Friday, July 10, 2008; 1:54 p.m. EST

Grady’s CEO: I Thought It Was Just Me

Pheewww! Thank God for interim Grady CEO Pam Stephenson.

The Atlanta Journal Constitution pretty much posted her FICO score on the front page of the paper today. Creditors knocking at her door, judgments taking out against her, wages garnished and I thought I was the only one running from bad credit. Turns out, I’m in pretty good company. Now all I have to do is find someone who’ll pay me $600K a year, and I’ll be in a great position to pay off my debts.

Is credit any indication of a person’s ability to do a job? I blog somewhat regularly and it’s fairly entertaining. Maybe I could give my blogs to Captial One and they’d see how nice a guy I am. I’ve written a few books. Maybe Cleo’s Collection Agency would take a few hundred of my novels in exchange for some peace and quiet instead of the letters and phone calls to my neighbors. Nawh, I need a $600K a year job to get me out of this jam.

If only I could get on at Grady. Then I could get some of that Woodruff money. Now THAT would certainly cure my ills. I mean look how Otis Story fared at the Grady ATM machine. Sent his kids to private schools. Bought a Porsche. Got his buddy a consulting gig for somewhere around $13K a week. I gotta get better friends. The guys here at the office can barely get me a milkshake at Chic-Fil-A on payday.

Look, I’ve met Pam Stephenson. She’s awfully nice. Reminds me of an aunt. But anyone who takes that Grady gig will never be taken seriously unless they work for room and board. And by room and board, I don’t mean the Ritz-Carlton with a $100 a day per diem. I mean, a humble apartment and eating in the cafeteria for free until changes start to be made.

Unless a CEO comes in and says, “Don’t give me a salary. At the end of the year, if I’ve saved the hospital money, I’ll take one percent of whatever we saved.” Until a leader emerges who will put the hospital before their personal gain, it doesn’t matter how sweet you are, no one’s gonna have in any faith in you.

Personally, the salaries are a bit outlandish if you ask me. Maybe it’s because my FICO score is 9. But when I see someone making $23,076.92 every two-weeks, and they don’t own a business, they’d better be rescuing people from a tsunami or curing cancer. It’s ludicrous to think that every two weeks, someone gets half of what the average U.S. household brings in a year.

The Grady CEO contract also included a cell phone, laptop computer, wireless e-mail device. Yeah, those new I-Phones are pretty expensive, I can’t afford one on my salary, so God forbid someone making $600K a year should have to fork over $200 out of their pocket.

And what is that person doing every two weeks to get that kind of cheese? You know something. here’s my top 10 list of people who should have made or should be making $600,000 a year.

10. Mother Teresa: I think saints pretty much qualify for big paychecks by default because they’re well… saints.

9. Vinton Cerf: The guy who invented the Internet. Anyone who develops concepts that will help improve the quality of peoples’ lives, save them money and provide resources to improve humanity…they get $600K easy.

8. John Mackey: CEO of Whole Foods said he no longer wanted to work for money and agreed to an annual salary of $1 per year. That’s one dollar with a small “d.” I’d give him $600K a year because he’d give it right back to the company.

7. Crab Fisherman: Anybody who works a 15-hour day and can barely walk the next morning earns $600k a year.

6. American Farmers: Long hours, thankless jobs, provide food for the nation. Yeeup, $600K to you, too.

5. Lifelong inner city public middle school teachers: No explanation needed.

4. Anyone wrongfully convicted and imprisoned: Not only should they get $600K, but it should be tax free.

3. Bill Gates & Warren Buffet: These guys should get the money because Buffet would turn it into $600 million, and Gates would use it to start a hospital for the poor and needy.

2. NASA: Someone needs to reduce NASA’s billion-dollar budget. I think they should be allotted $600K a year. That way, they’d make cheaper dirt-digging robots.

And the number one person who should get $600K a year…

1. Ghandi: Anybody who quits their law practice to serve the greater good of those who cannot help themselves deserves $600k per year. Note: Ghandi closed his law practice and didn’t collect a salary.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008; 3:45 p.m. EST

I Work With A White Boy

The term “White boy” has lost its place on today’s landscape of meaningful idioms and idiosyncratic monikers.

I remember as a kid my folks would say, “Is that White boy coming over here again?” Now, having lived a few years, I realized the query was one of racial positioning. My parents were asking why couldn’t I find some Black friends to play with. They were perhaps concerned about how I would fit into the culture they were raised in and were now slowly brainwashing…er huh… indoctrinating me into.

On the playground at Wilson Elementary in Arkansas, I played dodge ball with a White boy named Kenny. My best recollection labels him as my first friend at the school. I had other friends, more like the ones my parents wanted me to have. Chuck, Steve, Robert—kids who demanded that I give more attention to my clothes than my diction. I didn’t take to their fashion concerns, but we eventually became high school chums.

I played basketball with White boys -- White boys who had soul, rhythm and hoop skills. They weren’t passers mind you, they were White boys. You see, White boy used to denote a tolerance of diversity, it meant an erasure of the color line even though it was etched in the title. It meant tough and strong, but far from racist. We said, often when matched athletically against a Jethro Bodine type, “That’s a big White boy.” It was a compliment. Before the first ball was tossed, he commanded respect, and we gave it to him.

“I’m going to hang out with some White boys” was a proud declaration that meant we were accepted and included. That whatever we were about to do, the outing would be adventurous.

White boy was a pass, an access card to go in and out of boundaries—tangible and theorized because he did something or had something that made him special. A jump shot, speed, smarts, a look that girls liked. When one came along who made us all jealous, we bestowed the title given once ever three years. “That’s a cool White boy.”

We spread the praise so infrequently, I remember them all: J.R. Massey—a spiked hair hipster with long arms. Tim Stubbs—a cross-country runner who broke track records for breakfast. Steve Shrum—a blue jean fanatic who combed his hair more than he did school work. Corey Tinkle -- a mama’s boy who lived at the end of the street but could run faster than the school bus and had a full mustache by junior high. He had no choice but to be cool with a last name like Tinkle. The cool White boy hall of fame is a small room filled with names like Justin Timberlake, Troy Aikman, Will Ferrell, Steve McQueen, Marshall Mathers (aka Eminem—Hall of Fame Inductees must use birth names), Todd Beamer and Gordon Gecko (Yes, cool White boys can be fictional characters).

Today the term White boy has been softened with its replacement that falls way short—White guy. Can you imagine a song titled Play That Funky Music White Guy?

