Bitches Brew: In the Hands of Blackjack Nutmeg

Contents

(Preface) Pre-game/warm-up

01.    eating gourmet shit with the best spoon in the house.

02.    a handful of rainbow

03.    the yoga cult (you.out.getting.ass)

04.    a night in Vegas to die for

05.    mistakes of a woman in love with other men

06.    the goldminer’s daughter

07.    love drunk & devil’s pie (Appetite for destruction)

08.    jezebel the panhandler"

09.    bitches brew

10.    nutmeg panties

11.    warm bag of voodoo

12.    cockfight with the ugliest rooster.

13.    sloppy seconds, but eat with the seasons.

13.    hot pots of strawberry jam

15.    like water for the chocolate

16.    In the hands of blackjack nutmeg

17.    kake and eating it too

For & dedicated

I get it. I get it. The world gets it. Men (as a whole) have defiantly gotten away with murder (in the generic sense) on and how we have treated woman over the course and time of history. No doubt women for the most part have been beaten physically, mentally, emotion, psychologically and financially by many misguided, cold hearted and evil men that has created a dangerous cycle of madness that continues to cut life down to a minimum, but what about the many men that has or is going through those same dangerous cycles of life by the claws of confusions of women. Bitches Brew is for and dedicated those men that do come home when ask, that do love and respect their woman that would walk to the end of the earth for their significant other, but in taking that walk only realized that the end of earth was hell… this one is FOR U.

thank you to  . . . ./I’d love to thank everyone in the world, but this time around I wanna give special thanks to all the artist, people and spirits that assisted in the BREW’s mixing…

First & foremost as always I have to and want to thank god for the strength, courage, knowledge, understanding, creatively, patience, want and enthusiasm in crafting and creating the brew; it was a tough one. In being totally honest I had some fears, confusion and lost moments in crafting the project. Fears of being misjudged misunderstood or overly judged motivated me to push the project aside. No one really likes being ridiculed. At least no one I know. Being misunderstood in the past placed me in the corners of the world and a little afraid to journey outside those corners for a while. in our new society when tend to read more with our eyes and ears instead of hearts; which usually is bleary or conformed to see things one way and one way only. Seeing with your heart and intuitions opens doors, valley, peaks and the sky is watched closely. Without GOD I wouldn’t have been able to contact the skill and blessing of seeing with my heart; which carried this project. Thank you to my copilot Ghetto English Rock for providing the rock and cement in and of the project. And I will leave it at that To: E. Henderson; your work speaks for its self; I am lost for words when describing your work/illustrations; the covers are tasteful, amazing and so damn poetic. To: E: thank you for making my life that much greater in many ways. The talks, foods, etc are all beautifully amazing, but that’s ENOUGH. To Chad thanks for the reminders and calls in the middle of work adding whatever spices you see fit in this project and others. Thank you for helping my life to be something special, fun, magically and though provoking the rock in many storms. To Terry; I like to thank you for being a great friend in listening, respecting and responding. You are not only a friend, but a supporter of my work; which means everything to me. You read and give honest and thoughtful feedback. Our real life conversing and man to man’s helps me more than you can imagine. To Roy… my other brother from another mother… 21 years and counting. You’re a hell of a friend that’s always supportive as well. Thank you for making 2010 one of the most memorable years of my life; when we form it’s always magically. You have my back and I know it; a great deal of your talks along with D. West’s was inspiration for the project. To Tammy (thank you for the info on you know who… amazing/it made the book and was inspiration for it. To April P: you doing a great job at what you do and continue to shine on not only the Brew, but everything you do. I appreciate the hard-work and dedication. Thank you to many boys, men and elders that shared their personal stories in our man to man and assisting with the Brew. To all the artist that dumped a little to a lot of inspiration (musically) in the pot (BREW) I thank you… Q-Tip (ATCQ), Eryka Badu (for the voice and motivation to do your own thing; along with the music and speechless album covers), to Anthony Hamilton, John Legend, R. Kelly, Sam Cooke (RIP), Miles Davis (RIP), John Coltrane (RIP), The Roots, MsChell Ndegchello, Kanye West, Jay-Z (I love the way you and Ye approached the Throne; wish more would take that route to save the art and music, Outkast, LL Cool J and as always Nas (your mind and albums continue to push me that much harder. I promise not to stop until my catalog is deep and memorable as yours. To my family and friend; I thank you for assisting me in being the best person I could be for now. We all know change for the better is always good and without you sometimes seeing the good in me I wouldn’t always find it the good and see it in others.

