Return of the Black

I changed it to "Mack" in the early 90's to avoid controversy.

What's REALLY good, blogosphere? Sir Marcus T. Williams here again, but you already knew that.

I know, I know - it's been awhile since we've spoken. I always say that I'm going to update this thing more often. I'll be pretty good about it for a month or two, and then I somehow always fall out of updating it regularly, which in turn always prompts me to promise updating it more regularly all over again. It's a vicious cycle, I do declare.

So what have I been up to these past 2 months, you ask? well, here's a quick recap:

- **SIGH** I'm now on my fifth go-around at MU's bookstore. Sympathy cards and well wishes can be sent to my parents home in North Carolina, they'll make sure I get them.

- One thing I HAVEN'T been doing? Hearing from HM. You think you know a person...

One of us went in blackface for our last night out.

- Last month marked the official end of an era here at the Zou for the Triumvirate. In fact, if you include our on again/off again 4th member, it was the end of an era for the Quad-ricep that was comprised of me, Gossip Girl, Scotty2Hotty, and Bo Peep. Granted, it looks as if Gossip Girl will be around for awhile just like me, but Bo Peep and Scotty2Hotty have graduated and officially moved out of Columbia. For as much time as you think you have to live the college life, the actual brevity of that window of time is incredibly disarming, something that will absolutely pass you by as quickly as it snuck up on you when you were a teenager. The next thing you know, you and/or many of your dearest friends are moving onto big boy and big girl jobs, and you find yourself fondly reminiscing the days when you were eating in the campus dining halls, wishing for the world that you could go back and have those times again. Having spent a good amount of my college social life around these 3 fantastic friends, there's not a single day that goes by or will come when I won't think about the great times we've had. I like to think that I'm good with words to an extent, but even I can't think of a way to sufficiently verbalize how much I'm going to miss these people. It's been an absolute privilege to get to know them; we should all be so lucky.

It's okay to want a piece, Spanish Beyonce.

- On a much less gushy note, a few nights ago, I went with my friend AnnHog to watch her get a new tattoo. I've always quietly been interested in tattoo culture, so it was high time that I got to see it up close and personal. During a class trip to Spain back in high school, I briefly dabbled in the life of a tatted-up studmuffin, taking two bicep tattoos for a proverbial test drive. Upon returning to the states, my mom was less than thrilled with the perceived life decisions that I had made, so while those 2 weeks were a fun ride, the message was clear: don't bring that weak shit in her house anymore. That being said, I'm still interested in them. I think I wanna get one eventually, but I've never found myself with enough disposable income or in close enough proximity to a parlor to be like "today feels like a tattoo kind of day." So for the time being, watching someone else do it had to fill that void for me. Whenever I do get inked up, I'll probably go the cliche' route - either a cross/scripture on my bicep or a heart on my vajayjay. Stay tuned for further developments.

- Speaking of AnnHog, she and I recently had the privilege of attending a roller derby match here in Columbia. I've mentioned in this space before that I've always had a small interest in the sport, so when I was invited to go see it in person a few weeks ago, I couldn't say yes quickly enough. Much like my fascination with tattoos, roller derby was something that wasn't immediately accessible to me, so when the offer arose, I had to calculate my odds of having another opportunity come around soon and go for it.  Anyone who knows anything about ANYTHING knows that there are three main positions in roller-derby: the people in the middle of the pack are generally "blockers," the faster ones who circle in and around the pack are called "jammers," and the people in the stands are generally called "white-trash" and/or "Uh-Oh Oreos."(<------ "Uh-Oh Oreos" is also commonly spelled "Sir Marcus T. Williams.")

While there, AnnHog and I gave serious thought to me joining a roller derby squad. We conceded that were I to become a roller derby skater, I'd probably be a jammer. After spending the majority of the match racking my brain trying to come up with a killer potential name, it finally hit me: I would like to be called "Slow Jams." It acknowledges my open affinity for R&B music and it's ironic because ideally, a team wants its jammers to be fast. That's right, blogomaniacs - bask in the brilliant ambiance of my double entendre...

- Lately, it seems that everywhere I go, there are black people around me who are utterly determined to be fomenters of black stereotypes, essentially undoing the tireless amount of good will and trend-bucking that I do. Generally, it's in the form of a couple of black people being loud and obnoxious in a conversation between themselves. Sometimes, it's just their possessions that do the perpetration for them. Now, I certainly understand the need to rap every word of a song that you like, but your phone doesn't need the whole song as a ringtone. If you are in public, take the ring off of "Eardrum Shatter" mode and put your phone on vibrate like the rest of us - we're trying to have a decent society here, people. The most upsetting thing, though? Seeing other black folks eating fried chicken. Ugh, it's just like the encyclopedia says! This, my negro amigos, is why we can't have nice things.

On an unrelated note, I made some delicious fried chicken last night. But it was okay because no one else was here to see me eat it, and we all know that accusations only apply when there's a witness - or have you all never beaten a murder rap before?

- If you run into Jorge Pedro out in the streets, just say "areolas" and watch her face light up like a Christmas tree. WHAT. A. PERVE.

Come on, Pat Riley - you look ridiculous. 

- Last month, my beloved Miami Heatles fell victim to the blitzkrieg of a Dirk Nowitzki-led Dallas Mavericks in the NBA Finals, ceding the championship to them in 6 games. I will always maintain that Miami was the best team for the first 4 games, but unfortunately, 2 of those games included embarrassing 4th quarter execution that ultimately cost them the win. I'm not bitter though - Dallas absolutely deserved to win and Miami didn't, and I felt all along that if Dallas won, it would be karmic retribution of the 2006 Finals, when these teams also played for the title and Miami may or may not have gotten a little help from the referees. The weight of the self-imposed expectations and media attention eventually caught up to my Heatles, and in the end, though I'll always believe they SHOULD HAVE won, they didn't deserve to.

- Y'all remember that bike that I got for Christmas? About a month ago, I took her out for a ride on the town for the first time since purchasing it. It was an admittedly weird sensation at first, but you can't really forget how to bike. My apartment is situated at the bottom of a series of hills, so while the trek to campus was an arduous one, it allowed me to take solace in the fact that I would return coming downhill, which would save me quite a bit of work. Unfortunately, I had not calculated doing so while simultaneously being an idiot. Having not been on a bike in awhile, I didn't contemplate the nuances of maneuvering it while flying downhill at speeds excessing complete stagnation, and I soon had to begin planning how I was going to explain my last day of biking. As I swiftly approached the field that was about to make me its lady of the evening, all I could hope was that it would use vaseline. In an ill-fated move that was meant to salvage the situation, I tried to hop the bike over the curb and keep riding. But, much like the rest of my endeavors, said move was half-assed, and I crashed anyways. You can't fail that hard without actually BEING the Titanic. Luckily, I don't believe anyone who lives here saw me. Unfortunately, God certainly did, and I can only assume that the thunderstorm that soon followed was the sound of Him laughing at me. I can't say how long before I'll get back on the bike, but I can say that things will be awkward between me and that field for a very long time...

Anyways, this seems like a good place to wrap it up. It was good catching up, folks - let's not wait so long before we get together again. Until next time, this is Sir Marcus T. Williams, signing off....

Yall take care, and stay classy out there.