It doesn’t work.

In our evolution for sensitivity to race and class, some of our language has been weakened. Like calling Superman, Superguy. Like calling Wonder Woman, Wonder Lady. We say urban instead of Black. We say shaved instead of bald-headed. We say lower class instead of poor. We say transient instead of bum.

Well, I work with a White boy. Sure he’s a grown man, but he’s got a jump shot that we would have celebrated back at Wilson Elementary. He’s got the brains we would have risen to match in junior high. He throws back cold ones while releasing a raucous laugh. He watches NFL football religiously. He drives a truck, but he also knows the production year and personnel on “The Chronic” album. Everything he needs to be inducted in the cool White boy hall of fame.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008; 9:45 a.m. EST

If Barry Bonds were a horse

All total, I think, I’ve endured three horse races.

At that rate, I am officially a highly qualified casual moronic equine non-enthusiast. This past weekend, however, I watched the Belmont Stakes with great anticipation as Big Brown tried to capture the elusive Triple Crown. With my interests in horses and Google acumen, I learned that the feat was last accomplished 30 years ago.

Big Brown was a heavy favorite after winning the Kentucky Derby by 4 3/4-lengths. That’s the equvalent of dunking over someone or taking a punt return into the endzone. The odds on Big Brown winning the Belmont Stakes were 2/7, which means bookies thought Big Brown was a shoin to take the race.

The undefeated horse came in dead last.

Speculation spread fast about the horse’s health. There was a crack in one of its hooves. Some questioned if there was internal bleeding. Finally, the horse’s dramatic loss was declared a mystery. The horse’s trainer, Rick Dutrow, had previously stated in the New York Daily News that, “I give all my horses Winstrol on the 15th of every month.” Winstrol, also known as Stanozolol, is an anabolic steroid banned in 10 states.

Dutrow announced that Big Brown would not get his monthly fix prior to the Belmont Stakes because he wanted the world to see that the horse could win without having to hit the pipe before going to work.

Wait a minute. The horse gets dope once a month and he’s undefeated. He misses a hit before going for the Triple Crown and he finished last. What’s the mystery? The horse is a crackhead and can’t do his job without shooting up.

I was watching the race as the horse went from third to last in a matter of seconds. The animal looked like a chain smoker trying to keep up with a group of marathon runners. Who are we kidding? That horse may as well have tried to hit a homerun with a toothpick. It had about as much chance of winning as a drunk driver trying to walk a straight line while singing the Star Spangled Banner …backwards.

Yet the analysts and horse enthusiasts seemed baffled as to why the horse could have lost so badly. Are they serious? Ever seen a meth addict raise a championship trophy while going through withdrawal. Ain’t gonna happen.

If only Barry Bonds were a horse. Perhaps then he could get some sympathy for being a top athlete and having used steroids so people can watch him do things no other mammal can do. Who wants to shell out big bucks to see athletes hit a fly ball to shallow right field? Who wants to watch basketball players make lay-ups all day? Who wants to watch sprinters in a photo finish cluster instead of someone blowing away the field? We watch sports to see miraculous events, and until recently, most people didn’t care what athletes did to achieve Zeus-like qualities.

Why do we scrutinize the athletes who get caught using steroids, yet we don’t have the same outrage when another athlete (through the horse's trainer) openly and proud admits the use of steroids?

Doesn’t a dirty needle have the same impact no matter the vein it infects?

Wednesday, June 4, 2008; 2:38 a.m. EST

Gas chamber execution

The gas companies are causing slow painful deaths.

It’s not that people have become so frustrated with the price of fuel that we’re taking to suicidal tendencies. Nor have people taken to looting the gas pumps adorned in spiked battle gear ala Mad Max and the Thunderdome.

No, we’ll all be dead soon because current fuel costs are rising like a stock market ticker but the dollar menus have not budged a penny. I paid 95 cents for an orange last week. Ninety-five cents!

Never mind that an orange won’t give me near the endorphin-laced high as a double cheeseburger, but the components of a cheeseburger are trucked in on the same highway as my citrus vice, aren’t they?

If the rising price of produce is truly a result of fuel costs, then logic says the dollar menu should be obsolete by now. I have vowed, publicly and privately, to boycott fuel if the pump ticker rises to $4 per gallon. The $4 threshold marks a critical point, as I will be forced to take MARTA, which will force me to leave to my 9 a.m. job at 7 a.m.

I won’t be able to grocery shop for overpriced fruit because I won’t have a car. Therefore I’ll be eating from the dollar menu until the fuel prices subside.

In case you haven’t taken a dollar menu audit of late, only the Caesar salad at Wendy’s gives a healthy $1 choice at fast food restaurants. I, like several others I’m sure, will begin a diet of $1 double cheeseburgers, small fries and soft drinks with unlimited refills.

Relegated to this diet, I figure most of us will be dead, in diabetic comas or lining up for heart surgery by the time the gas companies have sucked every ounce of profit out of the economy.

Something’s not right. If we are a nation driven by the cost of fuel, there should be an increase in the cost of all consumable products. Almost every business that provides a product uses road transportation.

If grapes are $3.99 per pound, the pickles on a hamburger, which are trucked in, should cost the restaurant more and the end consumer should see an increase for his or her meal. If not, the restaurant is comfortable with its profit margin.

This crisis is more about profit margins than the price of oil. If the ripple in the pond doesn’t disturb everyone in the water, then someone’s floating on a raft and they’re not letting anyone aboard.

How is it that taxpayers can get stimulus checks, but we can’t subsidize the price of fuel? Oh, I forgot, my president has buddies in the oil business.

How is it that we went to war to protect our relationships and resources in the Middle East, but the cost of fuel is higher now than before the war began?

Oh, I forgot, my vice-president has buddies at Halliburton.

How is it that I can eat at McDonald’s for two weeks for $20, but $20 in fuel won’t last one week? Oh, I forgot, the oil companies are killing me slowly.

Wednesday, Nov. 28, 2007; 2:38 p.m. EST

The Taser Test

Recent dashboard video footage from a Utah Highway Patrol car has surfaced on Youtube.com. The video has prompted state officials to launch an investigation.

| Watch video |

In the video, Jared Massey is pulled over by Utah Highway Patrolman. Massey, after refusing to sign his speeding citation, is tased. I’ve watched this video a few times and I’m amazed that Massey is still alive, or didn't get a bullet in his chest. Maybe things are different in Utah.

