Who Will You Be Rooting For?

“America always does what’s right, once it exhausts all other options”

---Winston Churchill








I imagine it would be hard to capture any one of the world’s cultures and neatly package it into 28 days of history. And, as absurd as the possibility, the reality is, in just 250-plus hours you will start to learn all over again and over again who invented the traffic light—the stories will probably fall short of who is disproportionably pulled-over and most often shot at those lights, but remember this is history, not his story.

During the warm & fuzzy Black February Winter Fest, you’ll read that for the first time in history, there will be two black candidates running for the highest office in the land. No, not the Super Bowl—that’s an event where someone HAS to win. These two candidates will be running for president. Pretty anticlimactic, huh? One of the candidates has absolutely no chance of winning, (Al Sharpton) and the other has a white girl at the Apollo chance, (Barack Obama). Obama’s chances would increase if he married that white girl at the Apollo, but not by much. I believe the black candidate with the best chance of winning is Colin Powell and the fact that he’ll never run is the despondency of American history. Nevertheless, in both cases, Sharpton and Obama’s, merits won’t be the determining factor, as 80% of the Americans have made their decision on those two and the race doesn’t officially begin for another 10 months.

History always gave me an uneasy feeling… mainly because right after you witness the beauty, you are too often reminded of it’s ugly past. Watching Tony Dungy and Lovie Smith re-write the NFL white pages just makes you wonder how much sooner this historical football moment would’ve happened if blatant racism didn’t deny them of the opportunity to begin with.

With all due respect, I could care less who wins the Super Bowl, because once the game is over, neither coach will be asked: “What happened to the middle class?” Or, "Why is it that black people keep getting shot on the same land their forefather’s paved? I imagine Sharpton or Obama would have a better perspective than someone who coaches the Bears or Colts, but (as I stated earlier) 80% of the population will be plugging in their earphones when that answer is revealed.

On Super Bowl Sunday, while Tony and Lovie are battling to see who goes to Disneyland, I will be rooting for someone black to change the landscape of this land. I hope it happens soon because before you know it February will be over and the traffic light will be red again.

1 love,
Ray Lewis

When It's Your Time

"If I had two minutes to live, I'd spend it choking a white man."

--Miles Davis






I have seen some remarkable things in my life, some of them even I find hard to believe.

For example, I went to high school with this really tall, skinny, quiet kid named Ed. Every third period I used to watch the 6’9” Ed walk into math class, duck his head through the door and head straight for the back of the class. The morning ritual usually woke me from a sound sleep. The whole year Ed probably spoke three times—and two of those times were to answer questions about the weather. Kids can be so unoriginal at times.

Four years later--On April Fools Day, in 1985—with Vegas odds at 33-to-1, Ed’s Villanova hoop team beat the famed Georgetown Hoyas in what still stands as one of the greatest upsets in college basketball history. Skinny Ed Pinckney, who had swollen-up by then, was voted the Most Valuable Player. That game ended the college career of sure-fire Hall of Fame inductee, Patrick Ewing. The forecast that day was partly cloudy and, as usual, the weatherman was wrong too—unless of course you were a Georgetown fan.

One day a friend and I was hanging in this night spot on 68street and Broadway, called Sweet Waters. Neither of us had any money, nor apparently did the dozen or so patrons who sat quietly, drink-less. The REALLY REALLY fine vocalist on stage was literally walking around trying to get a rise out of the (loosely termed) crowd. My homie leaned over to me and said; “ If she walks by again, I’m going to get her number.” She did, and he did. They hung out for about a month or so and a couple of years later I moved to Atlanta and fell out of touch. One night, my boy Chris called me devastated as he read the infamous “I’m Tired” note that Phyllis Hyman wrote right before she overdosed on Vodka and sleeping pills. Every time I hear a song by Phyllis I think of that night.

In the early 70’s, this bigheaded English kid used to get beat-up on the mean Bronx streets of New York—mainly because of his British accent. He used to come outside and innocently asked, “Does anyone out here want to ramble?? (which is British for play). The Bronx kids thought he meant rumble and jumped on that free-for-all opportunity. Years later in an Atlanta hotel room Johnnie Cochran conducted one of his last face-to-face print media interviews, which to-date is the highlight of my (loosely termed) journalist career.

