Notes on Life

The Reason I Want Nice Things

2011-10-20T23:09:00.000-07:00

For as long as I can remember, I've been fat. I have no problem being called fat because it has always been more accurate than saying something asinine like "big-boned" or "husky." I have always made it a point never to put myself down for being obese. Frankly speaking, I am too awesome, droll and worth-wild of a person to let my weight bum me out. Not to say there weren't times -- many, many times -- I wished I wasn't fat. So on Nov. 30, 2010, something in my head ignited, and I decided to stop wishing and start taking action

When people began to notice my body shrinking, they would always ask what made me, after nearly 26 and a half years, decide to lose weight. Not wanting to get too personal or take up too much of anyone's time, I would always spout off something generic. "I just wanted to get healthy." "I figured the time was right." But since I feel more comfortable writing than speaking, let me tell you all why I really decided to get my shit together.

I push myself in the gym, I suck in the chilly autumn air while on my three-mile runs, and I continue to shun the foods I used to love, all because longings and desires deep in my mind, heart and gut. The vain, superficial desires to which I cling but dare tell no one because admitting I want the things losing over 100 would afford me would make me sound vulnerable.

But I can't help it if I want to go into any store and find any shirt, blazer or pair of pants in my size. I want the "Big & Tall" sign to no longer be my beacon when I enter a department store, and I want to no longer have to pay $1 or $2 more for my size.

When I'm out and about with my more active and athletic friends, I want to be be able to keep up with them. Though I scoff when they tell me about the rock walls they climb and the hard-core, nearly physically impossible obstacle course they plan to run, I secretly long to do those things with them and be able to hold my own.

When I board the plane, I don't want to be faced with the ultimatum of paying for two seats or having to leave the plane. And, not to be too demanding, I'd like to be comfortable in whatever window, middle or aisle seat I'm assigned.

Although calling Shotgun is usually a display of victory, I don't want people to let me sit in the front seat of their cars because they think I will be more comfortable and or that it will free up more room in the back seat.

When I'm at a club or bar, I want to be the man the sober women approach. I want the quirky, attractive woman in the restaurant to send smiles and batted eye lashes across the room to me. I want the ladies in the supermarket to eye-fuck the shit out of me as I reach to back of the top shelf for the last Arctic blue Gatorade or bend down to find the Lipton green tea. Vain? Yes. But women don't tend to flock to someone who can crush them. I thought my wit, humor, individuality and authenticity could over-shadow my size, but I guess I was wrong.

I find children repulsive, but if the day comes when I want to have some of my own, I don't want to decide against procreating because I'm afraid of passing along my fat gene.

Whether the remainder of my life is long or short, I want it to be as healthy as possible. Numerous people in my family have diabetes; my late grandfather even had his legs amputated because of it. I do not want to spend the last days of my life in someone's hospital bed or wheel chair. And dying from an obesity-related stroke or heart attack in my 30s is not how I envision my story ending.

Although I'm getting in shape so I can be as healthy as I can be, I can't deny my ulterior motives. Some of my motivations to shed pounds seem reasonable while others are a bit absurd. But when people ask why I always eat Subway and why I'm in the gym four to five times a week, I want to clue them in to why I'm really busting my ass to drop down to 200 pounds. But my vocabulary fails me, and all I mutter is "I want to be a little healthier."

Public Men's Room Etiquette

2011-09-14T22:05:00.000-07:00

Aware as I am that this country is more diverse than I can possibly imagine, I thought one thing was common knowledge among a large portion of the U.S. population. Though never taught in a classroom and rarely spoken aloud, bathroom etiquette whilst in the men's room should be -- or so I thought it was -- firmly ingrained in the recesses of the brains of all American human males ages 13 and higher. (I've lived in or been to another country so I can't speak for their men's room practices.) It's come to my conclusion though that numerous men either don't know or simply disregard the rules of the public toilet.

As I am a man who seeks solution and enlightenment rather than condemnation and judgmental verbal barbs, I present to you the (cue movie trailer announcer voice) MEN'S ROOM ETIQUETTE MANIFESTO...

-There is no talking. It's a men's room, not a smoking lounge. There's no need to chill out and regale someone with tales of your life. It's not that we don't care about the UFC fight or the burgers you grilled on Labor Day. On the contrary; another man might have the perfect seasoning combination to make those burgers pop. But the men's room is no place to discuss that. Or anything else! Shut the fuck up, handle your business, and get out as soon as you can.

-The no talking rule applies to friends and family. I could be talking to my buddy as we are (what we think) randomly walking around the office, but once we reach the men's room door and realize the other also needs to hit the head, all talking ceases. And during our time in the restroom -- especially when the down-there parts are exposed to air -- nary a word is to be spoken. Once we're both zipped up and out of the restroom, the conversation can resume. And if you walk into the men's room and see someone you know, simply acknowledge their presence by nodding without looking them in the eye. Which brings me to my next point...

-Do NOT make eye contact. Specificity is needed; don't let your eyes make contact with any part of anyone else's body. Not all bathrooms have the barriers between the urinals. And if I quickly (less than one second) scan my surroundings and notice you trying to get a view of my bat and balls, I will break the rule of silence and yell accusations and insults as loud as I can. Was your glance at my Duke Rainier Worthington III really worth the public outing?

-Stay out of the middle. Just like in every other instance (except sex), personal space is a very big deal. If there are an odd number of urinals, never is it acceptable to use the even-numbered urinal(s). If there are three urinals, don't use the second; if there are five, don't use the second or forth urinal. The even-numbered urinals are there simply for decorative purposes and are not meant to be used. If some inconsiderate chap decides to release his golden river in an even-numbered urinal, use the urinal at least three spaces away. If there are only three urinals and someone is at the middle urinal, use the stall.

The exception to this rule is if you're in a public bathroom with a plethora of urine receptacles. Choose whichever urinal you'd like as long as it is at least two spaces away from the next person. If you can, choose the one closest to the ends.

-Don't use a stall if you only have to pee. Unless motivated by the even-numbered urinal predicament and the urinals are in working order, you should not be in a stall if all you have to do is pee. Be a man, and stand at the urinal. No one wants to look at your member. No one wants to critique your stance or the way you count the wall tiles in front of you. Not to offend, but using the stall to pee is seen by many as a sign of weakness and insecurity.

-FLUSH THE GODDAMN TOILET! Even though it's not your bathroom, clean up after yourself. If you take this years Browns to the Super Bowl, why would you not flush the toilet? ... I'm waiting! Why...would you not...flush...the fucking toilet? This is a public restroom, and you are a gigantic bag with which one douches if you leave the restroom unsuitable for future users. Five days ago, instead of using a portable toilet that molested my sense of smell and sight, I took a piss NEXT to the portable toilet, much to the chagrin of the people driving along A1A and the Hispanic family 20 feet away loading their car. Please don't make me have to make this choice while in a public restroom. Along with flushing the toilet, don't leave solid objects in the urinals, throw away your trash, and quit splashing water everywhere. Behave like a respectable man.

-Wash your hands!!!!! I don't care if you have to poo, pee, or just blow your nose, washing your hands is something that should be first nature. Not second nature; first nature! Think about it. When you leave the public restroom, you're going back out into and interacting with the public. You'll be touching a lot of what everyone else has to touch, and I'm pretty sure everyone would appreciate not having to come in contact with your urine, penis, pubic hair, poo, ass and or snot residue. Don't do your business, leave without washing up, and then have the gall to shake people's hands. Take the 10-30 seconds and clean your hands. I will judge the fuck out of you and alert as many people as possible if I see you leave the restroom without washing your hands. And if possible, when leaving the bathroom, don't make direct contact with the door knob/handle.

Guys, have I missed any restroom rules? If so, post them in the comment section. Ladies, I'm aware there is a beehive of rules and regulations surrounding the ladies' room. If you're allowed to divulge your rules, what is a no go when it comes to the ladies' room?

