Before You Got Here

He said he got the hog maws, chitlins, collard greens, catfish, smoked turkey legs, ox tails smothered, suffocated, and strangled in gravy,

She got the homemade potato salad with the raisins in 'em with the Tostitos from Dollar General

And you wonder why someone may get cursed out so pleasantry and elegantly on Big Ma's back porch.

Momma' ain't raise no fool, but your momma is an astronaut and her head looks like a Psychonaut

Got elbows crisper than Uncle Leroy's 2 piece from Popeyes

Hey, I don't blame you I haven't been the same either since Jett Jackson died

And you wonder if she changed, but that's just the top layer

You was who you was

Before You Got Here.

I gotta' go to twerk-and-work at 6:53, because they little brown kids need a role model,

So why I'm STILL standing in the middle of a FedEx Kinko's on Christmas Eve.

But I ain't no buster, I still pulled up my sleeves and all I ask you is to call me when you get home.

She did Call, and she said "I HATE YOU JODY" 

Stepdad of The Year

I say this quite often, but I have to remember that I am not the villain or the superhero in everyone's story. I'm probably not even the comic relief or reluctant side character to aid in someone's journey.

Percentage-wise, looking at all the people in the entire world I've ever come in contact with, I am probably a NPC (non-player character) that is sitting on bench, not influencing the story at all. Maybe I'm innocent bystander #38 that gets ran over by a tween on their skateboard at 2pm at a crosswalk between the parkway and the greenway. Maybe I'm not even visible, like the headline of "Breaking News: Man Buys Radioactive Llama!" on some generic basic cable channel and gets bitten by it. And that's okay,

It does get difficult when I am meditating and not focusing. 10 unfocused, isolated minutes practicing ujayii breathing in a criss-cross position is a long time to be thinking about things that aren't of value or relevant to you anymore. Sometimes I think about all the kids I letdown over the last 4 years. I think about why I like to put the numeric symbol for numbers even when it's not grammatically correct. I think about why people talk to me. I think about unlimited tostitos. I think about how people would tweet about my death. I think about if I stayed and helped raise someone else's child and how I would be stepdad of the year.

But none of these things matter in the grand scheme of things. I am a person who has a self-proclaimed "purpose" and only tend to look back on things so I can learn from them and not repeat the same mistakes again. Normally. Things will happen the way they are supposed to and it is my job, nay, our jobs as humans to adjust as needed. Whenever something pops up, deal with, hide from it, it doesn't matter. Humans are adaptable, versatile, innovative...when we want to be. Whatever comes up it's going to steamroll you or you're going to roll with it. Or not, I don't know. I'm not a psychologist. Or reliable. Okay I'm pretty reliable. Wait, who's on first?

This blog post is brought to you by "Hello" by Jermaine Cole himself. One of his lines was the foundation of this entire entry.

Every time I think of the proverbial stepdad, I think of Steve Rogers. For NO reason.

The Emancipation of Gentrified Cornbread

You told me to break a leg,
So I tore my ACL.

Back when I told them I would see you yesterday
Or the day before Sunday
But definitely not tomorrow
Or the day after Thursday.
And I already know what happened to Monday.

You ain't been the same since John Witherspoon or Bernie passed,
And I know it's the wrong time to mention the diuretics, blockers, or vasodilators,
But I rather see you see you standing vertical now,
Versus horizontal later.

I know it's been rough and the Golden Corral nor Wendy Williams called you back.
Mom still waiting on you to take the chicken out the freezer
And come home when the streetlights came on.
But It's only a failure when you stop trying.

You told me to break a leg,
So I hit my knee against the coffee table.

This could have all been avoided if you put her in your Top 4 on Myspace.
Y'all were more cohesive than Penny & Dejanae, Dennis Rodman and his hairdresser, or anything with Zax sauce.
But you took the blue line without me or even a slingshot

Now you're sitting outside the Cascades and they asking you questions aboutt the
Blood on your new FUBU and Shawn Bradley's.
Told you to pull yourself up by the boot straps but you only own slides,
And you don't have any hands anyways, I saw taking a pavement nap on WorldStar

They told you to never let them you see cry
But you're a cancer and had just left the greatest Corinne Bailey Rae/Fantasio Barrino concert.
I gave you those box of tissues, peanut M&Ms, and 227,760 hours of my time and I don't even care if you don't call me on my birthday.

You told me to break a leg,
But I only had a wishbone
And let you have the big piece.
Because my wish had already been granted

"Drunk" By Thundercat helped me follow a bassline as I come to have a conversation between Jonathan along with JODY and Jonny,

Yesterday's Fresh Grits

I think grits are overrated. It's just small pieces of cornmeal.

When Momma Mona cooked and fed it to me, I thought she had mistakenly given me raccoon food.

I thought "how could you make me eat this mother, why are you trying to poison your favorite son" I cried

I thought black boys who cry too much are too sweet but someone's son is in eternal slumber because someone THOUGHT they were too sour

I still think the confederate flag is racist and got boy my Till kill't. I used to go fishing at that river

I thought the water would save me but my eyes are still burning

I thought I was supposed to look up to my heroes but I'm like 6'7 in heels

I thought I could strut down the runway like Beyoncé and Vince McMahon

I think grits are overrated. It's just really tiny, small pieces of cornmeal. I honestly thought grits were grounded up horse hooves.