Maybe it’s because where I live and where I come from, we don’t talk back to police officers even if they are wrong because …well, we like living. So rather than belabor the issue with my own personal diatribe about how if Massey had been a minority on a highway anywhere except Utah, he’d probably be shot, I decided to administer an exam that may be helpful to those wishing not to get tased or shot by a law enforcement official.

Let’s begin: The College of Common Sense Winter Final Exam: Stupid Things That Increase The Chances of Getting Dead

1. Law enforcement officials, carry guns, tasers and pepper spray to:
a. Look cool and tough like cops in movies.
b. Keep them weighted down in case a windstorm sweeps through the area.
c. Have a place to rest their arms when standing for extended periods of time.
d. Shoot people who are stupid enough not to obey a verbal command such as, "Stop what you're doing or I will shoot, tase, or pepper spray you."

2. Guns, tasers and pepper spray:
a. Make good gifts during the holidays.
b. Are only pretend toys and can’t hurt humans.
c. Can be used as kitchen utensils.
d. Can hurt maim or kill you if you’re stupid enough to do something to have a cop pull one on you.

3. When pulled over by a law enforcement official and requested to surrender you driver’s license, registration and or insurance, it’s best to:
a. Say nothing and hope the officer can read your mind and see that you’d rather be driving down the road.
b. Practice the legal arguments you learned watching Night Court reruns.
c. Let the officer know you're in charge by saying "You’re not the boss of me."
d. Give the officer the requested documents because not doing so could lead to you getting sprayed, tased or getting dead.

4. What does the following statement mean?
"Get out of the car, turn around, put your hands on your head."
a. Jump out of the vehicle, walk wherever you choose and wave your hands around.
b. Put your hands in your pocket, reach for your keys, but don’t tell an officer you’re reaching for keys. Tell him it’s a lollipop.
c. Stay in the car, don’t obey the commands because you’re stupid.
d. Get out of the car, turn around, put your hands on your head unless you’d rather get tased.

5. While traveling with your family, the best way to reach your final destination is:
a. Go faster than the speed limit and if pulled over by a law enforcement official, hope he is dressed like a clown who can make balloon animals.
b. Go faster than the speed limit and if pulled over by a law enforcement official, challenge him to a foot race and the winner gets to shoot the loser.
c. Go faster than the speed limit and if pulled over by a law enforcement official, treat him like a child and if he disobeys you, spank his hiney.
d. Obey the speed limit and if pulled over by a law enforcement official, keep your mouth shut, do what the officer says and if you have a problem with it, address it court.

Answer Key: If you responded to these questions with an answer other than "D", please don't leave your house unless accompanied by someone who has common sense, because it's very possible you might get dead.

GOT COMMENTS? Email them to BRIAN

Friday, Oct. 19, 2007; 12:38 p.m. EST

Michael Bell's Back In Jail

By Brian Egeston
be@brianwrites.com

They got him again. Nabbed him on previous charges.

The talk in the Black community is, “If they can’t get you one way, they’ll get you another way.” Unless, of course, you haven’t done anything that they can get you for.

I’m opposed to Michael Bell having been charged for attempted murder. I think it was harsh. That’s my stance. Now let’s flip the Jena 6 issue on its head.

Saturday night, I attended a social gathering in DeKalb where some of the people in attendance were parents. I asked two fathers the same question.

“What if a group of white guys had stomped on your son’s head until he was unconscious? Would you want to see the white guy sent to prison?” Both fathers pondered the question. One father responded, “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to the white guy. I would ask the judge to let the boy go, and let him walk down the street, and I’ll take care of everything else.”

The other father said, “My place in society will allow me to get at that boy…some how some way. I know people and I’ve got connections on the police force. I can get to that kid and I’ll take care of him my way.”

Predictable responses. It’s normal for a man to want vengeance for a harmful act inflicted upon his family. But I pressed the issue by saying that for whatever reason, they themselves could not inflict physical harm on the white guy who beat their son unconscious and had the incident not stopped, their son could have been killed.

The fathers were silent for short while. Conflicted. Unsure. Frustrated. I could see, even in this hypothetical scenario, the anger in their faces at the mere thought of their son being hurt the way the white guy was hurt in Jena.

My wife and I are working on becoming parents soon, and I can say without pause, that if some one beat my son or daughter unconscious, I would want them in prison, no matter their age and it wouldn’t bother me if they stayed their forever. In fact, I wouldn’t care if their parents went to prison with them and they were all forced to have family reunions behind bars in the prison cafeteria.

We went to Jena and marched and prayed and spoke and hoped and waited. We went to Jena for what many called a schoolyard fistfight. I’ve seen schoolyard fist fights. People walk away with bloody noses and busted lips. Pride is hurt and reputations are ruined.

I’ve never seen a schoolyard fight where the contestants are left bloody and unconscious on the pavement.

The violent act was clearly a result of the powder keg packed with racial tension and historical injustices the city had lived with for years. Events prior to the stomp out raged inside one of these boys until they could no longer contain their emotions. And then it exploded in a violent travesty. Violence.

Forty years after his death, and we have not yet taken heed to his preaching. Martin Luther King, Jr. told us decades ago that violence is never the answer. We didn’t listen. Instead we fought. We didn’t take the advice. Instead we kicked. We didn’t think about him. Instead, we beat a boy unconscious—a few more stomps from death. We have not learned.

And now Michael Bells is back in jail for crimes he committed prior to the stomp out Battery charges—more violence. It makes the gathering in Jena a futile showing of support. We stood behind a cause that may have been flawed from the beginning. And there are hundreds of cases across the country where injustice is served against individuals -- cases with no cameras, no reporters, no causes and no violence.

We’re left with questions, concerns and confusion. What do we do now? Why did we do it to begin with? What if we’d taken the non-violent approach? What do I do when it happens to my family member? Do I protest the system that accuses him, or do I prosecute the person who hurt him?

Friday, Oct. 12, 2007; 3:38 p.m. EST

Death of the Dysfunctional Family

By Brian Egeston
be@brianwrites.com

I visited a boys’ home in DeKalb recently.

I watched young men saunter through hallways. Some with heads slumped, others with raised chins and proud chests poked out. Regardless of their disposition, each young man seemed to have one common trait—parents who should have been cryogenically frozen and left in that state until brain transplants were available at an affordable rate.