Thanks for listening and (hopefully) sharing,

B.rand

Come inside my world

2011-03-27T18:35:00.000-07:00

I wish the entire year looked and felt like spring in late march in north Florida.
I believe my fear of rejection has crippled a vital span of my life.
I aim low because it's my belief that when I aim high, things can't possibly meet such expectations. Me and my dreaming big, eh?
I'm always apprehensive about calling, text messaging, IM'ing and any other form of reaching out to people because I always feel like I'm imposing on their free time.
I'm not a simple man and neither are my tastes, despite appearances.
I love writing and appreciate when writing's done well, i.e. song lyrics, scripts, magazine articles, etc.
If I lose a lot of weight and someone decides to do one of those before-and-after photos, I want my before/fat photo to be one of me smiling and or having a good time. I'm not a sad/disgruntled person.
Having said that, sometimes I just want to be left the fuck alone and not talk to anyone or do anything.
But most times, I crave interaction with other people.
I wish I could be the center of attention (in a good way) when I go out.
I believe hard work and skill speaks for itself, and as a result, I don't ass kiss.
I wish people loved Y Tu Mama Tambien as much as I do.
When it comes to friends, it's definitely about quality, not quantity. Who wants a lot of half-assing friends?
I hate hate hate hate hate my bald spot and gimpy leg. The gap in my teeth, though, I feels makes me more distinguished.
I love love love love love that I'm awkward and weird and random because trying to be like the masses seems like way more work than I'm willing to put into anything
I don't care if I ever get married; I won't rule it out, but I never pray about it happening. But I do not want kids.
I wish there was at least on person who truly got me 100 percent.
I make it a point to have at least one great belly-aching laugh a day.
The older I get, the less fucks I give. And the less shame I have.
At least twice a day, I think of going to the bank, getting every dime I have to my name, getting in my car, and just driving somewhere far and never returning.
If I won a huge lottery, I would put half of it in an interest-earning acct, and with the rest I'd travel the world non-stop.
I have wanted to write scripts for quite a while, but Tarantino makes me want to direct.
I don't have lots of close friends, but the ones I have I treasure more than they could imagine.
I hate when the biggest deciding factor behind any choice is wondering what people would think of you if you did or didn't do what you're deciding to do.
I love standing in the rain with no umbrella and just enjoying what God has given me.
I have an unexplained and oddball fascination with cornfields. Whenever I pass one, I want to pull over, get out of the car and frolic in the corn.
I find myself fascinated by how people look naked. People go through a lot to dress themselves and present their personality to the world via clothes and accessories. But seeing them naked is almost like seeing who they really are.
I get bored easily.
I always feel like people are hanging out without me.
If I knew I could live forever without, I would devote one day to doing every drug known to man, drive a motorcycle extremely fast, and go skydiving once a week.
I always thing about what life would be like if I had super powers. Telepathy is boss.
I think it's time I stopped.

Laissez les bons temps rouler

2011-03-24T00:29:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, there were four fun-seeking and free-spirited young adults who wanted to travel to New Orleans to take part in Mardi Gras. There was Beaumont the Devilish, Jack the Awkward, Simon the Inappropriate and Winston the Mischievous.

The members became whole in Tallahassee and made their way to the Big easy, stopping only to pee, get gas…and to sleep for six hours in a cheap Mississippi (redundant, much?) motel. Arriving in N’Awlins too early to check into their ridiculously over-priced hotel, our heroes hit the town early in the afternoon in search of beignets (ben-yays), crawfish and alcoholic beverages. Please don’t bother judging the group; they’re all adults and fully-functioning members of society. If they want to have hard liquor at 1 p.m., goddamnit, they are allowed that privilege.

Having not showered in more than 24 hours, the group members were happy to finally check in, shower and grab a power nap to prepare for the night’s adventures. Awake, dressed, and tipsy off two bottles of wine between the four of them, Jack, Simon, Winston and Beaumont made their way to the nearest 4 Loko dispensary they could find. Unwisely, they ignored the prophetic words of a wise local black man on the streets. “Y’all brown baggin’ 4 Loko? Y’all gon get fucked up! Don’t drink two.”

Fast forward about an hour later, Jack’s drunk as shit at 6 p.m. They crew is still drinking, in Popeye's, and Jack’s making Katrina and levee jokes…loudly! Realizing he was too drunk too early, Jack threw away the Loko and the quartet made their way to the parade. Being the first there for the parade meant we were front row once the festivities started. Later, Beaumont, Winston and Jack decided it was time for another Loko, while Simon wisely opted for a Bud Lite. Simon’s wisdom was a godsend and presumably kept one, maybe two, of the group members out of jail.

What started as a trip to drop off some of their beads in the hotel room turned into chaos. Beaumont, drunk off life, two cups of wine and two and a third cans of Loko, was put under constant supervision by the group. Winston, the enabler of many things wicked, didn’t have as much of the Loko as Beaumont, but was just as drunk. Among many things, the two raced down the hotel hallways and threw numerous broken beads around the hotel room. Beaumont even began demolishing the metal towel rack in the hotel bathroom.

Jack, merely partially drunk, went into wrangler mode, taking it upon themselves to talk down the two drunkards and, in numerous instances, physically restrain Beaumont from leaving the hotel. But the devilishly elusive Winston could not be contained, and headed out into the night. Not wanting to leave Beaumont -- now passed out -- alone, for fear he’d wake up drunkenly disoriented and expose himself to the public, Jack and Simon called it an early night and were asleep before 1 a.m.

On Saturday, after Winston and Beaumont slept off the booze, the group had some orgasm-inducing Cajun food. They then checked out of their hotel and loaded up their car just in time to get caught in parade, stand-still traffic while baby Hurricane Katrina pelted the city. Incredibly cranky, our weary companions were finally able to drive in the rain 35 miles -- 24 of which were over one bridge -- to their hotel for Saturday night.

Determined not to let dickhole-like weather muck up what was meant to be an awesome trip, the four took solace in the cause of and solution to all life’s problems, booze. At Daiquiris and Creams (yes, Creams), they discovered they could buy daiquiris in the following sizes: small, medium, large, half gallon and gallon! Simon and Jack drank half of their half gallon daiquiris, took the party to Outback (thanks, N’Awlins, for not having open container laws) and got ready for the night’s festivities.

Simon, Jack and Beaumont had no idea Bourbon St. would be so densely packed. After fighting their way through the crowd to get to the Hand Grenade hut, seeing titties of various sizes, colors and pleasantness along the way, the gang shelled out $5 to set up shop on a balcony to be more discriminate with the way they distributed their beads. The rain may have left behind winds and chilly temperatures, but the crew didn’t it ruin their night. They gave out beads, saw someone they knew from home, ate a diet-mutilating (and thereby great) burger, made fun of a half naked woman drunkenly rolling around in garbage juice, among other things. And one of them, not the one society would dictate, even earned a gift of his own.

Sunday arrived and with it, came time for our protagonists to head home. But not before someone got tattooed. Leaving New Orleans around 1 p.m., our weary heroes made it to Tallahassee around 10 p.m. to drop off one of their companions. Thanks to almost no gas stations being open when the car carrying the remaining three was almost on E and a hellishly slow drive on a 10-mile stretch of road when they were 28 miles away from home, the three arrived at their homes in less than stellar mood. Subsequently, two of the group members were “sick” when it came to work the following morning.

Although there was an early night and the weather kept us from doing some of the things on our list, Amanda, Andrew, Matt and I had a great time in New Orleans. We came back with this story and many more that would make this blog way longer than it already is. When/if we ever go back to Mardi Gras, we will have learned from out mistakes (easy on the Loko, book hotels more in advance) and build on the good times we had (eat more great food, bring our own booze so we can save money but still get good and drunk). And as fun as road trips are, if money allows, we’re flying. I hope you had as much fun reading about the adventures of the Fantastic Four as we did living them. We continually live happily ever after.

Yo mama!

2011-01-12T23:19:00.000-08:00

Every now and again I hear about an obscure, cult, and or limited-released film that might be worth my time. After watching the well-advertised, commercially-successful Pan's Labyrinth, I perused the movie's trivia page on IMDb.com. It noted how Maribel Verdu's modest, subservient character in the movie was different from the sexpot characters she normally plays, i.e. Luisa in Y Tu Mama Tambien. I have no qualms about the fact that I love seeing naked people, especially naked people simulating sex in the name of art and cinema. So immediately I looked up Y Tu Mama Tambien and was surprised that it was as critically acclaimed as it was, that it was and still is the highest grossing film in Mexico's cinematic history, and that I'd never even heard of it. So, as an antidote to my cinematic ignorance, I went to Video 21.