In every one of the abovementioned scenarios, the commonality is ordinary people who were given an opportunity… an opportunity to become extraordinary.

This week Oprah Winfrey opened the doors to a theme school in South Africa, affectingly dubbed Dream Girls. From birth, these girls did not have a fraction of the opportunity that we have in America, which simply means their stories are going to be much better than the ones outlined above.

Since you are reading this, it means you are one of the fortunate people on earth whose clock is still ticking.

What will you do with your 60 Minutes?

1 love,
Ray Lewis

GOD REST THE SOUL

"A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul."

--Goethe, Johann Wolfgang

I’ve heard more times than I care to recount that, change is for the better. When you think about there’s computers vs. typewriters; iPods vs. 8-Tracks; remotes vs. the closest sibling to the TV; Wal-Mart vs. the Bodega; NIKE vs. Chuck Taylors or flat screens vs. wooden floor models.  With those examples you can make a strong case for technological advancement.

My family used to own a floor model. The wide wooden phonograph had a record player (with the center piece for the 45’s), a 20” black & white TV, an AM/FM radio & a six-ring wine rack all in one. We had to move all of the family photos, slide the top back just to play a new album. Man, those 12” albums… I remember taking the thumb tacks off the wall, pulling the record out of the jacket sleeve & dropping the needle on the likes of: Crown Heights Affair, KC & the Sunshine Band, The Jackson 5, The Temptations, Phyllis Hyman, Marvin Gaye, The Salsoul Orchestra, Billy Ocean, The Bar-Kays, Parliament, Jimmy Cliff, Kool and the Gang, Shalamar, George Benson, Prince, Freddie Jackson, Donna Summer, Stevie Wonder, and the “soul” reason for this piece…, yep the late and legendary James Brown. 

Do you think they’ll ever be another James Brown? I'll bet everyone that has only owned an iPod thinks there will be (although I cannot image who). And, those who’ve owned the floor model stereo probably feels differently. Sadly, neither of the two truly appreciated him. I’ll let the soon-to-be-unleashed VH-1 bio pics chronicle his life’s work, the only thing that I’ll say is…, a portion of today’s record companies will never see the amount of hit records with James Brown’s fingerprints. I’d also be willing to bet, 5% of all rap music recorded from 1978-1988 had some sample of from James Brown's catalog in it.  Man, I miss him already.

I remember the first party that I ever attended, the D.J. played "Sex Machine" for a good part of 25 minutes. I said, wow this deejay is off the chain!! Little did I know that the deejay went to the bathroom one minute after the record started, James did the rest.

I remember there was a time when driving up or down I-95 meant you’d hear some underground rap leaving New York and when that signal faded, House and Go-Go music guided you through D.C. Of course the Sounds of Philadelphia hugged you in-between rest stops. Once the needle in the Impala was gassed up to F the soothing gospel rotations echoed through the winding road in Virginia right until Archie Bell and the Drells drove you through the south. No matter where your radio dial landed you were sure to hear some James Brown along the way. Now you will never see him live or alive again...

I'd say technology lost this round.

1 love,
Ray Lewis

HOVA'S HOME

"Music is a higher revelation than all wisdom and philosphy. Music is the electrical soil in which the spirit lives, thinks and invents."- Ludwig van Beethoven

I was (and still am) a HUGE Darryl Strawberry fan. My brother Al and I used to sit in his Queens Village home leaning towards the TV when the NY Mets’ lean lefty stepped-up to the plate. If he singled, advanced the base runner, walked, stole a base or had a successful sacrifice—all positives in baseball speak—we looked at each other deflated that the larger than life Straw Man didn’t hit one over the Whitestone Bridge. Unrealistic, perhaps, but that didn’t change our anticipation. My brother is married now, so rap music is regulated to an un-repairable irrelevance in his house.

Personally, I thought the Black Album was Jay-Z’s walk off home run. Uncharacteristic and irrelevant as a formally announced rap retirement seems, the three-year anticipation had me fending like a Simpson verdict for Jigga’s Joint to drop—and oh did it drop!! Kingdom Come is here, a 14-track jewel; and judging from all of the red light head nods in the jeeps and coupes, not to mention million-plus swiped barcodes, BEYONCE can safely anticipate a present-filled holiday season. I wouldn’t invite Free to any egg nog celebration, if I was her… And, as usual, I digress.

