Smooth Operator, indeed

Unless you have been living under a cluster of rocks for the past ten + years, you know that I am a huge Sade fan. I'm talking hide-in-your-bushes-type of fan. So when it was announced in September that the group would be embarking on a world tour in 2011, there was no question in my mind that I was going. And just as obvious was with whom I would be attending.

My Pop Culture buddy, Lindsay, and I have drummed it into each other's head for at least five years that if Sade toured, we'd go. No matter how far we'd have to travel. So when the tour roster listed a show in Sunrise, Fla., I figured it would be an ideal situation. I observe my birthday a month late with a trip to South Florida, PC would scoot ten minutes up the road, and we could both enjoy a no-doubt amazing, once-in-a-decade concert.

So today, Dec. 6. Lindsay and I synced up with laser like precision, hundreds of miles apart, and order our floor seats, literally five seats away. If you notice me becoming extra frugal in the coming days, it's because these floors seats were my Christmas and birthday gift to me from me. But seeing a great friend, getting away for a weekend and seeing Sade is well worth the shekels I spent.

So in preparation for this concert, I want to lay down some rules. More like fair warning.

(This is an important one) DO NOT plan anything for July 15 and 16, 2011 and expect me to be there. It's just not happening.
-Be prepared for an excessive amount of Sade posts on all of my social networking sites the closer to the concert it gets.
-Do not judge me if you receive text message of me geeking out while at the concert.
-And definitely don't judge me if I call you before, during or after the concert in tears, a la white woman at a Michael Jackson concert in the 80s.
-Help me find the best possible set of clothes to wear. Normally, dressing up for these types of things aren't very important to me, but one must look his best if he's going to impregnate eight people in one night.
-Keep me motivated to Get My Shit Together. It's been clinically proven that the more weight you lose, the more people will want to have sex with you. And with Sweetest Taboo playing....I'm just sayin.
-Don't bring any Sade hate my way during concert time. I respect everyone's opinions, likes and dislikes. But I don't want to have to call you a so-and-so AND a such-in-such just because you write "DISLIKE"  under one of my Sade-related posts.

This concert is a huge deal for me since I've rarely gone to concerts, especially one of this magnitude. I'm not even joking when I say that watching the Sade concert with my PC is #2 on my bucket list. I usually hate setting my excitement bar so high because it always seems that when I do, whatever I was looking forward to never meets my expectations. But this show, in conjunction with Getting My Shit Together and my new lease on life, should make for a astounding summer and belated birthday.

Deuce deuce,
B.Rand

Support the Get My Shit Together campaign

I'm not going to be predictable and wait until Jan. 1 to make this declaration. Now is the time to speak it. Now is the time to start it.

I, Brandon Davon Billingsworth Oliver IX, am getting my shit together.

If that's too cryptic for you, I'll break it down. I'm not sure if anyone has noticed; I try my best to hide it. But I'm fat. Not funny, child-like Zach Galifianakis fat. I'm talking "he'd be Precious if it weren't for the appropriately-fitting clothes, visible neck, sunny disposition and the penis" kind of fat. I don't like being Preciously fat. Not to say that I harbor any self-hatred or dreams of extreme surgery. I just don't like being fat. But I figure if a man can walk on the moon; if black people can go from slaves to politicians; if Michael can go from soil brown to pearl white; then I can get my fat ass in the gym and produce some worth wild results.

I've tried numerous times before to get my straight-man's Richard Simmons on, using countless methods -- i.e., unsupervised workouts, cabbage soup diet, aerobics, fasting, two weeks of P.E. the summer before my high school freshman year, etc. I now realize what I lack when it came to my previous weight-loss attempts was support from my family and friends. They weren't being pricks; they just didn't know I was trying to get my non-combative Billy Blanks on. Any time I tried to carve the fat, I treated it like secret so well-guarded even the Illuminati wouldn't discover it. I'm not sure if it was out of embarrassment or just not wanting to get people's hopes up, but it was my secretive pet project.

But as I get older, my level of fucks given diminishes. As a result, I don't mind if people know I have a desire to get my beach body in time for Speedo season. I actually want people to know. Since I moved back home, I've noticed my life getting better, bit by bit. New job, getting closer with and making friends, road tripping, getting health insurance. But one should never get complacent. One should strive to get better and better with each day. So next on my agenda is improving myself physically and aesthetically -- the Get My Shit Together campaign. In an effort to get my shit together, I have to part with some of my old ways.