I'd like to take a moment to clue you all in on the wonderful wonderfulness that is Video 21. It's not just a movie rental store; it's the greatest fucking video store I've ever visited. They have damn near ANY movie you want to see. Mainstream movies, independent movies. Movies from years and years past. Cult B and blaxploitation movies. Foreign movies that were never officially released in the United States. This place even has a back room full of porn for sale and rent. Why anyone would pay for porn is beyond me, but that's another topic for another day. Video 21 shames Blockbuster and Redbox.

"Tambien" is about two 18-year-old boys fresh out of high school (or secondary school. Whatever everyone other than Americans call it) whose girlfriends are spending the summer in Europe. (Side note: if you send your lady to Europe alone for more than a week, she's coming back single.) The friendship is an unlikely pairing. Julio's family is working-class, while Tenoch still has servants who prepare his meals for him. Breaking the summer monotony, they meet Luisa, who's married to Tenoch's cousin, and invite her to road trip to a beach that doesn't exist in hopes of at least one of them sleeping with her. Although she initially declines, she gives in and leaves her stable life behind after her husband confessed to her his multiple infidelities.

The lively trio drives through rural Mexico smoking pot, regaling each other with tales of their respective relationships with their partners, talking about and subsequently having sex. It would be unfair to say Luisa is easy, but that fortress is definitely not impenetrable. And those loose castle gates stir up some deep-seated and repressed emotion as well as a few naughty yet spiteful confessions.

I love this movie for so many reasons but the movie's greatest selling point is director and co-writer Alfonso Cuaron's tendency to make the background seem more like a character than just the setting. Different time throughout "Tambien," the video plays but the audio is muted, allowing a narrator to add more depth and information to the scene. Narration topics range from the real-life political shift in 1999 that put an end to a 71-year political party's reign to the harsh lives of some of the poor people the trio pass on their way to the beach to Tenoch's hesitance to touch anything in Julio's house and Julio's reticence while in Tenoch's house. Initially off-putting, the narrations serve as a way to show the viewer that the movie isn't just about Julio, Tenoch and Luisa. There are other, more important things going on around them that make their arguments seem petty. It's easy to see how much Cuaron appreciates the landscape, from the seldom-traveled roads to politically stirring metropolitan areas to the beach that turned out not to be so made up.

Although the movie is funny, erotic, insightful and at times chaotic, "Tambien" makes me extremely sad. In an effort not be be a heaping bag of homemade vinegary douche, I'll let the ending and other key parts of the movie stay a secret. But during this 106 minutes of cinematic delight, we witness how easily life can change for the worse. Whether it's a family losing their livelihood or a girl dying way too young due to her harsh living conditions, no one is exempt from hard times. But the saddest part of the movie is how easily negligence and inconsideration can shatter a friendship that until a carefree poon-hounding car ride was considered unbreakable. To me, it mirrors how I am not as close to friends with whom I thought I'd never go a day without communicating.

Do yourself a favor. Put Y Tu Mama Tambien in your Netflix queue. If you see it available at Redbox, invest the dollar plus tax. If you happen to be in Blockbuster or the vastly superior Video 21 and they have a copy, jump on that shit and ride it out of the store. This is not a movie that will leave you nonchalant about it. Turn on the English subtitles and let it wash over you like the surf over the shore.

Status Update

2011-01-10T22:14:00.000-08:00

Since Nov. 30 I've been trying to get my shit together. In my desire to lead a healthier lifestyle, I have given up fast food, traded sugary drinks for water and fruit juices, and fucked up fruits and veggies like they owed me money. As a result, my body feels a bit healthier, but more importantly, it feels cleaner. I felt guilty during the holidays when I ate a Christmas tree Reese's. I get a bit put off when I see a large amounts of fried food in one place. I can't visibly tell tell if I am losing weight, but I feel like I'm doing better in regards to my health.

But my quest for better living requires me to lose weight. Lots of weight. And to do that, simply eating healthier won't cut it. So now that the gift buying of the holiday season is over, I have money to spend on a gym membership. Fortunately for me -- more specifically, my wallet -- working at PRC gets about ten bucks knocked off my monthly membership fee. So on Jan. 10, for the first time in roughly seven years, I went to a gym.

I feel a bit ashamed to say this, but I was and still am (to an extent) intimidated by gyms. I am a bit unfamiliar with some of the equipment. I'm not sure if i should work on shoulders and legs in one workout or if I should do abs and back. My inability to run a mile without stopping to briskly walk. My overall heavy-duty frame. There are numerous aspects of working out that make me feel very insecure. But I don't like living in fear. And I definitely hate feeling inadequate. So the insecurities and fear can go kick rocks; show me to the treadmill.

My fears proved to be unwarranted since at least half the people were either as out of shape as I and or significantly older. It doesn't take a nuclear physicist with a minor in marine biology to work a treadmill or curl a 20 pound barbell. Working out is like riding a roomy, extremely heavy bike. After about a day or two, I should be back in the swing of things. I think what really has me worried is the amount of effort I'll have to put into working out to finally see physical results. And the amount of time it will take for me to even get close to my goal weight range.

So here's to me keeping my shit together and making these gym visits a daily thing. I appreciate all the encouragement from everyone and will use it as fuel to keep me going. Keep me on my game, folks.

B.Rand

Smooth Operator, indeed

2010-12-06T20:35:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-29T18:08:00.000-08:00

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

2010-08-23T19:42:00.000-07:00

***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

2010-08-17T17:14:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-05T00:17:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-05T00:17:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-26T20:17:00.001-07:00

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?

2010-02-10T16:25:00.001-08:00

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

One hell of a decade...

2009-12-31T12:35:00.000-08:00

Here we are. The last day of one crazy decade. The Aughts have been filled with some crazy events: terrorist attacks, natural disasters, celebrity meltdowns, Youtube. But what I most notice about the double 0's how much I, and the people around me, have changed. At midnight on Jan. 1, 2000, I was a avid church-going high school sophomore who secretly and internally let out one great sigh of relief when Y2K didn't cause the world to implode. Right now...I'm whatever I am now, but I know I am not what I was then. During the 00's, I...

Moved out of my parents' house
Seriously debated moving back in with my parents when times got really tough
Made some friends I now consider to be brothers
Got my first F in high school
Got in two auto collisions
Attended FAMU, hated it, begrudgingly took a liking to it, loved it, made friends with people completely different from myself while there
Learned you can't handle ANY kind of FAMU business over the phone
Developed a thicker skin and much higher standards
Discovered my passion
Discovered what is definitely not my passion
Began secretly judging people when they use poor grammar
Lost a little of my faith
Lost some family and friends (whether by death or drifting apart)
Became a cousin quite a few times and an uncle twice
Got a lap dance from a moderately attractive stripper who wouldn't shut the hell up
Expanded my mind and became more accepting in almost every sense possible (ALMOST)
Began to think of family's mortality
Started drinking
Smoked weed
Saw half of a Ting Tings concert
Came to the realization that I am certainly self-destructive and might be a fuck up
Forged post-high school friendships (or acquaintances) with people whom, while we were in high school, I didn't quit like
Realized the genius that is Tarantino, Lee and Burton
Got some tattoos
Saw some friends naked
Ghost-rode the whip
Almost killed a bi-racial student journalist while playing freeze tag
Learned to appreciate sports and politics
Did some dipping of the skinny
Got my niece to not be afraid of me
Became more confident, yet more self-conscious
Gave my life to The Famuan and didn't feel bad about it at all
Killed people...with laughter
Ate a candy peppermint pig on numerous occasions
Became a movie geek
Learned how to cook thanks to Food Network (Shout out to Giada, Rachel, Bobby, Paula)
Realized where my parents were coming from when they used to say "Music today just isn't the same"
Lost a tooth
Still didn't learn to swim
Stayed single while countless friends got engaged/married
Got really drunk at Colin's wedding and passed out on the way home
Fit five people in a two-door Honda Civic coup and scoured Tallahassee to find Speakerboxx/The Love Below
Voted for the first time
Voted for the first black president and cried like a baby when he won (BTW, I didn't vote for him because he was black)
Shot nude photos for a photography class...and got a B on the project
Became determined to one day take a road trip, do improv comedy, write a book/screenplay, and visit a foreign country with my homies, among other things
Embarked on a one-hour road trip JUST to visit Krystal's (Harold and Kumar will do that to you)
Bore witness to one of the worst attacks in American history
Had a great Easter 2009
Was annoyed with the bad times but absolutely loved the good time
Peed off a balcony on numerous occasions
Took part in a semi-nude chocolate pudding slip-n-slide party that evolved into breaking and entering into an apartment complex's pool where numerous people got naked and everyone turned the hot tub water brown with pudding
Wore my hair in more styles than I care to admit
Had great times with my cousins at our reunions...especially in Daytona
Was present at my first bonfire
Witness a friend vomit on himself AND my damn chair
Got kicked out of a store simply for browsing and returned three days later with my sister, cousin and their friends, gathered nearly $500 worth of merchandise, had the cashier ring it up, and "all of a sudden" decided I didn't want to pay for it. Don't fuck with the Olivers

I know I've done more with my life during the past ten years, but these times stand out to me. Even in the bad times, I was fortunate enough to be surrounded with friends and or family. The B-rand of today might seem more crass and foul than the Brandon of yesteryear, but images can be deceiving. I am more patient, more understanding and wiser than I once was.