I often complain about the price of my mortgage or the noise under the hood of my truck until I meet a kid whose shoes have holes in them and there’s only one shoelace for two shoes.

The screen that fell from my living room window becomes of no consequence when I meet a boy whose mother is in jail for drugs and violence. Knowing she had children to care for, the mother chose a life that was not conducive for raising children. And as a result, she’s got a drug king pin for a son and another kid with a zipper down his torso, evidence he narrowly escaped death.

I saw at this boys’ home a redheaded kid who was the epitome of the All-American boy. I thought for sure he would serve me a slice of apple pie or ask if I wanted to join him in a game of baseball.

Instead, he told me of a mother who preferred drugs to groceries for her kids. The clean-cut youth had loneliness and regret in his eyes. He wore a shirt too small for his frame, obviously the best he could find with the few resources he had. He walked with hint of shame—self esteem dwindling with the notion of living with a small troop of boys and then going to school with privileged kids.

It was a place where pity can easily dwell. But what I saw and heard in their testimonies was an unyielding desire to be better than the past generation. And that’s when I realized that the youth of today could very well be the end of the dysfunctional urban family. Each boy talked openly about not knowing his father and how it affected his life. Even as teenagers, the lads talked about wanting a family and raising a boy ‘the right way.’ Even in youth, they envisioned making sacrifices for a family they had yet to begin.

So these useless dads, the ones who should have long ago been castrated, the ones who should smoke themselves into an oblivion never to be seen or heard from again, the ones who fail to realize the significance of their son’s birthday, the ones who go from bed to bed dropping seeds with no plans of nurturing the fruit—well it seems they’ve done some good after all. They’ve done such a horrendous job at raising their sons that the boys have held up there fathers as a shining example…of how NOT to be a man.

And the mothers too have helped out. The mothers who could not break the cycle of making babies without regard to care and sacrifice, the mothers who chased pipes and the aforementioned men instead of chasing dreams, the mothers who were too ignorant to decipher between the importance of parenting over prostitution, the mothers who could not escape the clutches of generational sins—it seems they have eventually done some good. They’ve ruined their boys in such a way that their boys know exactly what NOT to look for in a woman.

To these boys of the group home I visited and the boys like them scattered across the country, I look for redemption. I look to them for the faith that the urban family can be restored and babies won’t have parents too young to parent and kids will have nurturing rather than neglect. In the eyes of these boys I have seen the possibility of restoration within our society. If nothing else, these boys, these young men, these future fathers will return our families back to normalcy.

Written sometime after Michael Vick's fall from grace this summer

Why is Vick a villain?

By Brian Egeston
be@brianwrites.com

Who cares if Atlanta Falcons quarterback Michael Vick was involved in pit-bull fighting?

It’s not rhetorical. I really want to know who cares if Vick organized dog fighting pay-per-view or ultimate insane dog wrestling. As I’ve mentioned in a previous blog, I’m no pet lover. Nor do I hate them. I should also admit that I’m not a Vick fan.

I respect his ability as an athlete, enjoy watching him play, but I wouldn’t run out to buy his jersey if it were on sale. The hullabaloo, however, has become at bit much–a protest in Little Five Points, banned from training camp, water cooler talk from here to California and now speculations that Vick will never be a Falcon again.

Who cares? I mean really, who actually cares? Does the guy who buys season tickets, tailgates at the Dome and screams until his larynx is about to burst care? Does the person playing couch potato on Sunday afternoons while watching the game care? Does the kid on the playground playing quarterback and calling out Vick’s name as he throws the bomb to the lightpost care? Do any football fans who are more concerned about Superbowls than dog bowls care?

I read an opinion piece that talked about Vick being excommunicated from the Falcons because of his alleged doggie misdeeds. It made me wonder about the history of bad boys in sports and how their behavior affected their team’s reputation and overall bottom line as a result of bad publicity.

Here are a few cases: Ricky Williams, talented running back for the Miami Dolphins, liked to hit the bong, smoke ganja, get toked, partake of the herbs–an illegal activity. When Williams was banned by the league for a year, I remember the Dolphins giving him a second chance and maybe he spent a little time in the substance abuse program. I don’t remember him being publicly flogged.

But most of all, I don’t remember his public relations blunders affecting the businesses’ bottom line. Ricky stayed with the Dolphins until he decided to quit and…hit the bong again I guess. Jason Kidd, one of the ambassadors of basketball and all-star point guard, was arrested for popping his wife in the mouth when she smarted off to him. I’m thinking a Dolomite backhand whack.

Smacking your wife is illegal in most states, I think. Kidd later appeared before the media, said it was embarrassing and that’s all he had to say. Ticket sales didn’t drop in Phoenix after that and the public relations snafu didn’t hurt his team’s ability to make the salary cap. Kidd wasn’t cut from the team.

DeShawn Stevenson, a young talented shooting guard for the Utah Jazz, joined the NBA out of high school. The young and rich kid was accused and arrested for statutory rape of a 15-year-old girl. The Jazz kept right on playing, continued to fill seats, making lots of money and Stevenson continued to play for the Jazz. The Minnesota Vikings–lots of them, two boats full of them in fact–got all liquored up and took a group of women out on the water where they proceeded to produce an episode of the new hit series Lust Boat.

The performance was only one night. Some of the players were convicted of crimes, but none were suspended. It was a public relations nightmare. The Vikings kept on playing, kept selling tickets and no players were banned from the locker room. What’s the lesson here? Dog fighting: Naughty, naughty Mr. Vick. You’ve been a bad boy and we’re going to put you in Superstar time out. You’re costing the company money and making the Falcons and NFL look bad.

Beating and raping women: Well, guys. Nobody really got hurt, did they? And you players have such high stress jobs, a little recreational violence at home, in hotels and boats never bothered anybody. So, just try not to do it again and you can keep your jobs. I’m just wondering if Brett Farve and Peyton Manning had been involved in dog fighting, would there have been this hoopla. And the difference between those two and Vick is clear. Vick hasn’t won a Super Bowl. Sports fans have historically and routinely turned a blind eye to the off-field demons exorcised by their athletic heroes. I’m not sure why Vick is getting beat up over his non-sanctioned heavyweight dog destruction matches. Do people love dogs more than women… and bongs? So who cares? No, really who cares? And why?

Tuesday, July 2, 2007; 3:33 p.m. EST

Jim Crow for Creatures

By Brian Egeston
be@brianwrites.com

I must admit I’m not a pet lover. Nor am I a pet hater. I’ve been accused a time or two of player hating, but a pet hater I am not. My qualification for this blog is merely that of an outsider making astute observations of the hypocrisy that runs rampant in our society.

