I "woke up" this morning with every intention of writing about the AMAZING Saturday I had in BROOKLYNNNNNNN. A new rhythm seems to be forming in my life, one I am truly ecstatic about. So yes, I was ready to recount the energy of yesterday bleeding into this morning until I read my Brooklyn co-pilot Dave’s TWO “Question of the Night” texts. And honestly, he captured the madness and beauty better than I ever could have written it. (DAVE, YOU KNOW DAMN WELL YOUR ASS WASN'T DRUNK DOING CRITICAL ANALYSIS AT 2AM. THAT IS NOT WHAT THE HELL I CALL DRUNK TEXTING.) Going to start calling us "THE WARRIORS" because we are some Brooklyn dudes who always find ourselves in some truly wild, unexpected adventures. So here they are, verbatim:
FIRST TEXT
"Why am I done? Drunk, nice, whateva you call it? Maybe it’s because I played a strange drinking game in someone's house! Hah! And now at a weird bar in BK with these bohemian, Nubian folks!!!! Do I look bohemian to you??? Damn you Gardy!!!!! I’m surprised I’m keeping it together (10 to 15 drinks lata). Well I hope you good folks are enjoying this hot ass night. It should be 90 degrees plus tomorrow all over. Sweat city! Use dem roll-ons! I may indulge in one."
SECOND TEXT
"Question of the Night
Where da fuck did this nicca Gardy get a bag of bread from at 2AM???? Shyt. The Jews???? Muslims?? Where? Granted it was needed but no bodegas are open. Could Gard be a closet bread dealer???? Hmmmmm..... Ok I hope my Blackberry spell check is on point cause I’m DONE! Official! Shout out to the Last Poets. My man Oba's father is a member! Check em out. Off to more water and bread. I think Gard found some special bread from a strange Haitian woman. Sak passe!!"
THAT'S JUST FUNNY, I DON'T CARE WHERE YOU FROM!!!
As you know it is Sunday, which for me means NO RAP. So today’s audio foreplay is in honor of Abiodun Oyewole of The Last Poets, whom I had the awe inspiring experience of meeting yesterday at the 36th Annual International African Arts Festival in Brooklyn. His presence carried the kind of weight that humbles you before a single word is spoken. Their 1970 self-titled debut album “The Last Poets” still stirs something deep inside me, something that no single piece of music, literature, or art ever has. It reminds me that revolution is not only external. It lives in our skin, our stories, our silence, and our sound. Thank you, Abiodun, for living up to the legend I had created of you in my mind and then surpassing it in real life.
The Last Poets - Niggaz Are Scared Of Revolution
I AM BLASTING MY BOY DJ M.O.S.’s "BACK TO THE EIGHTIES” mixtape right now. I would say sorry to my neighbors, but they know me already.
It is Sunday, and if you have ever met me you already know where I am headed later and where I will likely be all day. BROOKLYNITES UNITE!!!!
PLEASE LEAVE COMMENTS HERE IF YOU HAVE THEM, WOULD LOVE TO READ WHAT YOU THINK.
GVG
~we're the warriors they write epics about~
P.S. A very very special shout to all the amazing individuals I met, re-met, and saw for the millionth time yesterday. You are the kind of people who turn ordinary moments into memory and magic. Thank you for being part of what made yesterday worth writing about. You are my peoples for life. I love you and I appreciate the light you bring to my journey. Peace and Blessings.
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