 (Preface) Pre-game/warm-up

Bitches brew concepts and an ideology came about or was inspired in 1995 after viewing the cinema classic Waiting to Exhale in the winter of that same year. Although my friends (Marty, Will, J-Rock, and Raymond) all enjoyed the movie as much as I; we all had a few hang-ups of the film in their betrayal of men/boys were depicted in such a negative light without truly having the male point of view showcased. We ranted and raved like others of how of the movie was written, directed and casted perfectly along with the amazing movie soundtrack (written and produced by Babyface), but we were all a little heaved/angered. A few months later we rejoiced the good news /rumors of A Waiting to Exhale male version with starring all male cast of Denzel Washington, Martin Lawrence, Eddie Murphy and Forest Whitaker. We all anxiously awaited the release or any commercials, reminders and lead talks of the rumored movie, but to no avail. Nothing ever came about it. Due to personal relationship battles at time we were going through as young men; we were really eager in having our stories told, shown and explored. To be frank and that honest we were all struggling in our relationship with our girlfriends or in Marty’s and my case; our ex’s. Battling through difficulties and hardships in our social life was very difficult; especially in trying to study and graduate from our college (Stevens State) at the time. Will and his girlfriend, but now wife, Tease were having problems; which affected Will dramatically. He used my cell-phone several times a day in wanting to resolve the issues/problems (sorry Will), J-Rock’s girlfriend at the time, Sonya, stabbed him in the chest a few weeks prior to the movie after she was caught cheating (Wow) and Marty’s girlfriend/ex broke-off her relationship off with Marty citing she didn’t/couldn’t trust a man in a long distance relationship. And lastly my relationship with my ex at the time, Brandy, was far anything but over. Not only was she pregnant with another man’s child, but citing I was the father and that she was taking me to child support immediately after the birthing of the child. All signs pointed to me not being the father of the child, but the nevertheless she insisted and dragged the proclaimed pregnancy" out for three-four months leaving me stressed and depressed. After viewing Waiting to Exhale we all agreed that one we dislike women/girls at the time, two we needed our stories to be told and lastly no one would have the heart to tell the hardships that many men (good and bad) sometimes goes through. Luckily for all of us, we graduated from Stevens State and our failed relationships. Marty found the arms of his new love Pam, J-Rock found Tammy, I found love in being single and Will and Tease made admen’s and later married. The Waiting to Exhale part II /male version was long forgotten for a long while (at least for me)

Fast-forward to 2005. I was now a master’s level therapist; readying to enter my 30’s and gained a new broad and sometimes hurting prospective of girls, woman, ladies and other titles of the female species. From 1995 up until 2005 my life changed dramatically. Not only did I secure three college degrees, penned a few novels, but visited a couple disappointing relationship with woman; nothing as powerful or maniacal as being stabbed, shot at, given any STD’s or any more baby incidents, but I met hurt and mistreated men by the hundreds (literally). Sadly they were usually the good ones. In lue of the physically, mental, financial, spiritual and emotional burdens these good men would face (including close family members) I was very much interested in exploring trails and tribulations of the woman. In 2007 I penned and released the critically acclaimed Slum Beautiful (explores rape and incest women encounter) and in 2009 I penned and released the fan favorite Nuthouse Love (detailing the abuse women encounter in relationships). Without a shadow of a doubt penning those two moving novels not only help to shape my understanding of the woman, but to introduce my soul to many women that shared hidden pains and secrets of being raped by their lover, haven their monies taken, being thrown down several flights of steps and being victimized in several other ungodly ways. Being raised in a household of seven sisters made me well aware of some of the many challenges woman face of the present and pending future from the seemingly smallest hardships of a menstrual cycles and physical pains of child labor, but being raise predominately by a single mother I was educated and learned of women struggles in/of slavery dating back to the early 1900’s (grandma’s stories) and my mother’s personal and painfully stories growing up and battling the injustices of being a black girl and later woman in America in the 40’s, 50’s, 60’s and 70’s.

Being educated and having a detailed glimpse into the world of a woman not only shaped understanding, but injected empathy and awareness. Point blank I love women, but not all woman are good and have the man’s best interest at heart. Like not all men are good. Prior to releasing Nuthouse Love in December of 2009 I had a very upfront and detailed conversation with my friends Chad, Roy, Shi and Terry and later my mother on how injustices men were treated at times and that 1995 itch of Waiting to Exhale male version resurfaced. The stories shared and witnessed firsthand from the abused men were mind-boggling and stumbling. Sadly my eyes and heart found the broken hearted men in barbershops, park benches, classrooms, buses, and clubs and in my very own home. Seeing a few good men deteriorate and die slowly left me broken and battered. I was hurt by it all and very confused.

Growing up my mother always emphasized how important how a man should treat a woman, but how a woman should always act and carry herself as a lady 24-7. My mother argued, bickered, fought and taught my sisters the ways of a woman with grace and elegance, but in raising the girls to woman the boys (my brothers and I) had to take part in the audience and learn as well. Now that this big acquirement of knowledge, respect and love of a women was bagged and tagged Slum Beautiful and Nuthouse Love was not only a joy to pen, but was penned with the ingredients of understanding, love and respect from the hard. The general public (women primarily) ate the novels up like Sunday dinner, but again that annoying itch of 1995 changed everything. The reality that woman have the powers and often uses them to hurt good men couldn’t go without being scratched. In December 2009 after a signing for Nuthouse Love I met a male fan by the name of Richard that elevated that itch to point of no return. Richard was not only hurt his wife walked off and left him for another man, but in that man was his best friend. She not only left Richard with the bills and heartache, but an incurable STD. Teary eyed, but still strong he shook my hand in congratulating me on the release of Nuthouse Love, promised to read it and give his honest opinion of the novel. A few days later I read a needed and welcomed email from Richard stating Job well done, but what about the fellas . . . we hurt too! (In all caps) Hours later I sat in my music room alone listening to Miles Davis number one album Blue in a Silent Way and later John Coltrane’s Lush Life reflecting on Richard’s and many other men unforgettable stories and torment when dealing with no good women, confused women and women feeling a need to repair their broken hearts with breaking others. The very next day Philadelphia and the entire east coast was hit with record inches of snow 20inches plus. Being trapped in the house from the avenging snow gave me the time and energy needed in reexamining the hurt man syndrome, the itch and my pen to compose a draft of thoughts and heartbreaks from men of all color, creed and financial status. The list and information gathered was astonishing. Less than a month later Philadelphia and the east coast was hit with another massive snow storm leaving the entire east coast to battle cabin fever. But as always I was somewhat happy with being alone and having the liberty/leisure to talk with friends and family members that finished Nuthouse Love, but had questions, concerns and hang-ups; especially the men. ‘Ken, I am stuck in this house with this woman and she’s driving me crazy. She’s selfish, mean, etc and always thinks she’s right. The stories poured in and dumped faster than the third batch of snow for the 2009-10 winter seasons. Now aching with stories, concerns and realities from not only from male friends and family members, but male supporters it was mentally finalized that I would pen a male version of relationship hardships. They why, who and where were answered, but the struggles of when and how became that painful; for the obvious reasons.

