farmville invites, or Mafia initiations, or petitions to make the new Facebook old again. I’m good with my music quotes, thanks.

Besides, if you keep sending all of this stuff to my wall, you might lose all of the equally annoying Formspring Q&A’s I send your way. And would we really want that?

I didn’t think so.

There should be a law against child actors being allowed to govern their own lives. Time and again, we’ve seen them do things that would make most sane people cower in disgust.

From Mackenzie Phillips and her daddy issues, to the entire young cast of Diff’rent Strokes constantly filling up the police blotter, it’s been proven that these kids, when they become adults, just aren’t able to care for themselves. You’d think the 80s and 90s child stars would learn from that, right? Wrong. We’re talking about TV kids here.

The latest (at least to me, even though this happened last year) example of such idiocy comes from former Saved By The Bell hottie Lark Voorhies, who thought it would be a good idea to have some plastic surgery. She. Was. Wrong. In a scenario that would make both Vivica A. Fox and Sammy Sosa go, “DAYUM!”, Lisa Turtle went HAM on the plasticos, going from gorgeous brown-skinned woman, to some sort of aged, ghost-like entity.

She looks so bad now, even Screech (he of the mentally imploded fare himself) wouldn’t even want to touch her. iCry.

There are plenty of artists that involved themselves in the 25th anniversary remake of the historic anthem “We Are The World.” There are also plenty of words that lend themselves to this event, most of which cannot be printed here.

However, in an effort to make some sense of what went wrong that night after the 52nd Annual Grammy Awards in Los Angeles, one need to look no further than the “rap” portion of the song. This is where a sincere remake went off a cliff that resembled Lark Voorhies’ new chin. For those who haven’t seen it, this train wreck featured LL Cool J, Lil Wayne, Akon, T-Pain and Kanye West. No matter what you think of them as artists, they didn’t belong on this song. And AUTO-TUNE? On “We Are The World”?!!?! Really? Ugh.

Never would I have thought I’d see the day when Akon got more song time than Gladys Knight. Or where anyone in their right mind would allow Wyclef Jean to sing anything on their record.

If anything, these young men should’ve followed the lead of actor Vince Vaughn, who showed up to support, but stayed in the background. And that Ray Charles impersonation, Jamie Foxx? Epic Fail.

I still believe that none of this would’ve happened if Quincy Jones was still alive. Oh, wait…

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