Right from the start, track one “The Prelude” will have you adjusting the EQ. The extremely sick Rick James sampled, “Kingdom Come” will rattle the clubs for months. My neighbors are going to hate me for that one. They’ll move by the 14th track, “Beach Chair,” which is my favorite. Carter’s collection clearly has something for everyone—including a lyrical tribute to his mom, which truly illustrates his unique, two-fold position between pop (music) and popular (culture). He may be both, which is simply unheard of.

Severed friendships, gut-wrenching relationships, mourning the lost of a loved one, yeah, Kingdom Come poetically strokes it all. The self-dubbed mythical metaphoric, yet sometimes misogynistic man even has a wack duet with Princess Pop; probably just to keep peace at the house. Who knows, I may stuff my brother’s holiday stockings with this one and shake things up in his “Queen’s” home. Or is that what NAS came to do?

1 love,
Ray Lewis

A Legend In His Time

In this country, America means white. Everyone else has to hyphenate.
--Toni Morrison

One of the varied reasons that I am so critical of black culture is the fact that we allow this rich history to be exploited by ill-valued, inane, and immoral members of the spin-wheeling press. The media’s monolithic goal is to tightly seal our treasured music tradition into a bunch of gun-tooting, pants sagging, video-jiggling; jewelry blinging retired drug-dealers. But enough about Puffy, his Press Eject CD actually speaks for itself. Refreshingly, John Legend’s latest album takes the lid off America’s conventional and convenient wisdom jar and ventures through our historically paved rock and roll path. A road that is now perfected by the Justine’s and Brittany’s better known to most as the poster children of pop culture. Is it any “wonder” why Stevie abandoned the life of Sound Scan’s sinking ship for the more appreciated music scene abroad?

IN THE STATES
Nowhere is the versatility of our music history displayed more than on John Legend’s new LP, Once Again. Legend’s 90 beats-per-minute, Motown throwback track, “Slow Dance” is by far my favorite. This roll-your-window-down, two-steppin’ blue light in the basement joint is a candlelit dinner delight. Just add the wine. One eyes-closed journey through this single and you’ll feel that Marvin and Mavis are somewhere swaying to this one.

Legend chose to abandon the trunk-thumpin’ bass lines of his first classic to unleash a 13-track, pianist’s delight. Somewhat risky, in this day and age, but something true music enthusiasts should appreciate. You’ll be equally thankful that you cannot even sniff the label mate production from track master, Kayne West. Which, I imagine is a small victory for humility. In fairness, the more modest side of West is certainly showcased on “Heaven,” a head-nodding single, probably better suited for Legend’s first LP, but a treat, nonetheless.

Being Jamaican-bred from the Boogie Down, I actually prefer that bass bumpin’, lyrical-laced, drums and loops of reggae and hip hop. However, I also love the jazzy strings, piano taps of blues too. For me, it is that duality that makes black life worth living—yet regrettably absent from pop culture’s stained windows. I really thrive on the versatility of a culture that can add the fresh flavor of a Barack Obama to politics and the channel blocking of The Flavor of Love to reality television. It certainly takes all types, shades and voices to make this black culture go ‘round. And, if you give John Legend’s new one a spin I think you’ll enjoy this culture too. Who knows, you may even learn something.

1 love,
Ray Lewis

PREMADONNA

“No person who examines & reflects, can avoid seeing that there is but one race of people on earth, who differ from each other only according to the soil and climate in which they live.”
– John Gabriel Stedman





The year was 1981, and I was laying in bed, listening to Mr. Magic’s “Rap Attack” show. I was ready to hit record, as Mr. Magic was spinning the wee-hour sounds of some neighborhood locals—headlined by my neighbor, Melvin Glover. You may recognize Melvin and his crew as Grandmaster Flash & the Furious Five. I was not even five minutes into a deep sleep when the world’s tallest break-dancer, my 6’-7” brother, Dwayne, wakes me up to go to a club—on a school night. Arguing with Dwayne (about anything) was pointless, so I took my braids down, grabbed my green and white Puma suit, slipped on my Members Only jacket and we headed for the downtown 6 Train to Bleeker Street.