It was/is an unfading reality that Hollywood films, the music industry, America had not only explored a woman’s hurts, but banked off it dramatically. Steve Harvey’s 2009 hit novel Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man: What Men Really Think About Love, Relationships, Intimacy, and Commitment went on to sell over one million copies in that same years; which ultimately sparked the semi-part II of the book Straight Talk, No Chaser: How to Find and Keep a Man. 2009 /2010 films such as Precious and For Colored Girls went on to generate more money, attention and awareness, but still nothing touched on the male’s point of view. But then again who would and how. It’s a reality and almost a fact for some that women are more effected by violence and other hardships of a relationship than the male in the female/male relationships. Shedding light on such a sensitive manner as no-good woman isn’t an easy task. The sign or use of the word/definition B and woman activist, woman rights leaders and other supporters would come out of the woodworks by the millions. Some women rightfully complaint of having equal rights, being treated equal and fairly and having the scales of justice balanced to favor all, but in America the task/quest seems all but possible. Idioms/ideologies such as ladies first, treat her like a lady and woman’s rights (in a generic sense) all contradict everyone getting treated equally. Just yesterday at work a female co-worker demanded (in a playful sense) that I fill the water coolers for it was a man’s job, that I lift the heavy boxes and carry other things to the elevator; which I didn’t mind, but in the same breath I questioned these sometimes. Which alludes to the bigger question of do all women agree with having/wanting equal rights in splitting everything 50/50 and being treated equal or is the idiom/ theory is to be used like an umbrella; use as needed. Exploring and touching on injustices from a male’s point of view is more than treading waters, but more like swimming in shark’s water with a bloody nose.

Regardless of how many Richard’s or the brothers, uncles, males cousins, fathers, grandfather’s and son’s stories documented and know about; exploring a woman’s injustices is never an easy task; not even for me. In knowing of all the hardships and problems of the woman explored in Slum Beautiful and Nuthouse Love penning this particular novel may appear of somewhat of a contradiction novel to some, but as an artist/writer I have yet to 100% pen my views of any topic or issue, but to simply gather the information before me and create a masterpiece that explores injustices of anyone and all. Still I contemplated on the who and how of the project for almost one year straight; with no title, no official way to start the show and fearing a little backlash I backed away from the novel until I watched a special/documentary praising and explaining the importance of Miles Davis’s 1969 classic LP Bitches Brew. My ears always loved anything Miles presented to them, but My Kind of Blue and Bitches Brew were always were my ears favorites. My ears enjoy Kind of Blue a little more, but my heart and understanding of music understands the bigger concept and needed risk of Bitches Brew; for not only the title, but the willingness to fight the machine to create something new, world renown and ear provoking (although it would take a while for some to grasp). The documentary explored one the unconventional style and revolutionary of the sound, but how the initial reaction to the now classic wasn’t met with open arms. The aggressive and explosive masterpiece was denounced and questioned due to the use of the electric piano and guitar and rock influenced style. Blending jazz with rock n roll to some was overbearing, unconventional and rejected, but over the course of time ears and hearts reopened to Bitches Brew and gave it a fair shake and titled in classic. Days following the viewing of documentary I walked around bottling and bubbly on the adjectives overbearing, unconventional and reject in not only thinking of how beautiful, but not so well received Bitches Brew was, but in the same thought how my Waiting to Exhale (for men) might be tagged with those very same adjectives. Still glooming with ideas, but reluctant I received a call for an anonymous female friend citing how she loves Nuthouse Love and how she read it a few times, but how women could be just as deadly as men, but sometimes worse and that light needs to be shinned on their no good asses. She later shared several important stories of how many good men in her life (friends and family) were dealt bad hands from no good women and that there are plenty good men that don’t get a fair shake. After hanging up the phone and blearing Miles’s Bitches Brew on my kitchen IPOD loading dock I pondered of stories and problematic my older brother Bobby suffered due to this wife simply falling out of love and playing some part in his early death in 1998. While Mile’s tracks Pharaoh’s Dance and the album title track Bitches Brew breezed through the system and quaked not only the kitchen floors, but my heart it final that not only I’d pen a novel that investigated the pains and hardships of the man in relationships, but I’d barrow Miles’s LP title Bitches Brew for the project due to not only the similar backlashes both projects had and will receive, but for the style of writing and productive used for both projects.

Like Miles’s jazz album Bitches Brew I decided to bend riffs, add many new spices, but in the same breath cook and simmer the with some of the same key ingredients Miles used in Kind of Blue & In a Silent Way and that I used in Slum Beautiful and Nuthouse; of compassionate, honest, improvesioned format and understanding that made those projects that much memorable and touching for those that had the pleasure of enjoying them. I love and respect ALL women very much, but I love and respect mankind as a whole; which brings me to the point of humanism. With knowledge, wisdom and understanding I’ve learned and accepted the reality that men and women have the same capabilities to love, hate, hurt, heal, do good and to do bad. Waiting II Exhale, Precious, For Colored Girls, Nuthouse Love, Slum Beautiful and many others have touched on the male’s role in the deconstruction of humanism. But to truly repair humanism and change minds and hearts of the good and bad all sides have and need to be explored. The aim of Bitches Brew: in the hands of Blackjack Nutmeg is not to denounce, teardown and aid in the mistreatment of women, but to shed light on many hidden agenda and wrongs the woman play in the role of the deconstruction of humanism and to explore some of the things woman might have always wanted to know of a man’s TRUE feelings and takes on many issues in female/male relationships. And although the project carries the authors of Kenny Attaway and Ghetto English Rock over 200 different men stories and hardships have been packed into this novel. I am no longer afraid or reluctant in touching on and exploring the issues/problems the man faces in dating and being in relationships with woman. For the only way too truly fix a problem is to examine it from all angles and committing to making a change and recognizing the wrongs/immoral you take part in. I expect the backlash, the scrutiny and moral questioning of the project as Mile’s received with his 1970 Bitches Brew; for not everyone will embrace change, truth and flipping of that two sided coin, but for those that do I present Bitches Brew: in the hands of Blackjack Nutmeg.