I have a greater appreciation of people, places and experiences because I know tomorrow isn't promised. My parents might not be alive tomorrow. My big chance might not exist tomorrow. Even monuments and cities, once thought unshakable, might vanish tomorrow. So I think what I'm trying to say with all of this is that the 00's have forced me to live more in the moment. Why waist moments when our time is running out?

What stood out about your decade? Do tell?

Happy New Year
B-rand

Paranormal Activity

2009-11-03T20:51:00.000-08:00

Every now and then, a revolutionary comes along and, against all odds, breaks box office records and wows the movie-viewing public. "Paranormal Activity" was made with a measly $15,000 budget about three years ago. It finally found a studio to distribute the movie, but from the lack of PA commercials, I gather there was barely a budget for marketing the movie.

But what PA had going for it was positive word of mouth. From Yahoo to IMDB to RottenTomatoes to countless Facebook friends, I heard that PA was the bee's knees of low-budget horror movies. So scary that grown men admitted to screaming like 12-year-old girls in the theater. So unnerving that people wondered if they'd be able to fall asleep that night. With such positive reviews from so many outlets, how could I not watch this movie?

I met up wit two of my co-workers at AMC theaters in hopes of watching PA and being so terrified that I would lose control of one or two of my bodily function. I don't know what movie everyone else saw, but I saw 86 minutes of boring, poorly-acted, poorly-scripted bullshit. I will (without giving away the plot) run down the stuff that left me emotions and wallet feeling like they just got molested by a creepy uncle.

*Poor acting. I know the movie's minuscule budget didn't allow the power to be to hire Morgan Freeman and Maggie Smith, but I know they could have found some talented yet unknown actors to on the two lead parts. Instead we were stuck with boring, untalented Micah and Katie.

*I knew how to resolve the movie within 20 minutes. All one person in the movie had to do was kick another person out of the house for good and I think things would have been alright.

*Horrible pacing. Since there actors couldn't act, I just had to have faith that the action in the movie would more than redeem the action. I was wrong. I sat there waiting for something to happen. Nothing happen. And when something did happen, the movie ended 20 seconds later.

*It wasn't scary. I've seen my share of disturbing, vomit-inducing photos and videos, both real and fictional. So my fear tolerance is ridiculously strong. But I tend to let things slide when I watch horror movies. I let down my guard and let myself get slightly spooked by what I see. Not here. The movie was so cheesy that I found myself laughing during most of the "scary" parts.

*The length. You read correctly earlier. The movie is only an hour and and 26 minute. Had they extended the movie and added material after that one scary part at the end, I think it would have made up for the foolishness with which I had to deal.

*Why now? All this time a certain something as been going on for a long time with a certain person in this movie. And it waits until now to come to a head. Why not that other time. (If you've seen the movie, you'll know what I mean.)

I know I am very critical about movies, but when everyone in the theater gave a collective "That's it? What the fuck?", I could rest easy knowing I wasn't the only one who thought PA was a huge shit sandwich.

Operation: Take Back the Night

2009-10-09T15:11:00.000-07:00

As far as I know, Halloween isn't until Oct. 31. So when I went into the Magic and Fun Costume Shop (on Tennessee Street next to Blockbuster and across the street form AJ's Bar and Grill in Tallahassee, Fla) on Oct. 6, I figured I could go in, browse the items, make a sound decision, and come back when I had money and set-in-stone plans for Halloween. Apparently, that's not what the owner had in mind.

My amigo, Andrew, and I had loads of time to kill that Tuesday, so I suggested we go to the costume shop so I could try to find a costume. After about 30 or 45 minutes, the owner started following Andrew and I around the store, quickly telling us how great a product was as soon as either of us picked it up. But 20 minutes later, his patience wore thin.

"Have you decided what you want to be?" the owner asked.
"Well right now, I'm shooting for a Black Mexican, a pirate who can't swim, or an obese ninja," I replied. "But I can't decide. I'm just looking right now, tho."
"OK, but here, we're all about transforming people. And if you're not willing to be transformed, we don't want to waste your time, and we don't want you wasting our time."

The owner quit talking, but he made sure to stay at the end of the aisle, to remain close to us. Just in case we needed any help, of course. I wish I could say I found it odd that, with a store full of customers, he continued to keep his eyes on only us. But Real recognize Real; I knew what was up. But it seems he couldn't keep his tongue or frustration subdued any longer.

"Have you decided yet?" the owner asked again.
"Not yet," I nonchalantly replied. Again. After being talked down to for the past 20 or so minutes, I was doing my best to tune this man out. "I'm still looking, and I don't think Andrew's even going to dress up for Halloween."
"OK guys, I need you to do me a favor," the owner said in a matter-of-fact tone. "I need you to go outside and don't come back in until you know what you want."
I stood there shocked. Not shocked that I was followed around a store. Not even shocked that I was asked to leave. I was dumb-founded by the fact that we were being temporarily kicked out. For fucking browsing.
"Are you serious?" Andrew inquired. "Why?"
"Because I don't like you two. I'm the owner and I want you both out of my store."

Although Andrew decided to take the low road and curse the man out, I decided to get my buddy and leave without a fuss -- after depositing a mouthful of saliva on the front steps. To the owner, and to many others, it might seem that I wasn't forceful enough. Even Andrew thought I should have stood my ground, got in the man's face and stated my case. But I refused to play into that asshole's hands and be the ignorant nigger he probably thought I was. I know the deal. I've seen this kind of arrogance and ignorance before. And I know there are no customer service agents to call because this is a locally-owned shop.

But what he didn't know is that Phyllis Oliver is my mother; Carol, Wilma and Debra are my aunts; and Tia is my sister. None of us willingly lay down and get violated with piss-poor customer service. If you want to be nasty with us, we will both take the high road all the while getting just as nasty with you.

Immediately after being told to leave, I got my sister on the phone and told her what happened. Although our conversation lasted for under a minute, we set up a plan for how to stick it to the man. Three days later, she, our cousin Amber, and their friends Cynthia, Chelsea and Malcolm met me at the costume shop. We we went in with the intentions of wasting as much time as possible. Try on as many costumes/wigs as possible. Ask as many questions as possible. But always being as congenial as possible.

Amber picked up a fake severed limbs, a female Freddie Krueger outfit and another outfit. My sister got the female boxer and sexy gangster outfits. Chelsea had the gold digger and opera singer. Cynthia had the naughty cop and 60's flower child. Malcolm had the six-foot-tall Stewie Griffin. Even though they didn't take long to try on costumes, and the sign clearly stated we could try on up to six costumes, the owner came by and rushed them with their costume fitting, further exemplifying the poor customer service that led to this ruse.

After an hour, everyone made their choices and headed to the check-out counter with the intentions of ringing it all up on one tab. I felt bad for what we were doing because all the employees were very helpful and friendly. It was the owner who unknowingly fucked it up for everyone else. After the cashier hand-keyed and bagged our $488-worth of merchandise, my sister and I "all of a suddenly" decided we didn't want any of it.