I rebuke thee, fast food.

Get thee behind, snack machine.

Get the hell out of my face, sugary, caffeinated beverages.

Adieu, sweet foods.

Sugar, we're just not going to be able to meet up like we did in the old days.

Fried foods, I'm no longer your beaten wife. I'm not coming back...OK, maybe a bit. But it won't be like it was.

Hit the bricks, large portions.

Taking an elevator up one flight of stairs, we've never been friends, and it's going to stay that way.

Pork, to me, you are now swine. And you know how black folks feel about swine.

Milkshakes and fatty ice cream, GTFO

And as much as this kills me to say it, alcohol we can't see each other like we used to. Whenever Jose, Jim, Comrade Smirnoff, Mr. Sinclare and the rest party too hard, I wind up bloated yet inexplicably in the mood for two McDoubles and fries.

So what I need from my family, friends and readers is your support in my journey to hit the 200-250 lb mark. I'm looking into a gym membership in Palatka. Once I start going to the gym, I need you all to make me keep going. Encourage me to pack my lunch for work and not hit up any dubious eateries. Support the lie that cucumbers and carrots are just as delicious as Ruffles and Cheetos.

So, family, friends, readers and "friends," I need your help with this, my most daring adventure yet. Keep me motivated; don't let me stop. It's a bit unrealistic for me to completely give up the aforementioned foods/drinks, but make sure if you see me with any of them, question it. If you know of any foods that are a must for my healthy diet, I'm open to your suggestions. Hell if you know of any cookbooks I need in my life, do not hesitate to suggest it. And once I start going to the gym, I need you all to make sure I go on a constant basis.

Support the lie that cucumbers and carrots are just as delicious as Ruffles and Cheetos,
B.rand

Down the A1A

***I DON'T MEAN TO MAKE THIS A HABBIT, BUT I WROTE THIS LATE AT NIGHT/EARLY IN THE MORNING. IT HAS NOT YET BEEN PROOFREAD. GO EASY ON ME***

Two weekends ago, I was on Facebook and Twitter. All fucking day long. I could think of nothing in Palatka to do. And the only options that came to mind was spending money that didn't need to be spent on things that didn't need buying. I could get a tattoo, but that's nothing to do on a whim (although I plan on getting it). I could fill my tank and drive to St. Augustine or Orange Park to see a movie I could see in Palatka. Needless to say, by the time I finished deciding, I'd wasted hours online and watching movies with the caliber of Scream 3.

So as a way to both take advantage of my new-found weekends off, and to prevent two weekends' worth of boredom, I decided to have, what Steve Harvey calls, a Wonderful Weekend. I've always talked of taking a road trip, so I figured why not use this weekend to make it happen. It was a spur-of-the-moment trip, so unfortunately it would have to be a solo road trip. But if one can't enjoy oneself alone, how can one truly be happy around others.

I had no idea where my destination lie, but I knew the route. Although I can't swim -- even if it was a means to get to Halle Berry Island -- I have a bizarre love of and appreciation for the beach and the ocean. The sound and force of the waves, the full-body massage given by the wind, the richness of the foliag

e's green, and even the annoyance of the sand lingering to your body even hours after leaving the beach. It seemed like a no-brainer to cruise the pavement along the Atlantic Ocean coast on Florida's A1A. Who cares where I ended, so long as I got to see some sights. But after thinking of a college friend, I settled on Melbourne, Fla. since she always had good things to say about it.

With a limited amount of money to my name, fewer clothes and belongings and a beat up car's tank of gas, I made my way toward St. Augustine and hit the coast. Although going 45 mph for about an hour and a half was about double the time it would have taken on the interstate, the experience was a lot more fulfilling. In the span of 30 seconds, I relived five elementary school grades' worth of field trips when i pass by and took pictures of Marineland. When I passed that spot I think we visited for biology class in 9th grade, I relived how promising life seemed at age 14. I mad a vow to bust my ass as a writer/comedian, earn incredible bank and buy up beach front property after passing expensive house that I can't afford after expensive house I can't afford.