The club was called The Paradise Garage, which, not-so-coincidently, doubled as a parking garage during the Wall Street business day. You had to be a member to get through the doors which opened at Midnight. Dwayne and I got there an hour before the 2am show. Did I mention it was a school night? The line outside of the garage circled the block and the crowd seemed unfazed by the earthquake-like bass sound that was vibrating concrete, where D.J. Larry La Van mixed the best house music/up-tempo disco NYC has ever experienced. There was no bar in The Paradise Garage, because there is no age limit to get in and the bathrooms are marked only by the persons who are occupying it at the time. The only rule in the Garage was…. before you hailed the cab to take home that “special someone,” you’d better double check that the person you’re leaving with is of the “right” gender.

At 2pm, the lights came up and the show was about to start. On stage was this skinny, very, very light-skinned looking Valley Girl. Larry La Van started spinning this crazy beat and this slim chick started singing this cool hook, “Everybody / dance and sing, get up and do your thing / Everybody, dance and sing, get up and do your thing…..” Hey, in 1981, lyrics were a lot easier to digest. After 90-minutes of straight disco, this chick was pouring down sweat and so was the extremely energized and satisfied crowd. I had a ball. That summer that white chick dropped her debut album called… (you guessed it), Everybody. And, for Madonna the rest as they say is history.

Since 1981, Madonna, without apology, has always weaved her unique style into the fabric of popular culture. She has always played by her own rules. That night at The Garage, her band, which was really dope, featured this short, dark sista whose bass guitar towered over her shaved head. Back in 1981, I had never heard of Me’Shell N’deg’eOcello. Today, I own every CD that bass player has ever released.

I remember when Madonna sampled “Security of the First World” an instrumental joint from Public Enemy; which was the music for her pop single, “Justify My Love.” Imagine this lily-white girl, at the soon-to-be peak of her career, sampled a track from an all black, media- dubbed, militant rap group, with no air play, when she had so many other (safe) options. By the way, Jay-Z’s new single “Show Me What You Got,” is a sample from the same Public Enemy album, It Takes A Nation Of Millions To Hold Us Back.

You didn’t ask me, but it didn’t surprise me that Madonna adopted a dying black kid from Africa. What surprises me is how little African-Americans know about their own dying history.

1 love,
Ray Lewis

Can Anyone Beat The Heat?

"I always turn to the sports pages first, which records people's accomplishments. The front page has nothing but man's failures."
Chief Justice Earl Warren



For the past month, the shaded temperature at 10pm in Anytown, USA is on the positive side of 90 degrees—and the sporting life in the new “Rome” is on fire. The baseball season has turned the heat up—and that’s not just the grand jury gangsters sniffing Barry Bonds’ 5-year-old pee samples. The NFL season, which doesn’t officially start for another month is really heating up. This is 2006, and NFL just inducted the first black Quarterback. Once in a blue “moon” even the most racist establishments will give you something to smile about. Wait!! Don’t break out in a Tootsie Roll Dance yet.., the NFL (which doesn’t really stand for… Nappy-haired Folks Leave quietly) just named its new league commissioner, Roger Goodell. Those of you dreaming of a black league commissioner to step to the podium and officially takeover the reins of the predominately black end zone dancers, must be smoking the same dust found in Maurice Clarett’s urine sample. Do you think Ohio State will retire Maurice’s bulletproof vest?

Do you ever wonder why superstar black athletes don’t negotiate front office jobs or team partnerships on the front-end of their contracts, instead of begging for illusive head coaching jobs when their careers are much less relevant? I guess those million-dollar babies can suck on the notion that ESPN is always hiring earsplitting buffoons to out-fetch Steven A. Smith. Make sure you save that loud “Playmakers” suit for the interview. Personally, I am most fond of the NBA ball-ers. After all, they are treated much better by their commanding commissioner, David Stern. Sure, there is an iceless, anti-hip hop dress code courtesy of king David. Yeah, I know that no one under 20 years-old is allowed to enter the league anymore—which simply means (two years ago) LeBron James’ feet would’ve been hanging off a Blue Devil bunk bed instead of having a Kobe accuser fluff his NBA road game pillows. Do you think she ever found the answer to “the myth?”