I've never seen a person's emotions go from pseudo-friendly to boiling red in 1.4 seconds before, but I saw it then. The owner quickly pointed at the six of us, told us to "get the hell off" his property, and that if he saw us on the property again, he would call the cops on us for trespassing. Seeing that we were completely unfazed by his threat, he whipped out his huge, 1997-era cell phone and called the cops that moment. Knowing to get out while the gettin's good, we piled into our cars and drove away, completely satisfied that we were able to stick it to the man while not turning into Sambos and coons in the process.

The moral of this story is to be nice to the people who spend money or will potentially spend money in your store. Just because you have a monopoly on the costume business after the only other party store was forced to temporarily shut down, doesn't mean people will put up with poor service. And if you want to fuck me, I'll fuck you back. With no lube.

Deuces.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oGaFPJmMNbw

True Blood Live Blog August 16

2009-08-16T17:37:00.000-07:00

Come on y'all, let's do this thing. No hatin.

True blood live blog

2009-08-09T18:05:00.001-07:00

Now

When you came in, the air went out...

2009-08-02T17:52:00.000-07:00

Time for another live blog on True Blood. This is for the Aug. 2 ep; let's keep it funky. Oh, and no haterade.

I wanna do bad things with you....TRUE BLOOD Live Blog

2009-07-26T17:36:00.000-07:00

The time is here my people. It's Sunday night and it's going down. Leave your comments here during the show. Let's all have a great time; and please, no hate toward any other poster. Thanks.

B.rand

"Let's kick it, Jesus style"

2009-06-14T14:24:00.000-07:00

There is bound to be a decent selection of films at your local AMC and Regal theater. But there are many more movies of which the general public might not know exist. Whether they are artsy foreign films or low-budget independent films with little money for advertising and marketing, some films never make to people who aren't film fans in some way affected by the movie.

Whatever the reason, very few people know about the 2004's "Saved!," an independent movie about teenagers attending a Christian high school and their daring to question to what they've thought was indisputable.

"Is that Mary. What's she doing there?"
"There's only one reason Christian girls go to Planned Parenthood."
"She's got a pipe bomb!?!"
"OK, two reasons."

Mary has been a born-again Christian her entire 17-year-old life. She has what she thinks is the perfect life: she's a part of American Eagle Christian High School's in-crowd (The Christian Jewels), her mother is one of the area's best Christian-themed interior decorators, and she has a wonderful Christian boyfriend.

But when Mary and Dean, her boyfriend, tell each other secrets about themselves underwater, Dean says, "I think I'm gay." After suffering a nasty bump on the head, "Jesus to speak to her," telling her she must do what she can to help Dean. Taking "Jesus's" advice to the extreme, Mary loses her virginity to Dean in order to de-gay him. Unfortunately for Mary, AECH didn't start teaching sex-ed classes until after she found out she was pregnant with Dean's baby.

"We have to help Dean. I mean, you're not born a gay. You're born again."

Saved! is a wonderful, quirky movie with an eclectic cast that includes Jena Malone ("Stepmom") as scared and confused Mary, Patrick Fugit ("Almost Famous") as Patrick, the principal's son who likes Mary, singer Mandy Moore as Christian zealot and Christian Jewels leader Hilary Faye, and Macaulay Culkin (as if I had to name a movie) as Hilary Faye's brother and near-total opposite, Roland.

Saved! succeeded in showing the movie goer that Christians are people like everyone else. Despite the overwhelming love for Jesus and the doings of his work, the same things that go on at AECH happen at regular high schools. The popular crowd is adored by most (students, faculty and staff alike). Anyone who goes against the grain will automatically be social pariahs--no matter how much everyone else wants to save that person. When one of the mighty falls, there is always someone itching to take his or her place. And anything that even remotely challenges the system with be looked down up and barely spoken of.

"I don't think Jesus is supposed to be white."
"Of course, Jesus is white. Gosh, Roland, sometimes I think you're retarded too."

Although the last act of the movie gets a tad preachy, I had a fun hour and 32 minutes watching. Watching Mary reach outside her comfort zone, Roland and Cassandra let their guard down without compromising who they were, Tia try her hardest to climb the social ladder, and Hilary Faye pelt Mary with a Bible during an emergency exorcism.

BAM "I am FILLED with Christ's love."

If you haven't already, go see this movie. It might teach you something about tolerance and acceptance. Or it just might make you laugh for 92 minutes. Either way, it's well worth it.

"I CRASHED MY VAN INTO JESUS!"

All Eyes on Jackie Brown.

2009-06-07T14:13:00.000-07:00

I Love almost everything about Quentin Tarantino movies. Along with Tim Burton and Spike Lee, Tarantino is my favorite director. But what irks me most about his movies--rather, the receptions of his movies--is how little recognition and praise people give "Jackie Brown."

Tarantino is the best at reviving the careers of actors who seem to have taken up residence in the $5 DVD bin at Wal-Mart. He made John Travolta relevant again in 1994 in Pulp Fiction. He reminded people there was someone in the world actually named Uma in 2003's "Kill Bill." Tarantino brought Kurt Russell out of family-movie hell in 2007 and put him in the driver seat in "Grindhouse: Death Proof."

In 1997, it was Pam Grier's turn. Tarantino took one of the biggest risks of his career (in my opinion, his biggest risk was Death Proof. Too bad it didn't pay off.) when he made Jackie Brown, the film adaptation of Elmore Leonard's book Rum Punch, and cast black people (Grier and Samuel L. Jackson) in two of the film's lead roles.

Jackie (Grier) was as 44-year-old black flight attendant working in the shittiest airlines (her words, not mine) thanks to prior legal troubles. Making some extra money on the side, she brought in large sums of cash from Mexico to gun runner Ordell Robbie (Jackson). When Beaumont (Chris Tucker) snitches to save his own butt from jail time, Department of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms agents arrest Jackie and threaten her with with the same fate that Beaumont eluded.

What makes Jackie Brown, a movie mildly laced with Blaxploitation references, my second favorite movie from Tarantino, is the fact that this is the realest movie he's ever done. Kill Bill, Death Proof, and, yes, even Pulp Fiction required huge stretches of the imagination. But Jackie Brown, showed the viewer a real black woman, forced to work a horrible job just to keep her rent paid. Showed how scary it would be for someone her age to lose the best job she could manage to find in the only industry in which she has worked.

Although there is no fight scenes, car chases or face shooting, I was on the edge of my seat, hoping this downtrodden woman could actually charm, befriend and or deceive her blood-thirsty gangster boss and the law enforcement agents looking for a conviction.

My fears vanished when Jackie, intended to meet the same end as Beaumont(SPOILER ALERT: Ordell kills Beaumont), pressed the barrel of a stolen gun into Ordell's shaft and balls and bitterly whispered, "Take yo hands from around my throat...NIGGA!" I saw in one scene what made Pam Grier such a bad ass B during an entire decade. Jackie commanded the room. Grier commanded the scene. And from that moment, I knew that she could hold her own against zealous cops, Ordell, and Ordell's beach bunny girlfriend and ex-con accomplice.

But the best part of the movie was Jackie's relationship with Max Cherry (Robert Forster, another actor whose career was drastically revived by this movie), a bail bondsman tired of writing bonds and chasing bailed-out absconders. After bailing out Jackie, and subsequently having his gun stolen by her, Max and Jackie talk the morning after Ordell's visit. That scene is, in my opinion, the greatest scene in the movie. For five minutes, you see, hear, and experience how tired these two old people are and begin to see what each might be prepared to do to alleviate their fatigue. Romantic sparks are also ignited between the Max and Jackie, but you find yourself wonder if Jackie, proven to be great at playing people, is setting up Max for the okie-doke.

Free of Samurai movie references, guys with colorful names, and guy-on-guy ass raping, Jackie Brown is a Tarantino movie non-Tarantino junkies can get into. It's real, gritty, suspenseful, romantic, witty and a host of other adjectives. It might be a tad long, but your time will be well-spent. If not for the great actors involved (Grier, Forster, Jackson, Robert De Niro, Bridgette Fonda, Michael Keaton, and Tommy "Tiny" Lister a.k.a. Deebo), for the amazing soundtrack. Try not loving a movie with the music of Minnie Ripperton, The Delfonics, The Grassroots, Foxy Brown, and Bobby Womack and Johnny Cash playing in the background.

