Gravel Pit

Good shit

I don't like to like post-MotownPhilly fans of Boys II Men despite my affinity for Wanya, the cute chubby member of the East Coast Family who notably carried on an R. Kellyish affair with she of broad forehead and unflattering weave. Gibes aside, I was an avid fan of Moesha circa sidekick of short stocky stature and recently remedied asslessness. In fact, I'm looking forward to heading to Leimert Plaza this July and singing the show's theme song around the fountain as I did 5 years ago on my first pilgrimmage ("Mo to-the E to-the...." which suspiciously sounds like source material for Mr. West's nickname). It promises to be fun and the thought of it is welcome respite from my own wierd wranglings on people, places and things. Been away, got tan, and was confronted with all that's missed and miffs about near and dears: that which makes me want to either dial them more frequently or delete their God forsaken numbers out my cracked Razr. There is no torment here just an eagerness for something that means something and the same thing now as before as week after next. Once again, I'm reevaulating my approach to life and the living when not wishing for a crystal stair.