I really liked George Bush better when he was running baseball’s Texas Rangers. But, you know the old saying in Texas, “if you follow a stupid kid home, a dumb parent will open the door.” Nevertheless, now Walker, Texas Ranger—who wasn’t happy enough ruining a .500 baseball team—he now teamed with Condoleezza “Just Ice” Rice to foul-up the rest of the world’s unity. On that team it is hard to figure out whose bushes are more deadly! Now that Condi’s dream NFL commission’s job is filled, we can only hope that she finds a gig with less casualties. Of course the Bush administration is still hoping to find weapons of mass destruction in the new NFL commissioner’s office. If that happens, things will really start to heat up.

1 Love,
Ray Lewis

Where's The Beef?

“I don't know whether war is an interlude during peace or peace an interlude during war.”


One day I was riding on Memorial Drive (a suburban strip in Decatur, Georgia) when I witnessed two guys beefing over which one got to the gas pump first. I, with too much time on my hand, and in no real rush to drop $55.00 in a V-6, pulled closer to the conflict. One guy was in a ’77 Chevrolet Impala and the other was in a Ford Expedition. The brother in the Impala was not moving even though it seemed that he arrived at the pump last. I couldn’t help but wonder if his TI bumping disc, subconsciously contributed to his no-nonsense stance. The brother in the Expo, who looked as if he played a down or two in college, was equally determined not to move. He didn’t seem moved by the music either. So there they stood two brothas at war! From where I stood, I just couldn’t imagine two men fighting over something so petty. My angle may be different from their perspective. However, being physically helpless and sadly stumped, I went to an unoccupied pump. As I pulled off—a half a hundred lighter—I noticed the beef got louder, and I couldn’t help but speculate if some witness was going to make a call to a home explaining why a brother or father is not coming home today. I wonder.

Can you imagine the calls to the fatherless homes being made in the Middle East? There are alot of brothers fighting over there too. Most of them are probably too young to understand why Israel is dropping bombs and Hezbollah is aimlessly firing back. Israel believes that beef started with Hezbollah’s lack of diplomacy or hostage management style. Hezbollah feels that Israelites (and their meddlesome US buddies) are territorial bullies, who swears they are entitled to all the land there forefathers told them about. The Bible probably has a more accurate account.

Condoleezza Pay-Per-View Rice is racking up frequent flyer miles traveling back and forth to the Middle East in hopes of stabilizing the situation. Now, that’s about as funny as the fight in the gas station. During one of Rice’s photo shoots she had her people (all pimps have people) dropping food and trail mix in Hezbollah; and handing artillery off in Israel. It must be really be Hard Out Here For A Pimp. When Rice landed in the US, she seemed mystified that her ceasefire speech didn’t work. Maybe the speech didn’t work because the Lebanese weren’t invited to Rice’s after party at the Israeli Prime Minister’s crib. In the end I wish Rice had taken my approach and filled up her transportation and just kept it moving. It has to be cheaper to fill up in the Middle East than it is on Memorial Drive.

1 love
Ray Lewis

Border Line??

“He has a right to criticize, who has a heart to help.”
-- Abraham Lincoln

I hear time and time again (unwitting, I might add), that in American politics, Mexicans are becoming the new “blacks.” I imagine the person that started that absurd analogy is probably the same culprit to suggest forwarding electronic chain letters to 10 people is good luck. Do you think they realize that one’s good fortune ran amuck with the receipt of that chain letter?

Are Spanish people gaining some traction in America? Yep!! And, to my knowledge, I (nor any other black person) has yet to receive a thank you card from one of them. And, to think I almost bought Ricky Martin’s CD. The Mexican impact is so visible that one day while vacationing in Miami, I noticed that there were more Spanish speaking (non-cable) networks than English speaking over-the-air broadcasts. In Florida. In fact, two of those networks had an all-day Jerry Springer-like show on the air. It’s great to see the our homegrown UPN impact has now reached bi-lingual lofty levels. Later that day, I walked into a Subway and the menu was in Spanish. When I asked the cashier for one in English, she said Buenos Días!! I had to tell that fake J-Lo (which is redundant when you think about it) that if she didn’t start speaking English that I was going to call immigration. She was fine though.