And try not loving a movie where Pam Grier yells, "SIT YO RAGGEDY ASS DOWN AND SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3BWA1T78WpI

Chronicles of the Dreads: Gone like N*Sync

2009-06-02T16:12:00.000-07:00

What took two and a half years to create was eradicated in 53 minutes. After careful consideration, I decided to get rid of my Earthy ebony locks (the Cherokee curls, as Yewande likes to call them).

I had been thinking of doing this for a while, and when I had some free time in my schedule and some money in my pocket I decided to quit thinking and start doing. Well, let someone else do it for me.

This decision wasn't made all willy-nilly like; there are numerous factors that made me come to this choice. Anyone who knows me well enough will know I'm not a high-maintenance person, but having dreads--dreads that look nice--requires me to sit in a chair for two and a half to four hours every two weeks while someone ( on numerous occasions, someone with an attitude) pulls and twists the shit out of my hair and then throws me under a dryer for another half hour. Every time I want to take a shower, I have to put on a Du-rag and a shower cap to keep any trace of moisture from my head. And to top all that off, I have to sleep in a Du-rag, bandanna, bonnet, etc.

And then there were the costs of keeping up this look. Get out your calculators folks because it's time to go to school...and math is my weakest subject. I cost me $70 to initiate the dreading process, $50 every time I wanted to get them re-twisted (which should have been every two to three weeks), $20 to get them unprofessionally re-twisted, $7 to get lined up, $5.99 each for three packs of clips to hold my hair during the twisting process, $3.99 every time I brought more locking gel, and about $2.99 every time i bought hair ties. Being the cheap son of a saint that I am, I'd much prefer to only shell out $10-$15 every two weeks for a hair cut.

Having locks got in the way of me being me. Whenever I hung out by the pool, laid on the beach, or almost died on some God-forsaken river in Marianna, Florida, the first thought that always came to mind was that I needed to keep my head above water so I won't mess up the four hours that went in to twisting that mess.

And quite frankly, I have been in a horrible mood for close to a month. I wanted to do something to myself and for myself, something drastically different and attention-worthy. I don't have enough money saved for the tattoos I want. I haven't grown enough balls to get that penis piercing people keep telling me to get. So why not cut the drapes?

I just got out of the barber chair about an hour ago (big ups to 2G), and already all the things I missed about getting hair cuts game back to me. I miss being able to feel the breeze and sun on my big ass dome. The tiny hair shavings, rather than long and curlies, that litter my shoulders. The stranger's hands that are on my hair for an undetermined about of time that somehow is acceptable so long as it's for hair cutting purposes. I might keep it like this. The only think I regret is not seeing ALL of my female relatives' reactions in person. Except for Mia. I think she actually liked the dreads.

Before anyone asks me the inevitable question, let me answer it for you.

Countless people: "Why did you spend all that time with sub-par looking dreads if you were only going to cut them off after two years?"
Me: "Because I could."

Sincerely,
B.rand

P.S. How many fucking (Sorry mom, Darryl) pair of jeans can two people wash. And why does the laundry mat have free Wi-Fi and HBO?

Remember "Summer School"

2009-04-21T20:51:00.000-07:00

It was 1987. Colors were bright. Kirstie Alley was under 150 lbs. And movies about the not so real high school experience were hot. But most, if not all, 80s high school movies took place during the school year. But what happened when June rolled around and the school year ended? Did they shut down production of high school movies during those beautiful summer months? NO! Why not have a movie that delt with the happenings of summer school classes? And while we're at it, let's name it "Summer School."

Summer School is a highly over-looked 80s comedy about high school slackers who completely bomb a language skills standardized test and are forced to take remedial English during summer school in hopes of passing the test on the next try. Carefree P.E. teacher Freddy Shoop (Mark Harmon) gets suckered by the bag of douche vice principal into teaching said class. Shoops has a school boy crush on the not-so-single history teacher (Alley), who happens to be dating the aforementioned bag of douche. And hilarity ensues.

Loads of 80s high school cliches can be found here. All the 16, 17, and 18 year olds were actually played by actors in their 20s. Although the class consists of about 20 students, only 10 of them speak and do important things. Bright and pastel colors are everywhere. There is a wise-cracking black person. And there are enough obscure 80s songs to half-way fill your "80s Monster Jams" playlist on your iPod.

Summer School is a run-of-the-mill 80s comedy about 26-year-old high school students and the slightly older slacker teacher who knows he's way too good looking to be doing anything as trivial as teaching remedial English. But the movie makes up for its mediocrity by having an extremely funny cast of actors playing the students. They aren't big-name stars, but they were hilarious in their various roles, rather the role be an underaged male stripper, a dislexic PYT who can't drive, a geek who surprising doesn't make As, or two guys who love the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre very very very very very very very very very very very much.

So if you are stuck inside on a rainy day and Summer School happens to come on TBS, or if you find it for $5 in a grocery store like I did, watch this movie. I can't recommend it highly enough. People fall in love, dumb students improve, and you get your chuckls all the while. Oh, and see if you can spot actress who played Austin Powers' love interest, Alotta Fagina, ten years later.

Great DJ

2009-04-04T12:49:00.000-07:00

My taste in music is different to say the least. Quite a few of my friends know I am currently involved in a love affair with The Ting Tings. Katie might not be the world's best singer. There might only be two people in their "band." But they make great music to which I cannot stop listening. I haven't been to a concert since I went to see Bobby Brown, Mary J, and TLC in 1993 (I fell asleep shortly after TLC performed), so live music was definitely in my plans this year. So when I saw on their MySpace page that they would be playing in Tallahassee March 31, my mind was already made up.

March 31 was Tuesday, and since the other two closers in my department have school on Tuesdays, I had work until 9 p.m. Club Downunder, where the Tings were to perform, opened its doors at 8:30, the concert started at 9:30, so more than likely, I was going to miss the concert due to work.

FUCK. THAT. SHIT.

I shut down that deli like I was late on the light bill, moving with quickness normally reserved for olympic runners and convenient store thieves. Although I normally leave work most nights after 9:15 p.m. most nights, I left W/D behind at exactly 8 p.m. Deciding me getting to the club on time was more important than me not smelling faintly like fried chicken, I skipped the shower, put on a button up and my new black shoes (I was very overdressed it seems), and hopped in Alberta.

On my way out of the complex, I saw a naked man running as fast as he could away from the house across the street, almost as though he had no business there. I'm not sure, but i think that naked man was forboding for the events to come. After parking and almost sprinting in the rain with an umb-buh-rella that I'm 87 percent sure is too small, I visually found out I'm not the only Ting Tings fan in the Tallahassee area. The line stretched around three or four corners and had more than about 400 people.

Praying to any god who'd answer, I silently called out for help getting inside. I was told there was only room for 350 people, and things were looking bleak. The line moved and moved, and right before I was to turn the last corner, a skinny, tattooed club worker told us they'd reached compacity although they were trying to fit in as many people as they could without the fire marshal knowing. I got five people away from the door when Skinny Tattoo Magee posted a sign that read "Absolutely No More Entries."

I was hurt, y'all, but since the doors were mostly glass, I stayed and watched my favorite band at the moment perform. I couldn't even properly hear them because Downunder kept the doors closed. But after the line dwindled down to about 30 people, many people left the club, endless pleading and flirting from the hot girls in front of me, and about 45 minutes, the bouncer let us in. All praises be to fat Buhdda, blue Krishna, long-haired white Jesus, and whomever the Hindus worship. I didn't get to hear all wanted to hear, but I damn sure heard "Shut Up and Let Me Go" and "That's Not My Name."

If a video of me at this concert ever makes it to YouTube, my family will be ashamed of me because I was rhythmlessly rocking out with my cock out (figuratively speaking). Below is a link to The Ting Tings performing "That's Not My Name" in Tallahassee. All you have to do is copy and paste it. Thank God I'm not in this video. Well not clearly in it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5YKeYfAyZ1Q

B.Rand

A Closer Look -- "The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency

2009-03-29T21:15:00.000-07:00

I love movies, TV and music. And I love random, old, and sometimes obscure movies, TV shows and music. I also love writing, but it wasn't until a friend suggested I find something about which to write--and do it on a regular basis--that I decided to write about all of my aforementioned pleasures. With my Closer Look segments, I want to shed light on forms of entertainment I think are undervalued, have been unnoticed, or are worth a view just so people can judge it for themselves.