The travesty of which I speak is animal discrimination.

I read with great interests a news brief in The Champion regarding a woman who was sentenced to a year in jail for leaving her dog locked in the bathroom with no food and a muzzle over its mouth. I thought it quite harsh to lock the woman up, as loony as she may be, considering the numerous animal massacres that occur every day.

I thought of the canine carcass on my street that some sicko must have bowled over on their way to work. And I’m sure somebody saw or heard something when Rover was run over. Alas, not even a license plate has been reported to the appropriate authorities. When was the last time someone turned themselves in after flattening a squirrel as it crossed the street on its way back home to feed its family? Where is the justice for the flat squirrels of the world?

This troubled me so that I was compelled to raise the question of fairness for all animals. Where do we draw the line for animal cruelty? The class system for animals has gone to the. …to the rats maybe.

Are dogs and cats the only elite animals worthy of protection and justice under the laws of humans? Are dogs and cats with tags the only creatures worthy of vindication when their rights have been violated? What about the homeless dogs and cats? Just because they live in a cardboard doghouse, does it mean they too should not have their day in court?

What about the fish in aquariums in which young pet owners carry out pet-assisted suicide by overfeeding fish day after day after day. Are we not training future squirrel flatteners and cat cremators? Should these young fish murders be sentenced to boot camps or maybe even some time in juvenile justice centers? At the very least, kids should be sent to time out one day for every fish they overfeed. It starts in the home, people…it starts in the home.

I enjoy fishing, but I must be honest and report that each time I hook a fish, I feel as though I’m committing aggravated angler assault. After reading a recent article that proved fish feel pain, I’ve had my doubts about taking part in the sport. Should I turn myself into fish police? I’m conflicted here, I really am.

Perhaps my confusion stems from the ambiguity in animal cruelty laws. Who designates the statue of animals and on what premise is it based? What makes a creature a pest or a pet? And why do we hold some animals in higher regard than others? Can I walk down the street with a wild turkey on a leash and call her Ms. November if I want? Why or why not? And all of a sudden, if my luscious centerfold shows up on missing posters around DeKalb in December, am I then going to spend the next 365 days in prison alongside the puppy persecutor?  I just don’t understand. Can you explain it?

Thursday, June 7, 2007; 4:24 p.m. EST

On Becoming A Redneck

Blogger and soul brother Brian Egeston describes his miraculous transformation

By Brian Egeston
be@brianwrites.com

As the gray hairs invade the fallacy of my extended youth, I find myself at a crossroads. Not a midlife crisis, mind you. Rather a point where I’m looking to make some changes. First and foremost, I’m thinking about becoming a redneck.

MUSIC

I was child of rap music. Before it was hip hop, I clung to every word of greats such as Kurtis Blow, Doug E. Fresh and Run DMC. But one day I was listening to Too Short and my mother asked why I was spewing profanity from my bedroom speakers. I continued to love the music until I began driving my nieces, nephews and godchildren around. I spent more time adjusting the volume to avoid profane words than listening to music. Finally, I had to turn the volume down altogether. Eventually, the music stopped completely.

This had a profound effect on me when I was driving my old Volvo that only picked up one station—country music. While being held hostage by Kenny Chesney, Gretchen Wilson and Johnny Cash, I began to pick up on the lyrics and musical themes. A great majority of the tunes were about love, overcoming adversity, religious faith, fishing, sweet tea, bars, forgiveness and heaven. There are a few bad boys of country such as Brooks and Dunn, who encourage women to save a horse and ride a cowboy.

But compared to the lyrics of my previous life including: “Dance, Too Much Booty in the Pants,” “Wait ‘til you see my D!@#,” “Pop that thang girl.” And of course there are the lyrics my 3-year-old niece sang while we had her family over for dinner, “Drop it like it’s hot, drop it like is hot."

FOR FUN

Growing up, I played several sports, including high school basketball and in rec leagues after college. But I’m giving that up as well. As we know, rednecks don’t dominate the basketball landscape.

I’ve recently become quite enamored with fishing. While on a trip to Nashville, I was searching for an activity to do with my nieces and nephews. They’re much younger and shorter than I, so basketball would give me quite an unfair advantage. And the niece is only 3, so getting a ball to the rim is more about sitting on Uncle Brian’s bad back to throw the ball in the rim.

Instead of playing basketball or football, we all piled in a car with fishing poles and bait. We found a quaint little fishing hole at a lake and spent half the day reeling in bluegills.

Everyone caught a fish. My 3-year-old niece caught the first fish of the day, and the highlight was watching me fighting a big catfish that almost broke my rod. It was a priceless time, which we captured with photos of children completely content with sitting by the bank as the sun baked us, then later disappeared behind a wall of trees at evening’s end. They learned about patience, skill, nature and the rewards gained when some of those characteristics are used.

MATERIAL WORLD

My daddy gave me his old Chevy truck. I figure that automatically gets me a temporary pass for consideration into redneckdom. When the engine blew, I found myself inside the hood sloshing my way through experimental engine repair. My mother-in-law, after learning that my old Volvo died, gave me her beat-up Volkswagen Jetta with transmission problems.

Years ago, I yearned for an expensive BMW or nice SUV with rims and a booming stereo system. Now, I’m content with my truck that I use daily for working around the house; hauling wood, picking up sod and free tools and furniture that I find on the Internet. I once aspired to obtain every pair of Air Jordans ever made. But now I look forward to wearing my Wal-Mart flip-flops or work boots.

Perhaps the tipping point and confirmation of my transformation from cool to red is that in the place on my hip where I once carried my cell phone is my $4 hardware-store clearance-sale pocketknife. I suppose the aforementioned points could be found somewhere with the halls of soul brother solidarity.

Or maybe it’s the old saying – “Things I used to do I don’t do no more.” Or maybe I’m just changing my lifestyle and a sad part of that is changing some aspects of my culture.

Banned by Ms. Ann

By Brian Egeston
be@brianwrites.com

A little over a month ago, I blogged about Ms. Ann’s Snack Bar, the humble place made famous by the Wall Street Journal.

Just the other day, I stopped by Ms. Ann’s to say hello. She’s a busy woman, but every now and then I like to stop by just to let her know that I’m not someone clamoring for a coveted place in line at her counter.