Back to this immigration act that is sweeping the nation. I really think that curious George’s State of the Spanish Union Address just goes to show that this Black apathy approach to life in America is really pathetic. Furthermore, we are slowly regulating ourselves to the back sports pages and Oprah’s charitable givings. Last Sunday, Meet The Press’ Tim Russert, said that the Mexican unskilled labor strike would’ve crippled the economy if Bush continued to ignore their demands. My question is.. how can you make demands when you broke into the country in the first place? Isn’t that like someone breaking in your home and demanding that you rearranged your furniture? Bush’s solution?? Call the National Guard and to build a privacy fence around Texas. Does anyone know where Bush got his GED?

This whole conversation can be summed up in one word. Unity! Something my people seem to have totally forgotten. And, as far as I am concerned, that’s the real tragedy. That fact notwithstanding , I’m going to slap the next dumb bastard who tells me that Mexicans are gaining political clout because they do the work that no one else wants to do. Anyone echoing those sentiments, should note, black people built the entire country with NO LUNCH BREAK. To date, I have yet to find a chained volunteer to do that. We built the streets that Mexican and other ILLEGAL immigrants march on, while we were we got hosed on those same streets. It was the Civil Rights Act that stops the National Guard from hanging Mexicans from those soon-to-be-finished bording fences.

For the record, I’m not mad at the Mexicans (or anyone else) for that matter. I’m just disheartened that my people, who I love so dearly, seem to be less concerned with this issue and more concerned with why Kobe is switching jersey numbers. Didn’t he grow up in Paris?

1 love,
Ray Lewis

THE BIRTH OF A NATION

Today is one of those birthday celebrations that will go virtually unnoticed. After all, May 19th doesn’t readily come to mind when you think about America’s so-called heroes. To the good ole US of A, May 19th is just another day in the life or death.


You see, this is a country that is foundered on freedom of expression, as long as that expression doesn’t clash with the slave trading course. Today, those messages are much more subtle now.

There are no more tree lynching, corporate America adopted that role. There are no more cross burning on black lawns, the liquor stores are where you go to see those neighborhoods rot. There are no more hoses to spray the children, the urban radio stations are taking care of that.

Nah, this is just your typical May 19th… and if it weren’t for Minister Malcolm X you probably wouldn’t be reading this now.

Rest in peace my brotha.


1 love,
Ray Lewis

The Dukes of Hazard

The highly-touted Duke University Lacrosse Team season is now officially over. But for 40-plus of their players a new season is just beginning. A season where they’ll be no winners. By now, we are all aware that a black exotic dancer was “hired” to perform for the Duke White Devils Lacrosse Team. The dancer has alleged that she was raped--or at the very least--sexually assaulted and the recipient of a caravan of racial slurs during the ordeal. If those facts didn’t strike a chord.... chew on this..

The Duke University team is comprised of 46 white males, and one brotha. The team ranked in the top ten in the country and were highly favored to win the NCAA Championship before the season was cancelled by the school’s president and some time before a single player was (officially) charged with a crime.

Put Up Your Dukes

Unleash the mini cars, clowns and bearded ladies, as the circus officially began once media model, Jesse Jackson volunteered his services. Once Jackson climbed on board, the-not-so simmering racial component boiled to an ugly head (no pun intended). (Side note) I wondered why Jackson chose not to challenge the NCAA committee about the fact that there is only one black person on the Men’s Lacrosse Team? Maybe he feels that nigga is crazy. I imagine that brotha echoes similar sentiments about Jackson. As I digress.

If this were your “normal” stripper versus student sexual assault case, the customary “smoking gun” (in this case) negative DNA tests results would’ve all but “acquitted” all of the accused. But, this is not a typical case. This is Duke University. This is a black stripper. And, I told you Jesse Jackson was on the scene. Jackson is so committed that he didn’t even answer Cynthia McKinney on line 2.

Because I’m liberal on sex and ultra conservative on crime, I’m on the fence on this one. Is this dancer an opportunist seeking vengeance? Or were the Duke boys exercising their embedded, sexually explicit violence acted out of their inherited master’s mentality? In the truth lies the hazard.

1 Love,
Ray Lewis