After HBO's "The Wire" ended, the network has been missing their token critically acclaimed show starring 90 percent or more black people. In my opinion, "The Corner," "Oz," and "The Wire" were no mere place holders. From what I've seen and read, those shows were great, providing smart, insightful entertainment all the while providing work for hosts of minority actors. But when I saw Jill Scott and Anika Noni Rose in advertisements for "The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency," I had mixed emotions.

On one hand, we had and abundance dark skin and natural hair back on HBO, a network renowned for its high-caliber productions. On the other hand, there was forced acting and even more forced African accents (nawt the duddee = not the daddy). There were perfect-pitch notes: the show was actually filmed in Botswana. And notes that fell flat: a song by The Cardigans playing throughout the commercials. Imagine listening to "Love Fool" while watching the trailer for" Amistad."

But knowning how misleading commercials can be, I turned to Channell 14 Sunday night to judge show for myself. "The accents won't be that hard on my ears once I see the whole show," I told myself. "Playing The Cardigans during commercial for a show about Africans in Africa is just a way to rope in more white viewers. The show will be good."

But it wasn't good. It wasn't even average. There werent many things wrong with the show, but the things that were wrong were massive. I'm not that cunning of a linguist, but I know those accents can't be acurate. Anywhere close to accurate. Jill and Anika's accents sounded so forced that I thought they watched Halle Berry in "X-men" and elaborated on her shaky Kenyan accent. And the accents weren't the only things that were held at gunpoint. Anika's acting was so over the top. It was like an African-themed drag queen contestant on a new RuPaul show.

But my biggest issue regarding the No. 1 Ladies is that is boring. Very, utterly, painfully boring. I respect anyone who takes on a task as arduous as adaptive screenplay writing, but the premier episode could have been cut by 45 minutes and it would have been a much better show. I don't believe in rushing things just to satisfy short attention spans, but I also don't believe in drawing out an episode to approximately one hour and 45 minutes.

Did I like the show? Not really. Should you watch the show? Yes, just to make up your own mind. But I will tell you now, if you were looking for the next great HBO minority-driven show, this is not it. This show and these ladies are not my No. 1.

Green: not just for envy.

2009-03-10T21:46:00.000-07:00

Greetings all.

I haven't written in a while, mostly because I only want to write about something notable, funny, ironic, etc. that I've been fortunate enough to witness. But so few times in my writing--and in my life--do I take the time out to simply kick back and enjoy the day. Even rarer are the times that are I take the opportunity to reflect of such a display of awesomeness. And today, March 10, 2009, was a flippin' awesome.

I didn't win anything. I didn't magically lose weight. I didn't even have sex with eleven international movie actresses like I do every other day. Today (technically yesterday; woop woop for the night owls) was slightly above ordinary, accented with sprigs of delight. Here's why...

*I was off today. Enough said.

*I got to sleep in even later than I normally do, and Ike and Tina next door didn't even wake me with any early morning domestic shenanigans. Nor did anyone's over-audible vehicular music festival rattle my walls.

*The weather was perfect. After venturing to http://thefuckingweather.com, I learned it was 81 degrees and that it was "fucking hot...yet not hot enough to warrant wearing a Speedo." All day long, I marveled at the clear blue sky, basked in the radiant sun, and then cut the shit and turned on my car's AC.

*I had on a completely new fit. Since it was the first clear, warm, beautiful day in a while that I've been fortunate enough to witness, I decided I should dress to celebrate Spring's slightly early arrival. My grandma kicks ass and buys me clothes when she can manage to do so. But don't tell my mom or aunts because "they don't need to know." I put on the denim shorts accented with green threads she bought me during winter and the green shirt she got me some years ago but i never wore because I was afraid of how that much green would look on me. But naysayers be damn, today was the day.

*I (along with some co-workers) helped out a friend who REALLY needed it. I'm not ballin' by any means, but when I have a little bit to give to someone who is in desperate need, I try to help. Seeing her so elated by other people's generocity put a spring in my step. Now I see why Oprah gives aways cars and humpback whales on her shows.

*I did my laundry...Everyone needs clean underroos.

*I got lined up. The dude at the barbershop edged me up nicely and gave me a great goatee. It's just too fucking bad that these simple proceedures took almost one hour because he got too involved in a barbershop debate about rap music, its artists and their influences. Nonetheless, the whisker grooming makes me look better, so I felt better. If only I had those green Chuck Taylors.

*I ate dinner with a friend and had a good conversation while doing so. And earlier in the day, I talked to my newly married friend who just returned from his honeymoon in Spain. Needless to say, he's a happy man.

*I saw The Watchmen. The movie was average at best, but, since I hadn't been to a full-price movie in quite a while, and I vowwed to see this movie ever since watching its trailer before The Dark Knight, I had my face in the place at 9:05...

*Three hours later, I am home enjoying a Whataburger "medium" chocolate milkshake that I am pretty sure started out as vanilla and made the ever-so-obvious transition into chocolate.

And now I'm chillaxin at my house watching one of my newly-favorite movies, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Still wearing my green.

Facing death in the country

2008-05-27T19:45:00.000-07:00

Memorial Day was approaching and I had nothing planned. I thought I'd be a lame and get stuck at home on a day that should be full of cook-outs and beach trips, but Andrew came through with a plan. He invited me to go with him, Justin, Sean, and (later) Manny to Bear Paw, a river intertubing service in Marianna, Fla. I was happy to get an invite, but there was one very VERY important factor on which i would base my decision.

I don't believe in believing in stereotypes, but I prove one of them to be true. I CANNOT SWIM. Not at all. I can get myself to the top of the water, but that's about it. So before I accepted the invite, I asked, "Andrew, how deep is the water? I want to go, but you know I can't swim." With a straight face, Andrew said, "around three feet deep."

Three feet, you say? That's not deep at all, because I'm 6'1. That's what I was thinking the whole ride over there. Once we get there, I ask again, just to be sure, how deep the water is. Justin, not knowing I couldn't swim, nonchalantly says, "it's shallow, but parts of it get to be 8-10 feet deep.

WHAT THE FUCK!!! That was the end of my good day, and it was only 11 a.m. (noon eastern time). For the next four and a half hours, and the next 3-4 hours, i bitched, complained, lived and moved in fear, and cursed out (silently and very loudly) Andrew for purposefully misleading me into a dirty river in the middle of the country, where I was one of the only four black people I saw the whole time.

What have I learned from my experience? Never go anywhere Andrew invites you unless you've been there first. Punch the shit out of anyone who, after knowingly guiding you to near death, says "if i would have told you how (insert adjective here) it was, you wouldn't have came." And last but not least, if you wind up going bitch for four hours in front of your friends and co-workers, try your hardest to attempt to look on the bright side.

Keep it sleazy,
B.Rand

P.S. Not to be an utter downer, the bright sides of the trip were funny conversations when I wasn't fearing for my life, people trying their best to cheer me up, a complete stranger giving me a beer, and my companions, despite my constant bitching, pissing and moaning, "towing" me and my tube for a good 3 and a half miles. Thanks guys.

Here's to weed.

2008-01-16T21:30:00.000-08:00

I used to see them all the time and think they were informative. I thought the individuals behind them wanted nothing but the best for the people who watched them. But then I grew up, got wise to the world a bit, smoked some weed, and came to my senses. And in my expert opinion, these anti-marijuana TV commercials are bogus, meant only to scare people away from the stickiest of the icky.

The commercials aren't completely bogus, but I hate how the they insinuate that every negative consequence known to man will plague you if you put blunt to mouth just once. People who do nothing but smoke weed--the people who wake up and instead of brushing their teeth, smoke some weed--might lose some friends, their job, their chance at getting another job, contact with their family members, their possessions, their state of awareness, and a bit of self-respect and dignity. But what about the people who smoke casually? What about the people like me (well, me prior to late 2007 and me after I get another job) who smoke weed once or twice a week, if that much. I can't speak for everyone who smokes pot so rarely, but I've never had any of that shit happen to me. I just got real hungry and ate the shit out of a Whataburger.