But on this particular visit, I learned that Ms. Ann was not at all pleased with my blog. I can’t reprint everything she said about the piece, but let’s just say there were a lot “bleeps” in most of her sentences.

I would have been offended and felt disrespected had it not been for the fact that I’ve been on the other end of those tongue-lashings before. It reminded me of standing in my grandmother’s kitchen and getting lambasted when I complained about the black-eyed peas.

The public flogging I got at Ms. Ann’s seemed eerily familiar of a moment in my youth when my aunt broke a few switches on my legs after doing one of my many mischievous deeds.

I forgot the cardinal rule. All my years of training under a mother, grandmothers, auntees and cousins and I forgot the one thing a person should never do -- Don’t ever tell a Black woman how to run her kitchen. Ms. Ann reminded me, very loudly I might add, that I should not tell her how to run her business.

I remember when I told my grandmother she was putting too much sugar in her peach cobbler and that the pans she was using weren’t big enough. Tongue-lashing number 346. 

I like to think that every now and then I have some pretty good ideas. And once in a blue moon, I have a tendency to come up with good business concepts. And more than anything else, I believe can always see how a person can get help with different types of resources and situations.

All of this apparently clouds my vision, and I can’t see when people are happy right where they are doing exactly what they want to do. Happiness, quality of life and contentment, it seems, can’t always be measured by franchises, retirement plans or boatloads of money. My grandmother cooked for people until she died. It was her greatest fulfillment, nourishing people no matter her fatigue or the blazing hot temperatures in her tiny kitchen. As long as people were happy at her table, regardless as to the number she served, or the money made, she was happy.

And I suppose there’s a bit of that unnoticed bliss in that little burger joint I used to visit on Memorial Drive.

Please read "The Ghetto Tragedy" below to see why Ms. Ann is so mad at Brian.

Thursday, May 10, 2007; 10:50 a.m. EST

Pull me over…please

By Brian Egeston
be@brianwrites.com

A recent report by the U.S. Justice Department revealed that Blacks and Hispanics are searched and arrested after being pulled over more than any other segments of society.

The 14-page report, very detailed and thorough, reads like a master’s thesis. And when my colleague sitting across from me tried to encourage me to write about this issue, my first reaction was “Why is this breaking news and who doesn’t know this already?” Did somebody spend time and money compiling data to discover something they could have learned from anyone walking down Memorial Drive?

It might be more pertinent to theorize what the numbers mean to the affected groups. Since Blacks and Hispanics are arrested and searched more, how does that influence our daily lives and our attitude toward authority and society? Does it make us rebellious or docile?

This subject kept me completely disinterested until a recent drive into work.

Only a few miles from my house I saw a police cruiser zoom in from behind, its lights flashing. Another car joined him and they were off to chase down the villains. Whenever I see blue lights flashing, I go into self-preservation mode, wondering if my tag’s current, if I was going one mile an hour over the speed limit, hoping my insurance card is in the glove box. Wondering if I have time to slide my seat belt on before a cop notices I’m not strapped in. Simply put, I wonder if it’s my turn to get pulled over.

For me, it’s beyond Driving While Black or racial profiling. Quite frankly, I’m scarred of cops. I know cops. I went to school with guys who became cops and I wonder who on God’s earth gave those maniacs badges and guns… and bullets.

I must admit though, my fear of the cops has afforded me the opportunity to live a life free of jail time. To this date, I’ve never been arrested, never had a pair of handcuffs on and never seen the backseat of cop car. My dad makes the same proclamation. I’ve seen him hit the humility button a time or two when blue lights appeared in his rear view mirror.

But back to the recent morning.

As I tarried along my merry way to work, I drove upon the object of the police chase. Three cars had surrounded a vehicle just across a bridge on North Clarendon. Three officers, all with weapons drawn, surrounded a Chevy Tahoe with tinted windows. The SUV is similar to the one my little brother drives back home in Arkansas. My brother enjoys life on the wild side and does not share my fear of cops. As I drove closer, I saw two arms protruding from the driver’s side window. I know this position all too well. Though I’ve never been asked to perform the task, I’ve rehearsed it in my mind waiting for the opportunity to use it to avoid being shot.

On this morning, I just happened to have my camera near by. I reached for it and tried document the event in case it turned into a news story. I watched as the driver’s side door of the SUV opened. A tall man with skin the same complexion as mine emerged from the vehicle. His hair was wooly and wild. He had caps on his teeth, better known as a grill. Or maybe they were braces. I just assumed because he was being pulled over in an SUV and had dreadlocks that he was wearing grills.

The officers made him keep both hands above his head until they handcuffed him. One officer opened the door to the driver’s side back seat, and I anticipated a band of hooligans would appear like characters in a clichéd plot.

Things were getting serious. Lucky for me I also had my press badge with me. My press badge, I should note, is my ticket to freedom most times. I’ve learned through covering various assignments that for whatever reason, people don’t believe I’m a writer. It must be my big feet and unmanicured fingernails that give the perception that I couldn’t possibly be a writer. My colleague next to me rarely has this problem. He usually tells people he’s a journalist and they believe him. I think it’s because he has red hair.

I’m in my truck, camera in hand and press badge around my neck. So now I’m official. There are at least 10 cop cars on the scene by now. Whoever said there are not enough cops on the DeKalb streets obviously doesn’t visit my neighborhood. I watched as the cops took the…the….what’s the term for someone who gets pulled over but hasn’t been arrested, but they look like someone who’s going to make the evening news? Are they suspects, detainees…description fitters?

Anyway, the cops have the guy on the hood of the police car. I pulled back into a parking lot ready to get out, take some notes, take a few shots…I mean pictures! Pictures, I specifically meant to say pictures, not shots.

And suddenly a White lady in a cop car looks at me. I can feel her eyes burning me. She was about to pull into the street and join the other cops who were surrounding the…the whatever he was. Instead she focused on me. I watched closely has she slammed her car into park. I thought right away, “She’s going to come over here and say something to me, I know it.”

She opened her cruiser door, looked in the direction of the SUV and turned in my direction. I picked up my camera, but quickly realized it was a big black object with a large barrel on the end and if misconstrued for something else, I could be shot.