a toast.

to nasir jones.

to spike lee./ doing the right thing always.

to frank darabont.

to john singleton.

to marvin gaye

to emma j. tyler

to james todd smith

to miles davis

to john Coltrane

to chad fields

to cliff morrison

to jean-michel basquiant

to ghetto english rock

to sade

to frank lloyd wright

to sam cooke

to r. kelly

to andre benjamin/ andre patton (kast)

to epmd

to ghostface killer

to erick

to good woman/ to good men

to love/life

to bitches brew/ the completion

to all artist of the world.

a special toast & thank you from me to u.

If you are one that doesn’t like change, opinion, true feelings, respect, humanism and all the above please do not turn another page and return this book to whomever or wherever you purchased or barrowed it from/it’s not the book for you; try Harry Potter

bitches brew 01:

In the hands of blacKNutmeg

I kissed her ass all night pleading with her to make steak and cabbage for dinner and she makes a pack of fucken noodles telling you the steak went bad that she thawed out, only to find this rabbit looking motherfucker eating my steak that I worked so hard to put on the table Dallas. What would any real man do, but kill both of these fuckers . . . somebody got to die. In fact all of us may have to die someday. Today is our death and funeral. Bring flowers when you finally arrive. She loves daffodils; especially when they are given by another man. This moment is ugly when your kids talk down and are against you, it’s ugly when another nigga is wearing your bed robe, showering with your rag and soap, eating your last piece of steak and fucking your wife in your bed, your room, your house. She never screamed like that for me.

-eating gourmet shit with the best spoon in the house.

Some things, moments and people I’d never forget ever. Alzheimer’s would resist these memories, time wouldn’t know what to do about them, but to move the fuck out of their way when they make their way to the threshold of the mind through a flashback or what I like to refer to as a stampede. That memory or moment could out whatever moment your feelings to its knees, like the very last moment my brother and I shared on the planet. At exactly 9:49 pm on February 24, 1998 I received a frantic call from delusional and hurt Kurt Dirt; as he held the other end of receiver my trembling ears could hear his tears and already burden soul knew it wasn’t going to be a pleasant call, but one I had to accept. Dallas, Dallas where are you big brother, where are you big brother. I want to say goodbye to you the right way. Can you make it down here now? I need to see you now big brother. You remember when we were younger and Popeye and Bluto/Brutus fighting over Olive Oyl ‘always confused us. We always wondered why they’d fight over such a scrawny ugly bitch in the first place (with a eerie laugh). She had no tits, no has or hips and those asses were fighting over her. Growing up we’d argue and bicker on why Olive Oyl should just be with Popeye or just Bluto/Brutus, but I never knew it affected my big brother as much as did. Now shouting and laughing in a strange tone grandma was never any help now was she, tell the truth big brother. She’d always say, with her drunk ass, a` man` should defend his woman and fight for her honor, ladies should be first at all times, well… she’s right… ladies first Dallas, ladies first (aggressively changing his tones). I am going to make both of these motherfuckers show me how they were fucking, sucking and destroying our marriage before I got here, then Theresa is dying first. They are going to reenact the moans, the groans. Then they are going to clean up these empty soda cans, vacuum my $1, 000 carpets. I want this sucker ass singing dud to hit the highest note one could ever fuck’n imagine.

These no good bastards going to scrub my sheets, pillows and get every nut stain out my mother-fucking carpet in the bedroom. This rotten bitch will be the first to die, ladies first big brother. Ladies first. Kurtis what are you talking about, please tell me you don’t have that 38 in your hand do you? Nah big brother, I have my heart and ring in my hand the gun is my mind. I am going to mind fuck them first and then slow kill. He’s an inspiring singer. I am going to murder the sound boy and have him sing high notes in heaven, but back to Popeye and Bluto/Brutus and drunken ass grandma. I still hate that bitch for running off with that slave master and then saying grandpa was raping her and abusing her. I swear to god I hate the maggot face bitch for doing some shit like that to papa. I still hate her for putting us through that BS; she should have been there for us. She should have taught us the evils of woman, but she was too damn wicked her own fucken self to teach anything. The shit she did to mom, the shit she did to our family. If she were here I’d kill her my fucken self. Kurtis please tell me what’s wrong; please tell your little brother what’s wrong. Let me help you. Don’t say good-bye like this. Now both of us were panicking and becoming delusional. My fingers were slipping off the keypads, face pounding with sweat and my palms were shaking uncontrollable dropping the phone cell times now discovering the battery is low (less than 5% capacity).