Although it rained intermittently, I made it to Melbourne in one piece. And as soon as I paid for my sub-par, marginally too expensive room, I set off for the beach. The light was fading but I had Eva Mae and I was ready to use her. It's been almost four years since I've used my 35 mm film camera, but I used this weekend an excuse to break out the old girl. The click of the shutter, the winding of the film, the quest for the perfect light. All nuances I had almost forgotten fluttered in my mind like swarm of coked-out butterflies searching for the last bit of pollen. Or whatever butterflies go apeshit over.

And on that note, I can't omit how extremely excited I am about how the pictures will look. The digital age has spoiled us. We've forgotten how it felt to take a roll of photos, drop them off at a photo lab and actually wait two to three days for them to be ready. Forgotten how we didn't know within three second's time how the photo would look. Forgotten that the photo relied solely on our artistic eye and ability with the camera. That once we snapped the photo, it could not be undone. So even tho many of the pictures were taken when the light was low and I had no tripod, or taken while i was driving and

had minimal time to focus, I am literally wet (in the mouth, perverts) with anticipation over the outcome of my photographic endeavors.

On my back home Sunday, I stopped at New Smyrna Beach and relaxed in the sand with a good (so far) book. I figured there was no point in driving up and down the coast without actually stepping foot on it. After getting some sun, and looking at a few big ass turtle, I made my way to St. Augustine to eat good food, watch True Blood and conversed with some great people.

Pulling into my driveway in Palatka at 10 p.m. Sunday, my first thought after "thank you God for not letting me die on the road in Titusville," was that no matter where you go, you always appreciate home when you come back. But as I took the most fantasmic shower I've ever taken, even as my body begged for sleep, my the cogs in my mind began to turn. What will be my next adventure? Although I crossed 2 and a half things off my bucket list by taking this trip, what will I take on next?

Keep an eye out.

B.rand

Giving away movies. Holla at me if you want them

After assembling my new DVD shelf, I came across a few DVDs that either I didn't like when i watched them or the movies lost their appeal in my opinion. So before I just take them to Goodwill, I'm trying to see if any of my friends would like them for free. Please message me and let me know if you want any of them. First come, first serve. The list is as followed...

A behind the scenes look at The Real World: Back to New York (Don't act like you don't remember Coral)

Robin Hood: Men In Tights

Little Children

The Women of Brewster Place

Finding my way

I wrote this at almost 4 a.m., therefore I did NOT take the time to proofread this yet. But I needed to share.

I'm was lost for quite some time.

There was a time when I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life. I graduated high school with the intention of spending four years at Florida A&M, where I would become the master of all things journalism. After college, I would move to New York--or any decent-sized city that was a far away from Palatka, Fla. (distance- and remsemblance-wise) as possible--and start my own music or movie magazine. But the more I wrote, came up with, an copy edited stories, and the better I got at it, I knew that I would never have a fulfilling career with it.

As a result, I somehow managed to turn a two-year stint at Winn-Dixie into a nearly decade-long "career." Sans the health insurance and benefits. During the latter half of my money-handling, chicken-frying, bread-baking period at the W/D, my funds dwindled, the majority of my friends moved away and moved on with their lives, and I became satisfied with the meager situation I had worked out for myself. Actually, the better term would be "worked my way into."

It's perplexing and, to an extent, frightening that signs could dangle all around me and friends could throw out all the hints, yet I barely noticed anything. So caught up in keeping or finding a steady eight-hours-a-day job just for the sake of having a steady, eight-hours-a-day job, I didn't realize that I was one of the only people who memorized Saturday Night Live sketches (not the Lonely Island parody song). Never took into consideration that I had movie movies on my shelf than pennies in the bank. That I once took the utmost pleasure in cranking out short short stories every week for my eighth grade peers to peruse. I never put two and two together to come to the conclusion that what I did with blogs and social network status updates, I could expand to larger media.

After intense internal battles, countless previously empty words and one hell of a bombshell dropped in my chunky lap, the urge to write hit walloped me like Gucci Mane wallops hip hop music's reputation. But not only did I get the desire to churn out a screenplay, I got the desire to be funny and finally get paid to do it. I am a funny bastard, and I say that without any traces of ego. Why should I not be SNL's star performer, the creator of It's Always Sunny in Orlando, or Moses in the 2012 independent film Othello 2?

No matter the dream, it can come true if you believe. And know what the hell you're doing. So in order to make a fraction of what many of you might consider my unattainable goals attainable, I have purchased from half.com my first screen writing book. After work tomorrow, I will begin my extensive research of Second City and Groundlings improv comedy troupes. Because although I can write and make people laugh, these skills need molding.