The officer got closer. I grabbed my press badge and remained still because I thought if I made a sudden move to grab my press badge or anything else when she got to my window, I could be shot. I rehearsed all the things that I think of on a regular basis to avoid not getting shot when a cop comes to my car window. Checklist: I was clean shaven that morning. Button down collared plaid shirt. Beige trousers with cuffs. I looked like an apple pie American boy, except for the big feet and nails of course. The only thing left was to make sure I was extremely courteous and used the most polished diction my mom had ever taught me. The same annunciation I used in job interviews and public speeches. Try not to stutter. With all my might I would try not to stutter.

She walked closer to my truck, sizing it up. She looked at the license plate on the front. Arkansas—my dad’s old license plate. He gave me the truck and I keep the plate there as a tribute to him. Wait a minute, I thought. Is it illegal to have a license plate on the front of a vehicle in Georgia? Was I about to be dragged from my truck and handcuffed like the wooly-headed-grill-wearing guy in the SUV?  The officer finally got to my window. She was highly decorated. I noticed a pin on her uniform, two guns crisscrossed at the barrels. It probably meant she was an excellent shot. That’s all I remember, that she was probably a great shooter.

I spoke first. Courteous, Brian, remember… be courteous. “Good morning,” I said, holding up my press badge. “I’m with the media. I’m going to move on, there’s probably no story here.” The officer responded, “OK.”

And I hightailed it into the office. But not before noticing as I passed by the man in handcuffs that there was a little boy clinging to his side. A police helicopter swirled above as still more cop cars arrived on the scene. I took a glance into the SUV. All the doors were open now. Inside the door, where I thought a band of hooligans would emerge…was a child’s car seat. I kept driving and less than 100 yards from where the man had been stopped, was a child-care facility.

I’d like to be able to tell you if the kid was being dropped off or maybe there was an Amber alert and the man had kidnapped the boy.

Maybe the SUV was stolen. Maybe the guy was taking the kid to shop for Mother’s Day gifts. I’d like to be able to report what happened. That’s what I get paid to do, report. But I can’t tell you because I, like many other men with big feet and unmanicured fingernails, fear the cops. So much that it affects the way we live and it also affects our ability to do our jobs. None of us are immune.

Vernon Jones could be dragged from his car and searched and beaten if he says something a cop doesn’t like, if he’s in a  part of the country where no one recognizes him. Stan Watson could be traveling through Virginia, get pulled over, reach for his registration too fast and a cop could put a bullet in his head. Can you imagine Bishop Eddie Long or Bishop Paul Morton driving their Rolls Royces through Kentucky or Montana or Missouri or anywhere and suddenly some corrupt cop doesn’t like the fact that a guy like them is behind the wheel of a fancy car that Arthur Blank should be driving?

And that’s what I believe some think tank or survey should truly reveal. Not the statistics verifying what we’ve known for years, but the psychological and sociological impact on those groups of people being pulled over and searched more than others. Perhaps it would be much more vital to study the paranoia that exists because of the numbers. I’d like for some person who’s way smarter than I am to tell me why I could not get out of my own vehicle and do my job without thinking of being shot.

What are your thoughts?

By Brian Egeston
be@brianwrites.com

It’s been almost a month since the Wall Street Journal introduced the entire nation to a humble DeKalb County eatery known as Ann’s Snack Bar. By now just about everyone in the county, if not the state, knows about Ms. Ann, the 63-year-old Black lady slaving over a hot stove making her very special version of down-home burgers.

I had the privilege of dining a few times at this greasy spoon, pre-Wall Street Journal discovery. Even then placing an order, watching Ms. Ann work and paying for our to-go order took every bit of an hour and a half. Now the average time is at least three hours. And people are still standing in line.

Rumor has it that Ms. Ann’s claim to local fame started with the invention of the ghetto burger. It was a monstrosity of meat she concocted after a Checker’s franchise opened on her block. In an effort to avoid being run out of business, she created the beast that would eventually land her the title of best burger in America.

And the rest is…tragic.

It seems a travesty of Shakespearean proportion that the little old lady is still in her little old snack shack with a long line and even larger demand for her product. I’m wondering if Ms. Ann wants to slave over her hot grill making burgers when she could just as easily stand in the corner and bark orders to employees and make perhaps five times as many burgers a day and generate much more revenue. I’m wondering if someone could show Ms. Ann the value of branding and merchandising. Think of the folks who would plunk down $15 for a T-shirt that reads ‘Ms. Ann made my burger.’ I myself in all my frugality would pay for a shirt with Ms. Ann’s house rules emblazoned across the front.

And more than anything else, I wonder if Ms. Ann will learn the power of franchising. It’s one thing to be recognized by a national publication for your work, but it’s an entirely different endeavor to take advantage of the attention and have the opportunity to build generational wealth and leave a legacy for your family.

I’ve seen Ms. Ann work close up. And from the outside, it doesn’t appear as though hard labor day in and day out is something she enjoys.

But maybe it’s our fault. We love standing in line waiting for the nostalgia of having someone reminiscent of a grandmother make our hamburgers. We want to sit in the shack on rickety old stools and be entertained by her antics as she shuffles heavy feet up and down the small work area as we laugh and smile at her as though she were on stage performing.

And if Ms. Ann franchises, if one day she decides to feed more people in a more efficient manner, thereby making more money and working a lot less, well then we wouldn’t get the entertainment.

We watched our grandmothers work fingers to the bone, working in kitchens, cleaning houses, babysitting. So why should Ms. Ann be allowed to expand her business and enjoy the fruits of her labor? Smart people visit Ms. Ann’s every day -- Smart people with contacts, connections and resources. Smart people who can walk through her door and change Ms. Ann’s life and the lives of her family members with the stroke of a pen. Instead, we’re walking through her door and saying nothing more than, “Two ghetto burgers to go please.”

What are your thoughts?

NOT IN THE KNOW? Read: Ghetto burger hits mainstream

Thursday, March 1, 2007; 10:34 a.m. EST

Does Dunwoody Even Matter?

By Brian Egeston
be@brianwrites.com

I don’t visit Dunwoody much -- the malls, the restaurants, the poshness that surrounds the reputation of the upper-class area. It’s just not my scene. And I’m certain that many Dunwoodyites (or whatever they’re called) don’t get down to my corridor where shopping and dining offers a plethora of options such as the Dollar Tree, the Koreans who make soul food and the 24-hour McDonald’s that was closed when I stopped by early one morning.

This being the case, I finally broke down and actually read an article about Dunwoody seceding from the union of UDC. (That’s Unincorpated DeKalb County). And for the life of me, I can’t figure out what the hubbub is about. When my wife manages to drag me to Maggiano’s for dinner or Perimeter Mall to hold her shopping bags (though she prefers Dollar Tree), I feel as though I’m in a foreign land.