You are not my little brother. Age doesn’t make you bigger or stronger, but how chiseled and strong the mind is and knowing how to move away from BULLSHIT when you smell it. A chiseled mind allows you to see the mistakes of others and knowing the scent of shit before you step into it without grandma’s help you figured out why Olive Oyl was such a smutty ass harlot. I have always been a sucker for a woman, bitch and floozy, but you always had enough courage and strength to walk away and make peace with it. That’s makes you bigger than me at all times. I made the worst mistake ever in falling for a bitch that doesn’t give a rat’s shit if I live or die, but as long as the bills were paid and that this singing mother fucker is sticking pipe to her. Olive Oyl was probably fucking Whimpy (character from POP-EYE) too. She did it all for attention, she did it all because they allowed it to happen. Shame on Popeye and Bluto for not walking away and leaving that scrawny bitch to go fuck herself, Kurtis did you take your meds today, did you and Theresa have a fight. Please tell your big little or little big brother what’s going on. How am I going to get to St. Louis from here in time? I know its big trouble, but tell me what it is really. Please don’t do anything crazy. Please don’t do anything crazy. I love you big brother. I love you. What will I do without you? What about your children, what about life? Life doesn’t love me right now. Life is beautiful, but all I see is ugly at this moment. This ugly ass moment I have to face is not pretty. How would you feel if your wife sent you off to work with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch and water knowing how much you love Pepsi?

I kissed her ass all night pleading with her to make steak and cabbage for dinner and she makes a pack of fucken noodles telling you the steak went bad that she thawed out, only to find this rabbit looking motherfucker eating my steak that I worked so hard to put on the table Dallas. What would any real man do, but kill both of these fuckers… somebody got to die. In fact all of us may have to die someday. Today is our death and funeral. Bring flowers when you finally arrive. She loves daffodils; especially when they are given by another man. This moment is ugly when your kids talk down and are against you, it’s ugly when another nigga is wearing your bed robe, showering with your rag and soap, eating your last piece of steak and fucking your wife in your bed, your room, your house. She never screamed like that for me. When I wanted to be loved and hugged she was tired, headache or not in the mood. Before he dies I want him to show me how to love my wife. I want him to teach me how he made her hit high notes. I want him to tell me what are her deepest secrets, her saddest happiness, but more importantly I want him to tell me what gave him enough heart and steroid stupid courage to fuck a man’s wife in that man’s home and bed without any remorse. And Dallas he drunk my last Pepsi, this nigga drunk my last Pepsi (voice changes). I will miss you big brother and I will always love you, but I can’t beat this thing call life. What can you do when your wife has been drugging you with these pills that effect memory, physic and all other parts of the mind and body. I am a total wreck. My whole life was a lie. This kids isn’t mines they belong to the devil. They knew about the shit and never told daddy, this home isn’t mines. All I own are the bricks and decorative bullshit she put together. A house in not necessarily a home and don’t you forget it. Never forget it… a house is not always a home. Kurtis please calm down, let those people go and if you are going to say goodbye, don’t allow it to happen this way. Give your big little big brother a hug, handshake or sit-down before you go, if you must. (Now crying) Kurtis why won’t you talk this out. Why won’t you give life another chance."? My battery is dying big brother. Let your battery die big brother, but my heart and love for life died as soon as I entered my home to find this… Our love died years ago and I assumed with dedication and strength I could recharge it, but it’s dead man. It’s dead. I love… (Battery dies).

Kurtis… Kurtis… no Kurtis. I was stuck in the Atlanta train station with not a charger insight. My cell phone died and not a person in sight had the charger I needed. No longer did I remember his number my memory. With one flick of my wrist and push to favorite number one I was connected no matter what part of the world he was in. Unsure if my bother was in the midst of a killing spree of his wife, her mistress singer and kids I frantically screamed for help, but I was in the middle of downtown Atlanta screaming and pleading for god to transmit my screams from Atlanta to St. Louis, but 570 plus miles were far to crack the skies of blue. Now an aching heart and mind filled with thoughts of grandma, grandpa, a steak, a Pepsi, was my brother still taking his meds and of all things Olive Oyl and Bluto went through I blanked out with fear, confusion and illusions only to wake-up to reality that my one and only brother was dead along with his wife and Mr. Mystery meat with my niece and nephew being sent to live with their grandmother and grandfather. For years following the double murder/suicide their grandparents denied my visitation request. I was written off ass the crazy unfit uncle. They hated my brother and anyone that resembled him or me as if he has drove to that point of madness without any help from her disrespectful cheating ways. For a long time I fought off many battles with nightmares of me being killed at my wedding, stupid dreams of Olive Oyl stabbing me with a knife as Bluto/Brutus laughed on and other times my nephew and niece Little Kurt and niece Kayla being trapped in a fire calling for help and my cell phone dying from the fire and smoke before I could find out the address. Thanks to a dying cell-phone. My brother’s homicide/suicide left me a physical and emotional wreck throughout most of my life. For hours and hours at a time I’d watch old episodes of Popeye trying to figure out the haunting childhood confusion and mental anguish of why Popeye allowed Olive Oyl to make such a fool of him for whatever reason. He always assumed I had the answer to all questions, but I was simply playing along and making up things until the "correct answer dropped into my hands. Before I reached the age of 10 I had pretended that Olive Oyl’s ways of dealing with men were no different than grandma’s and that I didn’t care; which was enough for my big brother Kurtis aka Kurt Dirt.

Kurt was always in some form of pain as a child and adult. He’d always fall off his bike, scrapping his knees or nursing a heartache thanks to grandma and grandpa’s conflicting arguments and fights that would later lead us into a life long voyage with no good ass foster parents that only gave a shit about how much they were going to get paid for taking care of two orphan ass brothers that always were into some kind of emotional troubles that later lead to physical beatings and Munchausen syndrome; in watching the episodes of Pop-Eye that were bothersome to Kurt and I the most. Night after when I was supposed to be moving on I was intentionally taking steps backs.