God it feels great to have some focus in my life and to have goals set for myself. I love that I get ideas for stories and scripts from the most random conversations, people and objects. Although I curse this new found canyon of ideas for keeping me awake at 3:13 a.m. blogging, I'm more excited about my future than I have been since I received university acceptance letters in the mail in 2002. It's been quite a long time coming, and I have a feeling it will be a long time going, but I am quite content.

Don't take it the wrong way

I wrote this at almost 4 a.m., therefore I did NOT take the time to proofread this yet. But I needed to share.

Dear Reader (please don't be so presumptuous as to assume YOU are the person I am referencing),

I hope this letter finds you in great health and spirits. I'm writing to let you know that I have been inspired to write a story. Not a short short story. Not a short story. But a hell of a story that I would like to turn into a script. It would make me the happiest man int he world if this idea blossoms into a story and then a script and then a critical and commercial cinematic gem.

But I have a problem, one which might derail this unstable dream of mine. The story I want to tell is about you. It's about you, me, him, her, and them. Putting this story on paper, I will undoubtedly air some laundry that won't be Gain clean. I beg you to see things from my perspective, though. I don't mean to damage you feelings or our relationship, but the story that's been placed in my heart is far too weighty for me to continue to allow it to be spoken in hushed voices behind everyone's back. Especially when this Everyone is involved.

I apologize if my telling of this story sours your feelings toward me, but please hear my other reason for bringing outsiders into our business. My writing this tale isn't purely for recognition. It's therapy. The best therapy someone with no insurance or money can afford. There was a time in my life when I was confused, hurt and angry. Not many people understood me, so I don't know why I was surprised you didn't either. Although I would consider us friends now, there were times when I didn't like you. I didn't like you, me, him, hear, and I really didn't like them. Because therein lied the source of my confusion, hurt and anger.

At the risk of sounding repetitive, I would love it if you were not cross with me once you read what I have to write. This will not be a work of pure fact. There will be embellishments. I will take traits from numerous people and mold them into a character you might mistake as being 100 percent you. I hope you know how solid our relationship is now and how much I treasure you and what you've done for me. I just really need to write what I've been suppressing for so long.

Please stay with me,

Brandon D. Oliver

Better Late Than Never

Early in June I got a text message from Amanda telling me to make sure I take June 26 off from work. The message said, that since she was going to miss my birthday, she was planning something legendary on the 25th and would not be in any shape to go to work the next day.

Amanda told me she, Matt, Chelsea, Adam from CT and I were going out to dinner and then birthday shenanigans would later ensue. The dinner reservations were at 9:30 p.m. and I was hauling ass to get to Staug (St. Augustine for you not-in-the-loop folks) so the restaurant wouldn't discard our reservation time. When I get to the Hopcrafts' apartment, I notice the place was candle lit, there's a long table in the center of the living room, and Amanda had a look on her face that indicated she'd been up to no good.

SURPRISE...HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

It is imperative that I talk about how much planning went into this party and how great everything looked. The powers that be managed to wrangle up about 11 or 12 people for whom I really care and probably had better, more productive things with night. Since Amanda and Chelsea were at Bonnaroo music festival during my birthday, they put together a swagtastic gift bag complete with Adult Swim merchandise, Family Guy lottery tickets, two condoms and two 40 oz Buds. The latter of that list is the most impressive because you can't get 40 oz beer in Florida; they went out of state to get that gift. Then there was the wall, which the Hopcraftshave fashioned into a giant chalk board, that had personalized, non-generic birthday messages, such as "TWSS," "Red drink," and for whatever reason, a pennis drawing. I know how i spelled that. And when I thought "these guys and gals have really outdone themselves," Amanda brings out my buddy Andrew who drove all the way from Tallahassee. And then -- yes, there's more -- Amanda and Chelsea manage to get Jake Seymour, my favorite teacher from any school I've attended, on the phone for a brief chat.

So if this humongous, booze-filled, dick in a box-like gathering wasn't great enough, after dinner we headed out for phase 2. The group headed to the Clover Room, a hole-in-the-wall bar/club near the beach, where my night and ears were rocked by Silver Lake Drive. If you don't know who SLD is, you need to Youtube them immediately. One of my classmates is in that band, and they do astounding covers of songs of varying types. Hearing them play "Crazy," "You Got Me" and Dirty Diana is audio equivalent of watching hot naked Brazilian women on a trampoline. And then there's the liquor; try to keep count: Two-thirds of a 40, three cups of sangria, two gin and tonics, three gin and OJs, a Jager Bomb, an Irish Car Bomb (that I don't remember drinking), and shots poured into me by dancing bartenders when "Pour Some Sugar On Me" came on.