But the Dunwoody succession strikes a nerve with several folks because it’s got all the makings of a prime time drama. You guessed it, money, power and race.

Money: A report in The Champion Newspaper said that a GSU study indicated if Dunwoody secedes from the good ole UDC it’ll cost the county $16 million and raise taxes for folks who won’t belong to the new Commonwealth of Dunwoody. The Dunwoody area represents a reported $3 billion dollars in real estate and is home to more than 115,000 jobs.

Power:  Who wants to be governed by a CEO, as capable as he may be, working in downtown Decatur when the area has illustrated its ability to bring more food to the table than anyone else sitting down for dinner? Dunwoody, which many might argue is heavily Republican, may feel underrepresented when issues arise such as land development and tax allocation in their area. But that’s politics, and it’s not in the plotline of my story.

Race:  Let’s just admit it, we’re all prejudice so why don’t we all have a potluck. Folks in Dunwoody would probably rather tailgate at a UGA game with other Dunwoody residents, and Southwest DeKalb High parents would probably rather watch their kids in a battle of the bands with other SWD parents. That’s how it is and will always be.

I read an article that said 75 people gathered with state representatives to express their concern over Dunwoody becoming a city. Seventy-five people? Are you kidding? There are 75 people in my subdivision who don’t even know how to get to Dunwoody let alone care if they want their own flag, kingdom and crest.

Some reports show that the Dunwoody walkout will cost the owner of a $200,000 home in DeKalb about $30 a year extra in property taxes. That’s $2.50 a month—enough to buy the two eggs and bacon breakfast special at the Korean soul food restaurant in my neighborhood.

Some would argue it shouldn’t cost taxpayers in unincorporated any more in taxes – that county government needs to get a hold on spending instead of trying to use the “fear” of raising taxes as a reason to oppose the possible city.

Doesn’t the average DeKalb County citizen only really care that their garbage is picked up on time, water comes out of the faucet and the lights turn green and red while on their way to work?

What are your thoughts?

Friday, Feb. 9, 2007; 2:14 p.m. EST

The Derwin Brown Debate

I recently attended a community meeting in place of a colleague of mine. Community meetings, I’ve come to learn, are about as popular as root canals—which I also recently experienced. But at this particular meeting, there were a few subjects that seemed to excite and incite those in attendance. Amid the rhetoric about fuel costs, naming public properties after the living or dead, and solar tax credits—perhaps the most talked about issue was compensation for the family of slain sheriff-elect Derwin Brown.

There was, however, one brave soul who stood up and stated that he was in fact opposed to the family being paid $3.6 million by the state of Georgia. And before people in the room began sharpening their knives and preparing the guillotine, Rep. Billy Mitchell calmed the room and said the gentlemen asked a very fair question. I noticed within the uprising in the room, there were a number of people who sat quietly and seemingly wanted to hear more from someone who stood in opposition to compensation for the family. Dare I say, there were others who shared his opinion.

Some have argued that Derwin Brown’s family is no more entitled to $3.6 million than the familes of employees who’s been killed at their place of employment. The argument was also raised that the Brown family is entitled to the exact same compensation that the family of Judge Rowland Barnes will receive. A great many folks simply believe it’s the right thing to do.

It was clear, however, that this is a great issue of concern for DeKalb County. Now it’s your turn. Give us your feedback and vote using our online poll to chime in on this hot-button issue.

Thursday, Feb. 8, 2007; 11:36 a.m. EST

The Best President We Never Had

By Brian Egeston
be@brianwrites.com

So Barack is in. No surprise. Hillary Clinton’s gonna give it a shot. Of course. And then there’s a line of folks who don’t have a chance, but have decided to waste fund-raisers’ money so that these potential losing candidates can have the opportunity to make TV appearances and perhaps add one or two good topics during debates or forums. See Al Sharpton’s version of: How to run for president and not have a chance at even getting close.

And in this historical Democratic primary when a Black person and a woman are seeking nominations, it reminds me of an oft-overlooked moment when this country lost its chance at having the best president ever.

It stands to reason. The president’s job is not exactly the best occupation to have. After all, the people with real power are the ones making campaign contributions and hosting the president at their mansions. The best job to have is the one in which the president has you on speed dial. But you don’t actually want the Oval Office. Who wants to make $400,000 a year and potentially get shot at when you can make $21 million for decreasing the value of Home Depot’s stock?

Perhaps the best candidate ever, knew the perils of the position and chose to walk away. So the best president we never had, and the first Black president we could have had was Colin Powell. Now he’s off the radar forever, never to return unfortunately.

Take a look at the man’s resume:
-Raised in the South Bronx
-Educated in New York City public schools
-Soldier for 35 years
-Served two tours of duty in Vietnam
-Four-star general
-Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff
-Unanimously confirmed by the U.S. Senate for secretary of state in 2001.
-His children never publicly embarrassed the country
-Can pronounce difficult words like nuclear
-Reads the newspaper

I’m sure most of you are familiar with the current president’s resume, so there’s no need to list it here, except for the fact that he never went to war, but is currently in charge of one.

Powell’s legacy, in my mind, is that he walked away from Bush’s cabinet. Publicly, he said he only wanted to serve one term. But Powell, having seen the writing on the wall and subsequently knowing the backroom politics of Bush, realized the war was a catastrophe.

With Powell in control, some could make the strong argument that troops would have been withdrawn by now or perhaps had a different mindset for the war strategy. I think a man who’s been around death and destruction brought on by war would make better decisions about combat missions and destroying countries.

At the very least, Powell would have been a much better representation for the country than Bush. The son of Jamaican immigrants, he probably knows full well that education is the great equalizer and programs implemented only for the sake of having an education platform are about as helpful as a leadless pencil.

Barack is a great candidate. I’ll vote for him, but he’s Black and his name is Barack Hussein Obama. It’s sort of like trying to win a wet T-shirt contest, but your shirt is bone dry. There’s a certain faction who want to see a specific type of contestant. And for whatever reason, a large group of people don’t like Hillary Clinton despite her being a great politician. I so want to believe that race, gender and perception don’t matter. But Paris Hilton is a superstar and American Idol gets more participation than a presidential election.

Powell was this country’s best shot at changing the way we do business and making history. We let him slip through our fingers.  And history will suffer because of it.