Our troubles landed us in the psychologically quicksand, a twisted love for life and woman, but a closeness that only the night of February 24, could rupture. Luckily for fate and an unyielding social worker Mrs. Bona Kurt and I was court ordered to never to be taken apart regardless of how the family’s that adopted us felt or how little their space was the court order read never separate the two, but nothing read what happens when one of us does the separating. For years to come trying to move on from the massacre of the heart was more difficult than swimming in cement or eating cotton candy in the rain. Meeting Chanel was one of the brightest, but later dimmest moments of my life. While gambling in Las Vegas (Sin City) of the mind I stumbled on a pot of diamonds and sage in Channel. Losing Kurt Dirt left a void in my life that needed to be filled and Chanel provided the shine. I was on the brink of insanity. I blame Sprint for the quick dying cell phone, I blamed myself for not keeping a charged battery. I blamed grandma for choosing the speakeasies, various men and Mr. Chandler over her husband and grandchildren, I hated cancer for taking our mother before we could get our first spanking from her. I hated my father for not sticking around to help his boys to become men. Standing in the midst of my storm of life caused confusion at all angles. When it rained I wished for sunshine and at sunshine I wished for rain. With help from our last foster parents Momma Nadine and Father Jeffrey we made makeshift men of ourselves. Makeshift in the sense of we created or patented what was a man suppose to do or be from what we wanted to our father Jeffrey to be or do with a little mixing and matching from Father Jeffrey and other momentary men we’d stumble across. Looking back Father Jeffrey was a good-hearted man, but that was run by sports, his life as train conductor and his wife. Momma Nadine hated sports, but would do almost anything to make sure her husband was happy. He’d give her his entire weekly check and attention when needed, but all else was for sports; especially the Negro league baseball teams and any football team. He had no favorites, but did rename me after Dallas in recognition of his love for the Dallas Cowboys football team. My birth certificate and born name was Palace, but he associated "Palace with being a girl name and since their adoption he stuck. When I finally became the legal age to change my name I immediately changed it from Palace Arnold Smith or P.A.M (another girl sounding name) to simply Dallas West (mother’s maiden name).

As a foster parent he was a C at best. Since raising his boys out of the house he wanted to be done with parenting, but for the love of his wife Momma Nadine he welcomed us to his train-station with open arms. Next stop is home. Outside of knowing every facet of how train stations and trains are ran, information on Negro leagues and how to fry catfish we learned very little from Father Jeffrey, but was inspired to treat a girl, lady, woman and all females with love and respect; even when or if they were wrong about anything. Kurt Dirt and I struggled. Although I was named or renamed after the Dallas Cowboys, the more attention we paid to sports; primarily football and basketball, the more I hated all sports and games. Sports were too competitive and rigged for only certain people to win and games were evil and promoted the ideas of cheating and doing anything to win. While attending college I watch closely as the sport jocks" jockey for position for all the girls and easily batted, spiked, dunked and tackled those misfits of a woman to the sheets, but somehow I never was impressed. I always had a nasty distant taste for how sports not only played a key component in breaking down a man’s body, but his mind. Whenever Father Jeffrey would lock himself into his sports he’d turn off the world as if he had the switch at his fingertips; which shoved Kurt Dirt to the end of the earth. Kurt and I craved to learn more about trains, woman and the jazz music that he listened to on weekends.

Mother Nadine hated it as well, but made the best of it in her own world; which I’d catch on later to. Life at the Gray’s (Father Jeffrey and Mother Nadine) wasn’t Disney World, but was the best of all the other hell holes and shindigs we’d visit. And when Mother Nadine died of throat cancer before we could finish high school our world was left in shambles, the kind of shambles that left us cluttered and fucked for life. Kurt Dirt was of course my bigger brother in age and height (6’4); he was defiantly not the strongest physically or psychologically. He was nicknamed the tweed and clown boy by our evil ass neighbors the Roane brothers Marcus and Malcolm. Marcus and Malcolm’s family had it all. Girls, money, high end fashions and was good at every sport; including their favorite dunk the bozo brothers. Growing up it seemed as if we afraid of nothing; after all we survived the passing of our mother, beating and ridicule from grandma and shifted from failed foster homes more than orphan Annie, but the Rodale brothers, woman and clowns had our number; and even more sad all three gushing evils knew it. The Rodale brothers died violently in a car crash, but the physiological beatings we’d suffer from woman and clowns would last us a lifetime. Neither of us bothered to seek out any form of therapy until we forced to do so thanks our women and occupations. In a sudden clash of twisted fate during a middle school dance a clown appeared out of the blue from sort of broken window and ran Kurt and I out of the dance as if were baseball players tagging bases. Not only was the moment that much embarrassing, but force of out of that school. Peers and teachers wouldn’t let up. We were teased and clowned just that much. Some teachers had audacity to take part in the action in wearing clown customs and make-up on Halloween and other dress up days and events. Neither of was a coward by any means; which inspired us to fight back, but superman couldn’t do shit with kryptonite and we couldn’t do shit with clowns. Life got a little better for the both of us after high school. He enrolled in the Army and quickly made his ranks to a sergeant and then some. During his tenure in the army he overcame his fears of clowns with the help of therapy in forms of his doctor and his ridiculing army buddies that assisted him in shaking the disease, on the other hand, my luck didn’t come so easy in moving past the fears of a clown. After graduating from high school and then Clark University in Atlanta, Ga I finally assumed that my terrible luck at life had change, despite unforgettable lows with Leona.

