...She floods me with dread. Soaked in soul; she swims in my ice, by the bed.
The streets were empty. It was a late night, and a young black boy strolled casually down the middle of the lanes, walking and weaving in and out of solid black stripes painted over golden asphalt as he dribbled a fully inflated basketball. The mood was grim. If you didn't know it was Heaven, you would swear it was Florida.
My favorite hangout in Atlanta had its final day of business this past Sunday. Here are a few of the photos I took as lots of people gave P'cheen International Bistro & Pub a proper sendoff.
Today is the annual semi-holiday when everybody goes WorldStarHipHop and watches men injure themselves for money, more money, and the chance to kiss a carved glass football. I'm just as guilty as you for letting that dominate all. But I heard bad news, and it sucks. So let's pause just long enough to say some good words before we go back into celebrating American brutality in the name of competitive "sport."
"Most of my heroes don't appear on no stamp!!" (but some do)
An essay at Daily Kos is making the rounds on social media right now, with the author making a case that Dr. King ended terrorism for black people in the south. While I agree with that, and I'm not really sure anybody could deny it, you could argue that what really made Dr. King's legacy possible was a very simple factor--he worked hard.
Just over a week ago, my uncle John Jordan passed away at 81 years of age. Just under a week ago, at his funeral, my father and I spoke for the first time in almost eight months.
This is where Michael B. Jordan shares his thoughts on the world with the world. Share yours back.