I applaud the anti-weed people for trying to keep America's youth drug-free, but if you are going to take up multiple thirty-second intervals of my life, don't only point out the negatives. Just like Tim Meadows said in "Walk Hard," weed won't give you a hangover, it's non-addictive to the vast majority of people who have tried it, and IT IS THE CHEAPEST DRUG YOU CAN TRY! (Where else can you and four friends have such a time by spending $5.50 each, five dollars for the grass and fifty cents each for a cigar?) Not to mention, if you get high on weed and watch "Lean on Me," "Harlem Nights," "From Dusk till Dawn," or "What's Love Got to do With It" with your friends, you will have stories to share for years.

I completely support people's decision to or not to smoke marijuana; I just don't support bumming the hell out of me when I'm trying to watch "Scrubs" by showing me some random "Chica," who speaks one Spanish word per English sentence and had her naked picture takes because she was high on weed. That's not what happens on a weed high. Getting naked and taking pictures is what you do when you are drunk. I know from experience.

Get this fake ass Maya Angelou and her poetry about a guy getting high and sitting on his stoop off my screen. Why is she spending all her time writing about him and what he does on his own property. Stalker, anyone.

If I want to smoke some pot, I will. And if I want to smoke fools like you on the tennis court, damn it, I will.

Light it up (if you so choose),
B.rand

EAT THE DAMN CAKE, ANNE

2007-12-19T22:52:00.000-08:00

While at work, my roommate texted me, telling me horrible news. Ike Turner died on Wednesday Dec. 12, 2007. Like when everyone dies, I got a bit sad. And buy sad, I mean felt sympathy for his family and loved ones. I wasn't crying or anything. I don't even know the nigga. Just think of all the good Ike Turner has done for the world, especially black people, ages 15-35.

Ike was a pillar of rock and roll. Current popular recording artists credit Ike as an influence in their careers. He won a Grammy in 2007 for his blues album, "Risin' with the Blues." But what we all really know Ike for is an act dating back to prehistoric times: Going upside woman's head. And not just any woman. Tina Turner.

As vividly detailed in "What's Love Got To Do With It," Ike went upside Tina's head from, what had to be, the late 1950s to the late 1970s. There was lip busting, nose breaking, boot hitting, and shallow apologies. But I digress. What we really love most, and what I will miss most, about shrimpy ass Ike Turner is all the crazy fashion statements and catchphrases.

How many of you have Ike to thank for "fi- fi- FINE YO ASS," "damn Anne, you got mo excuses than a nigga going to jail," and "tho..tho..thought a nigga like me would let you go." How many people have had joy brought to their life when they saw Lawrence Fishburn in a purple, one-piece jump suit, a Beatles-inspired wig, and a belt with a hand buckle. Or what about the Indian-inspired outfit complete with the Afro with the feather attached. How many of us got a friend like Frost riding our nuts.

And don't think I forgot about everyone's favorite. "EAT THE CAKE, ANNA MAE. EAT THE G**DAMN CAKE."

Although Ike later (and for real) got off that narcotic, worked to clean up his image due to a one-sided, critically acclaimed movie, and won countless awards, I will always remember him as the coke-addicted, wife beater I grew to love. And while Tina Turner dances in her four-inch stilettos around her Parisian mansion, Friday, Latoya and I will get drunk, watch "What's Love..." and eat cake in honor of Ike. Anyone interested in helping us commemorate his memory can feel free to join me at 1081-2 Solana Ave.

Thanks for listening,
B.rand

Busted my shit wide open

2007-12-19T22:50:00.001-08:00

Hello everyone. First I must say thank you to the people who actually read these things. I didn't know I had five fans, but I digress. This note is not that meaningful (in my opinion). But I felt other people needed to know since they didn't have tickets for the show.

For those of you who don't know, I work at Winn-Dixie in the deli/bakery departments. Every night, the closing person has to spray the floor with a mixture of water and grease cutter so health inspectors won't shut us down for having a filthy floor. And for those of you who don't know, I am consistently broke and unfathomably cheap. My shoes look like they are three shifts away from ripping to shreds. But since they have yet to break, I have refused to buy a cheap pair from Payless.

Long story short, I turned a corner, my right foot lost all friction, my left leg followed, and my big ass landed on the floor. Well, not the entire gluteus maximus. That's the one good thing about this story; I landed more so on my right upper thigh/lower butt cheek, saving me from a nasty tail bone injury. I thought the stinging would go away shortly after leaving work. I was wrong. My right upper thigh hurts more than my ears after hearing that J.Lo commercial for Rhapsody.com/jenniferlopez.

So, long story cut not so long....I fell at work and busted my s**t wide open.

Alieve should help, although I'm expecting a big ole bruise to show up. But if I survived being dropped by my friends while i was doing a keg stand, I can survive a fall.

Thanks for listening,
B.Rand

Re-making friends

2007-07-19T10:36:00.000-07:00

NOTE: I have to be at work in about 23 minutes and I'm not dressed yet; please forgive my errors.

It's been a tad bit over five years since I've graduated from Palatka High and moved away to Tallahassee. During the five years, I, along with mostly everyone and everything, have changed a lot since then. My outlook on life has gotten darker, more cynical. My alcohol consumption has risen (don't judge me; let God do it). And I've become more of an individual and not let family and friends dictate most of what I do.

I thought it was just me. But after talking to my friend, Jordan, on MySpace IM yesterday, I realized he has too. The last time I had a conversation with this dude, as far as I can recall, was the Sunday after I graduated in 2002. We've been MySpace and Facebook friends for quite a bit, but we all know that, a lot of times, FB and MS friends aren't really friends. So while i was just chillin' and ish, I decided to say hello and see if we could at least carry this thing on for five minutes.

After talking to him, I found out we actually have a lot in common. We are both shy people who came out of our shells after high school. We both at some point in our lives worked as correspondents for the Palatka Daily News. We both enjoy writing. And, it seems, neither of us knew this about each other back in the day. We were cool, but we just didn't know.

So this all has me thinking how much I could know/have known about a lot of my friends if i just listen and be more observant. How many more REAL friends could I have made in high school and college if I would have made more of an effort? And since we have all changed, could I be cool with people whom I really were not previously cool?

Hmm, makes me wonder...

B.Rand

When it's over

2007-07-14T14:53:00.000-07:00

For as long as I can remember, people have always talked, and gossiped, about the recently dead. "She had a long, eventful life." "His kids are going to be left in debt because he didn't pay his bills." "He was old and weak; it was a blessing he went." "I heard she was sleeping with the dude who shot her."

Yeah, I've heard all of that in some shape or form, and it shocked me to hear the negative comments. I used to be a tad naive, thinking people only said nice things about the deceased--you know, out of respect. But, hey, I would be mad at everyone if they didn't say what was on their mind. But at the same time, I often wonder: What will people say/think about me when God strikes me down.

But this is not some vain attempt to keep people from talking bad about me when I'm dead and gone. People will talk regardless. What I'm trying to get at is what my legacy will be. How will I affect people? What will be my life's highlights? And did anyone see my method of death coming a mile away?

There are so many things, some of which I've only told a few people, I want to do with my life. But after recently celebrating my 23rd birthday, i realize my life just might be a quarter of the way finished (maybe more), and I seriously doubt I've made my mark on the world.

I want to write fiction books, maybe even some movies. Sure it would be cool to act, but come on: a fat black guy, who had never acted, with a bald spot and a limp. Who would I be fooling.
Sure Florida is nice, but God made about 1.49 trillion other places, and I would really like to see some of these places before I die. The American Plains, Hawaii, Japan, parts of Africa where I won't get brutally murdered, Spain, Australia, Central America. The possibilities are endless.
I refuse to live life alone, so I would really like to find a common hood rat, wife her up, and raise some kids. I need a girlfriend; applications are coming out soon.
I want to, and will, lose some weight. My grandparents had/have diabetes. Heart disease is prevalent among black people. And cancer can really beat down a black man's prostate. So why must I help out the Reaper by being fat? I mean, really.

I want to accomplish all of these things, but what I most want to do before I'm dead, cremated, and had my ashes spread over Halle Berry's grave is to just be a great person. I think I'm good at life now, but there is always room for improvement. I could died in 50 years or five minutes from now. I just want to make sure when I'm gone, people will have nice memories of me...like my torrid love affair with Rosario Dawson.