Shortly after graduation and surviving a few hardships of dead end relationships and poor career paths I landed a lucrative job/career and K&A consulting (specializing in real estate and property consulting). At K&A I not only moved up the ranks quickly from, but fell in love, child birth together and marriage to the then receptionist Chanel. Chanel and I hit it off fairly quick, despite my bouts with low-esteem, insecurities and hang-ups over life and love at the time. I was beaten to the pulp from the hands of love, but stood up off the canvas for the arrival of such a beautiful creature. I assumed that god and sculptured and created her just for my blues and me. Chanel was a weird, but beautiful and elegant mixture of grandma, my mother (pictures), those clowns Mother Nadine, myself and my big brother. She stood no taller that 5’5 and was sassy, loud and raw like grandma, owned a golden complexion and emerald teeth like my mother, passive aggressive like Mother Nadine, but always listened with sincerity like Kurt Dirt. Too bad the characteristics and make-up of those clowns wouldn’t be foreseen by my love blinded eyes until it was almost too late.

K&A was a very small consulting agency, but with power people that conducted business like a firm. Chanel was the receptionist at the time and like every other consultant of the agency she was quick to listen and slow to respond; meaning she never over-talked anyone in the office (another business front). Whenever our team leader/supervisor needed anything she was ready, willing and provided the touches to get the job done. Many of the transactions would have not taken place if it were for the swift responses and thinking of Channel aka baby Co Co. Aside from her noticeable art gallery of tattoos, gloating body piercing and dangerous cigarette smoking she was a dazzling figure that radiated. Every man that worked for the firm noticed and admired something different about her. I was no fan of the tats, body piercing or cigarette smoking, but loved her authoritative nature, hood-ish sway, bold peach eyes straight from crops of Georgia, bodacious godly body and succulent deep chocolate complexion. There was no love at first sight for either one of us. She was written off a too hood, too loud and talked too much shit, while within the second glair I was the tight pants cornball weirdo that stares too damn much (she’d say it under her breath) until I began to envision her as gift crafted from the hands of god with attributes of my past (tough hood life) in her hardness, but her compassion of and softness in where she wanted to venture next. And in a warm muggy rainy night in July 2000 our world collided to creature a universe. Dallas my car won’t start, do you know anything about cars? A damsel in distress (a lady in need) is usually the first element in the universe of love connections. Like a charging bull or some dumb ass wanabe prince my smile, hands, umbrella and manhood were there to the rescue. In a twisted act of faith or bad luck my dodge Buick wouldn’t start nor could I find the jumper cables; which were useless at that point anyway. What are the hell we are going to do? she screamed frantically. I have to get to the daycare by 6:30 to pick up my daughter or I will have to pay fines and penalties and all that other shit, that I don’t have money for. You Mr. big baller making all the money and you don’t even have a fucken jumper cable. It doesn’t matter at this point. My car won’t start. I just called my friend Aston and he’s on his way I think. (In a sigh) Well could I barrow your cell-phone to call the daycare or will I have to wait for Aston for that too. No. he’s on his way and he can drop us both off. Although the cell phone remark sent me back to the world I was trying to forget or move past; I kept my composure and calm in struggling it off as she was tired, hot, scared, frustrated and acting as woman do; at least the woman I have stumbled upon.

As the rain now pounded the windows of her broken down Toyota Corolla my heart and mind found a floodgate of unwanted dripping emotion. A seemingly tired and broken down Kurt Dirt stood outside the windows of the car crying and moping at a foggy Proceed with caution sign that was barely lit. Are you ok Cowboy Dally (her nickname for me) you staring outside like you waiting on a ghost. Is there something on your mind that you need you want to talk about cause you scaring me with that wide eyed grimsome look? I am ok. I blacked out a little bit thinking about my brother Kurt Dirt. He died a few years back and at times I dream about him or see him in my travels. It’s weird. No worries I am not crazy or nothing, just freaked out by a lot of shit that life brought me. I will wait in the rain if you want me to get out. No offense (with a smile), but why are you waiting in my car anyway. "Well I locked myself out when I was looking for the jumper cable and the battery died anyway. Now feeling queasy and uneasy from the dying battery syndrome I faced the passenger window and began saying whatever joke would come to mind. I though a dead battery and a brother losing his cool is why my brother is not here now.

You are so fun, interesting and cuter when wet (laughing), but what happened to your brother if you don’t mind me asking and was his last name dirt.? Well I really don’t want to get into how he died right now, but dirt wasn’t his last name, but his nickname. Father Jeffrey, one of ex foster parents, nicknamed him Kurt Dirt because he always played in dirt/soil and had some strange love for getting dirty by lying in potting soil and dirt. When we were much younger he’d always bring dirt into our bedroom and smack it across his bed sheets and lie in it. It was a wild fetish when we were younger, but as we became men we both understood it better and the fetish or whatever sizzled out a little, not completely, but to the point where it was understandable to those that loved him. He spent some years in the army; which helped him with the dirt thing and clown thing. He would always say a man never really rests into he’s in dirt; meaning when one dies. I miss Kurt. I miss Kurt. Before long she and I were hugging and holding each other in the corolla. Our lives’ were parallel in more ways than one. Her first born son Jamal, only four at the time, and Aunt Vera burnt to death in a fire. At that moment and time in the now thrusting rains and winds we connected as if we were soul mates, if there is such thing. Looking back we kind of found each other at venerable states and times and became mind/heart mates, sex mates and finally bill mates. Soul mates are met (if any), not made. Having or meeting a soul male is a very serious honor and blessing that most of just doesn’t know shit about. Falling in love with someone or thing in short period of time, having a bunch of shit in common still doesn’t make one a soul mate, Adam and Eve damn sure weren’t soul mates. But anyways, first came lust, then love, a baby carriage then marriage, and if that sounds awkward and ass backwards, so was our soul-mating/committing relationship. The $50,000 fiasco called a wedding. I wasn’t Adam, she wasn’t Eve and we damn sure wasn’t soul mate or anything remotely close.

