this is how to keep it real

allen iverson is one of the top three basketball players in the nba. the order probably goes, shaq, kobe, allen.

all his life allen has been a rough neck drug taking outlaw rebel who lives his life as recklessly off the court as on.

how a man six feet tall can have a napolean complex is beyond me, but if you look at his behavior, and the fact that most of his peers are six to fourteen inches taller than him might explain some of it, but the bottom line is he’s a punk rock superstar.

a few days ago it became obvious to the 76er shooting guard that this morning he was going to be arrested for busting through an apartment with a gun while looking for his wife.

you think he could have combed his hair.

but allen keeps it real and i might be a sarcastic person most of the time in here, but i like that.

he didn’t soar to the top of the nba by playing someone else’s game, or copping someone else’s style. he’s his own man, full of complexities, oddities, viciousness, rage, and pure love of his terribly shy momma and little daughter.

he’s also one of those young black men who has a chip on his shoulder and it will never go away.

allen is a superstar and in philly where he is now in the slam awaiting the wheels of justice to move, he’s a deity.

and in the prison that he is sitting in, he is bigger than a god.

which just makes me wonder, what the fuck is up with your hair?

did the coppers unbraid the corn rows? did he party all night and never get around to having his cousin fix him up good? was the hair dresser busy at the phillies game last night?

and the eyes.

allen, we all know you’re a baller. and a stoner. and a leader. ive never been to jail as an inmate, ive only been a visitor, but i cannot imagine going through the process of being booked, deloused, processed, etc. while baked.

i know guys like snoop dogg don’t like to do anything while not under the influence, but if you really are a marijuana connoisseur, and you’re bigger than God in the slam, don’t you think theres going to be a nice sack of weed waiting for you and a basket of flowers from the fellas in the cell block down the way?

i know if i was allen iverson i would expect that shit and i would be one pissed off lil all star mvp if all of that wasnt laid out real nice on my cot right next to the silver commode.

true, his stay will probably be short. just time enough to get arraigned and bailed out. but allen has a chance to be with an element that, despite what the blatantly racist tv pundits will kid about, he does not interface with on the regular.

petty crooks, tax evaders, money launderers, cocaine middle men will break bread with him today. nobody is expecting a sermon of, “shape up, brothas, thats what im fixin to do.” but they’ll want to talk basketball. they’ll want to talk about playing against mj. they’ll want to talk about lots of stuff.

and the way allen iverson will be with these other fallen angels will touch them in ways that will stay with them for the rest of their lives.

it might even change them for the better.

so you know the cops are going to unbraid your braids. and you know the brothas will braid it up good for you. and the only thing better than a jailhouse tattoo is a jailhouse hairdo, so why didn’t you show up prepared, awake, and alert, AI?

keeping it real?


maybe because deep down you’re just a selfish little bitch concerned with you and you only.

you can storm through a house waving a gun talking shit because you know how to drive the lane spin a 360 and sink a fallaway off the glass.

cut you and you dont bleed.

and still that chip on your shoulder is so big that you cant see how deeply you could touch others who need to be touched.

so concerned with your own self you don’t see how living by example, if only for a day or two, no matter where you lay your nappy head, could send the right man down the right path. how every guy who passes by your cell once you’re gone will think, nba’s finest was right there. this hell hole isn’t so hellish after all. in fact this little nook is pretty special.

so next time you find yourself in prison, #3, comb your fucking hair, and smile for the birdie. the man hates it when we smile.

my kingdom for one strong black man with an attitude and a shred of class

up in here.

loving the link love from all, especially: doc searls and the daily pundit

bryn and sonny first met each other

in the basement of the keeneyville grade school in the chicago suburb of mundelion, Illinois.

even though the boys were always ending up in blood curdling school yard brawls, they were best of friends to the curious amazement of anyone who saw them fight.

byrn was a short boy who was always coming to school beaten and bruised most thought at the hands of sonny, who seemed to feel no pain, but it wasn’t true. he got his ass kicked by everyone. an odd lad, he would fight with all sorts of people. but his favorite sparring partner was the ever smiling, eternally up-beat sonny i. lavista.

“those two will either be the finest boxers to come from this town, or they’ll be dead before high school,” principal collins said to herself as she pulled back the stylish curtains of her office which over looked the west end of the playground.

mundelion, famous for its youth boxing league did not discourage pugilism at any age, due in part to the fact that a healthy portion of the citizenry were either first generation immigrants raised on a brand of unspoken self reliance or they were simply the twisted offspring of one of the many famous organized crime families who had relocated from nearby chicago.

bryn and sonny belonged to neither of these groups. they were merely two young boys who loved to fight and loved each others company.

bryn, of course, had a secret.

he was from another time.


sent to earth specifically to adjust the tiny devices covertly placed into the heads of dozens of neighborhood kids in the forgotten town, bryn was the last child on his list, and was unfortunately the most difficult.

the chip wouldnt snap in.

so he tried to beat it into place.

everywhere they went, sonny and bryn took turns slapping and wrestling and brawling and scratching and cursing and threatening and, eventually, bleeding and being broken up.

only bryn knew the motivation behind the violence but sonny only wanted to stop the headaches, which were never-ending and excruciating.

“i know you have terrible pains,” bryn told sonny that first time they met in the basement sorting pints of milk.

“how do you know that?” sonny asked, stopping, still holding a chocolate milk that looked like a little house.

“cuz i used to have them too,” bryn lied.

and that’s when they first started to brawl. not out of hatred or fun but necessity. bryn did his best to beat the tiny chip into place so that sonny could see what he was chosen to see and so that bryn could complete his visit and go back to a time when things were simpler and everyone had flying cars and a man could buy a pair of concert tickets from a variety of sources at a nominal fee.

but bryn failed day after day, month after month, and as time went on it became obvious to the time traveler that this young fellow might not ever get it together and might indeed need to be disposed. sonny was, however, certainly learning how to take a punch.

one day as the boys were playing an innocent game of baseball in the street a happy little accident occurred.

the hardball that sonny pitched was hit squarely by bryn and the ball sunk into sonny’s forehead and bounced away knocking the youth right on his back.

he awoke to a world of colors and symbols, numbers and characters.

“are you ok,” bryn asked.

“no, not at all,” sonny winced.

“how many fingers do you see?” bryn said holding up his middle finger.

“twelve. thirteen maybe.” sonny said, blinking and eventually gave up and kept his eyes closed.

bryn popped him a good one right on the nose. and then another. and then one more.

“it’s like ive got a screw loose,” sonny said.

“no, quite the contrary, friend. finally the screw is in place. open your eyes.”

sonny did as he was told and the world was back in focus and he smiled. bryn smiled back and the sudden change of colors and spinning of numbers around his violent friend nearly blinded poor sonny with its unusual light.

he promptly passed out.


laughing at: oliver’s anna exclusive