Fast forward to the day after; I now know why Amanda practically ordered me to take the day off. I slept until almost noon, and the latter half of that sleep was with a cat on and or next to me. I got "sick" three times, and at 10:10 p.m. on June 26, I'm still a tiny bit hungover. But I did get to eat a $2.99 breakfast, after all the "sickness" was out of me.

I haven't blogged in a while because nothing note-worthy has moved me to write anything longer than a Facebook or Twitter message. But I had to share with anyone who would listen or read what a great time I had. I tried not to make it obvious, but the past few years for me have been awfully shitty, and in January 2010, I felt lower than I would have ever thought was possible. But instead of letting me wallow in self-loathing and sorrow, certain family members and friends have done everything they could to lift my spirits. Whether that be letting me move back home, buying a huge bottle of Seagram's that literally had my name on it, or writing me uplifting messages on social networking sites, these people have helped me turn my life around and have forced me to see the positivity in life and in myself.

When I saw my friends gathered together, saw the extensive planning that obviously went into throwing this all together, the only thing I could do was take a moment to myself and thank God for allowing people to be so thoughtful. So if you were present for either of my birthday celebrations, had anything to do with them or merely considered showing up, thank you for being awesome.

B.Rand

Now we get mad?

In light of the fallout over John Mayer's Playboy interview, let me just say that we (black people) waited too long to get mad. And we decided to get mad at the wrong person. Black people, we have a big part to play in this mess.

Some (not all) people of color got very pissed at Mayer for simply saying "nigger" and stating that, sexually speaking, he preferred white women. But let me clue everyone in on something. Ever since I can remember, full grown black adults -- celebrities and normal folk, alike -- have been disrespecting each in the same manner.Yeah, I said it.

"That nigga trippin." "You my nigga." "Nigga, you gon play Spades or what?" Sound familiar? And don't try to spout off that -a vs. -er mess, because it's the same damn word. Just misspelled for the sake of slang and an imaginary since of camaraderie. So please let's not wait until 2010 to get upset when a famous white person says nigger (without actually calling a black person a nigger) when we've been calling each other that since the slave days.

Blacks calling blacks nigga/nigger might be bad, but what I find worse is how we address black women. And even worse is many black women's acceptance of such misguided terms of endearment. Black people started off being mad, even protesting, when women were called bitches and hoes in music. But somewhere, somehow, black people grew complacent. And then we grew to accept it.

Now it's almost a commonplace to hear someone -- man or woman, black, white or purple -- refer to a woman as a bitch or ho and no one raises a brow. Words cannot describe how irritated I get when women express their friendship with another woman by calling the other woman her "favorite bitch." Or when I hear women singing, word for word, Baddest Bitch and applying it to themselves as means of empowerment.

How can you be mad at someone for saying nigger when you call yourself nigga, bitch and or ho or when you're shaking your ass to "Bad Bitch?"

As for Mayer's dick being a white supremacist, lighten the hell up and look past the not-so-politically correct metaphor. What Mayer is saying is that his sexual preference lies with white women. Don't act shocked and dismayed. He was just being honest. Mayer said he'd be down for dating and inevitably sleeping with black women, but so far in his life, he's only slept with white women.

Isn't it sexually natural to prefer one's own race to another? Aren't there black men and women who state their disinclination of dating and sleeping with white people? Yes. So why are people getting their panties in a bunch because John Mayer prefers white women? Do you really think black women were breaking down the walls to get to his member? And if you really want to make Mayer all-inclusive, then hunt his white ass down and ride his melanin-deprived dick until the wheels fall off.

Over 200,000 people have died in Haiti. Genocide is still taking place in Africa. Despite the Saint winning the Super Bowl, New Orleans is still trying to rebuild. With all the life-threatening issues going on in the world, why are we most worried about what John Mayer said? Hell, with the exception of saying nigger, I'm not upset with him. Had he used different phrasing, his interview would have been either the funniest interview this year or just another article that no one, including Playboy "readers," would have read.

Find a new cause,

B.rand