Life in the beginning stages of being in love with Chanel were fascinating and gave new eyes to see a new world. On August 13, 2001 we were married before 100 people on the Aruba Island, Baby Beach. Baby Beach was an awkward, but unique place to tie the knot or noose as Sal and Aston would say (two of my best friends). Baby Beach and the whole spectacle wedding was her idea and wishes, but being in love and wanting to providing the very best for my queen I sacrificed all $15,000 of my savings and the willed $20,000 Kurt left for my whomever bride and I to walk the aisle. With the help of credit cards, friends donations and of course the $15,000 and the $20,000 gift from big brother there was just enough to cover the $50,000 wedding and rings. Things were looking up at K&A, she and I were both promoted and had our annual salaries ballooned within a year; which inspired some of the buffoonery of an overpriced and unnecessary elaborate wedding. A quick stop to the justice of Atlanta for a courthouse wedding was more than enough for me, but she wanted more. She found a dire need to prove to her family and others that she wasn’t a failure at love and found a good man The death of Kurt and distant abandonment of my niece and nephew left me without any visible family members. But thanks to my lifelong friends Sal and Justin and my college met friend Aston I became part of their families and they became my only family, before tying my noose and the birth of son Kurt and daughter Kayla. Sal, Just and I met in middle school and have been close since. So close that at one point in time we didn’t refer to each other as friends, but brothers.

Aston and I met in college, but instantly clicked to become friends. He was the first compassionate and identifiable white person I’d ever meet besides the Mrs. Bona and a few judges that kept Kurt and I united. None of our foster parents, but Mother Nadine had anything positive to say about whites. Father Jeffrey would always refer to whites as devils and that they were evil and all going to hell for what they did to blacks (referring to slavery). Aston Martin (real name) was born into a family of riches and wealth and had no hang-ups on sharing with those he loved. College was fairly easy in terms of academics. Like most college students I cheated on almost every test, pulled papers right off the internet and only studied when needed. But the emotional and financial burden of college was very overwhelming at times. Kurt was away in the army and sent whatever he could, but for the most Aston’s parents Mr. & Mrs. Martin’s generosity was enough to pull me thru financially, but Aston was the hard rock for my emotional filled nights and school breaks. Kurt was my only family member through college; which slimed options of who home to visit during the weekends and spring/winter breaks. At times I’d pack up and stay at a hotel in the city of wherever Kurt was stationed. Other times I’d stay with Aston, Justice or Sal’s family, but on most occasions I’d locked myself into my dorm room and read books and play jazz music. Through the weekdays Aston was the hard rock that inspired better study habits and how to love a friend/person regardless of color, creed or looks. Not be able to indentify a bloodline (family) attached persuaded me to latch on to all kinds of pit stops such as drugs, jazz music, books and whatever woman that showed any interest; which of course became a source of many of my problems; falling in love with woman with evil intentions.

Leona, my supposedly college sweetheart, was a pretty gambler that dealt me bad hands constantly and like a fool in love I’d continue to play, not understanding when you playing someone else’s game not only does the rules change constantly, but the player (s) never know the rules. Table one get a fool/man to carry your bags to class, do all of your school work, but fool him you are studying. Table 2 tell him you are a holy Christian and is practicing abstinence and that if the two of you have sex if would not be right in the eyes of god, but in the mean time fuck his roommate whenever he’s not around. The dice was always fully loaded, the cards shuffled with her back turned and I was always ass-betted. Nevertheless I finally pulled the sheet from my eyes and moved on to mend a broken heart and spirit for repair. Failed relationships and being trampled on emotionally, mentally and losing Kurt forced me into the arms of whatever would accept me for me. Many men suffer badly from poor self-esteem, but hide it in various things such as music, acted super macho and sports. It’s not abnormal that many professional athletes were neighborhood rejects and dumb college jocks that secretly hate women for their rejections before they made it pro.

At times I’d sit and ponder alone on/of how woman of the last 25-35 years in American culture have submerged from being the victim to the victor. In many of the foster homes Kurt and I stayed we’d watch wives of the married men practice and perform some of the scariest most disrespectful things one could imagine. The urban legend married when get licked, stamped and delivered by the fucking the mailman maybe a fable or a bit execrated, but a wife sexing his best friend and the 19-20 year old heart throb that lives directly across the street is surreal. Kurt and I saw it happen more than once; which only inspired us to hate Olive Oyl that much more. For a long while Kurt and I believed our then foster mother, Mrs. Linda, was a loving kind wife that would do anything for her husband Mr. Jasper. Mr. Jasper was once a gym rat and exercise junkie, but when health problems became too much to lift a dumb bell she began her play on her in-house dumbbell Mr. Jasper. While he attended some kind of medically treatment for his bones, Mr. Hurley, the married Mr. Hurly was jumping her bones. They’d sex in the most awkward places every Thursday between the hours of 6:30 and 9:30. For a long while Kurt and I assumed she was the one hurting and needing treatment for her bones disorder, but her wild ass daughter sugar diamonds exploited her very own mother for body piercing and the right to date a much older boy from the neighborhood. "If you don’t let me pierce my body, give me money for whatever I want and let me date David I am telling dad the truth about Mr. Hurley and y’all private meetings. The two argued for a moment, but days later Sugar Diamonds proudly sported her belly rings, extra cash and late nights with her