I don't know why rappers keep saying Tyler Perry is too sweet when he got ya' folks out of the unemployment line

I think black girl's thighs are so thick because they help carry black men like they are on the cast of 'Living Single'

I think you can go to church every Sunday and still have a therapist

I think it's funny to call white people mayonnaise or mayonnaise with olive oil if they coe from Italy or Spain.

I think it's okay to rap-a-long to Chief Keef on your morning commute to your 9-5

I think it's okay to be faithful and not be a Christian

I thunk, thinked, or thought we were supposed to arrest R. Kelly and boycott him but also arrest anyone who doesn't think '90s R & B is the best genre of music ever

I still think ramen noodles, lottery tickets, and Lucky Charms crippled the black community and my voice sounds like I make water casserole and my voice sounds like I ask little black boys if they live in this neighborhood and my voice sounds like I roll my windows up through an un-gentrified neighborhood but I love gentrified cornbread

And I'm still wondering if you gon' eat yo' cornbread

And I'm still wondering why people love kombucha so much it's just unflavored vinegar with bubbles

And I'm still wondering why people make me feel bad for not watching slave biopics

And I'm still wondering when Ari Lennox is going to reply back to DM

And, and, and--

And I still think grits are overrated. It's just really tiny small, itty bitty pieces of cornmeal. But I had put sugar and honey in them, it tasted okay. I would dot the sugar and make the eyes and the nose. I would drizzle the honey over it, capping off the mouth. And I would make it a picture of your smile, just like it was yesterday.

I Believe in The Pop, The Lock, AND The Drop

Dirty Shawn Bradley’s, the cracked screen of a MP3 player, and my mom’s flimsy headphones. 

Stretch the thighs, hamstrings, shoulders, lower back, fingers, neck, biceps, triceps, and most importantly your spiritual animal.

Flip through Outkast, Dangerdoom, N.E.R.D., Yeezy, Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth, & start with Young H.O.V. to get started. Wait for Ms. Storm’s menacing scowl and short strides to pass by.

Start.

Up Twin Cedars, right on Twin Cliff, loop around Cedar Cliff, down to Stoney Parkway, up Greyfield, wrap around Wraywood to Old Happy Hill to come back. Negative splits so high schoolers don’t mock your efforts.

Right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left.

Pump your arms, relax your double-jointed hands, caress the chest, evenly breathe from your diaphragm, strike the ground more, lower your forehead; your body is synchronized and one with the infinite, whatever that means. 

T.R.O.Y. starts to play as I loop back around, my second wind keeps my pace honest but my hand-me-down baggy clothing exposes my left shoulder. The saxophone medley makes my heart sink, and I phase out of this world. Into a sort of ignorant bliss.

Have you seen it? It is truly spectacular. The spectacle of a vista in the tundra could not compare. The eternal sunshine of the spotless mind if only for a fraction, a millisecond. The deciduous trees reach out to bid me a greeting to an elevated space, to feel every cell in my body to work as a whole system. Complete synchronization.

Goofy grin on my face, middle school composure, ashy kneecaps, arms flailing carelessly, headphones keep falling off, half a mile left, 30 minutes until my bus arrives at Foxwood. 

Chris Diamond, acne-prone 16 year-old, 4th string quarterback, 1st string white trash. I initiate an euphoric wave to the hormonal group of teenagers, showered by routine calls of “faggot.”

Right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left.

Sand Is Overrated

It's Sunday April 21st, 2019. Easter Sunday. Resurrection Sunday. 9:21 in the morning. 65 degrees, partly cloudy. Scattered thunderstorms are 50%. Wind is around 7 miles per hour. From basement floor window, I can see Louie sitting outside, delicately chewing on her favorite toy. Eyes half shut, her fur being fluffed by gentle gusts.

I'm on my bed laying belly down, mouth covered by a shea butter-scented pillow with a floral design. My feet hang off of my queen-sized Serta mattress, as I routinely twirl my ankles around. My body has been adjusting to having 3 jobs that all require an extensive amount of stamina. And also all requires the use of sweatpants. I've been fortunate enough that I can get back to my college workout routine to get the physique of Captain America. 

I briefly pause typing as I listen to the sounds around me, as my 4-foot tall window is slid open.

Airplanes floating on by.

Birds tuning.

Sirens wailing.

Neighbor dogs growling.

Roommates shuffling around upstairs.

My double jointed hands tapping on my HP.

An ant slowly shuffles by looking extremely gassed. I am sure the little fella' ventured all the way over yonder to the crumbs from my late night salmon burger. I have never seen an ant in my room. I break his neck. My glance then peaks around my 9' x 9' bedroom.

Xbox One and 52" TV on top of an old card table.

A vision board I made at my Auntie's house.

An old running shoe collecting dust in the corner.

Random fifths of white rum that have run their course.

Couple of dirty dishes from last night.

Some covers folded up in a corner for no reason.

Christmas lights strewn around the ceiling that connect throughout my entire floor. Well almost, I need one more extension cord to reach the living room.

I think about writing more but I want to watch the Beyonce Homecoming film on Netflix to see why people are so obsessed with her before I trot over to the Colorado Rockies baseball game. I have free tickets from my job, and I am going with my old college friends. I haven't seen one of them in a while, I hope he's okay. 

At this point I wonder why I haven't mentioned any Jons or music references in this post. Dee told me that my writing is riddled with grammatical errors. That's a weird thing to say because I'm writing down individual thoughts as they spontaneously pounce out of my head. It's like I'm projectile vomiting and I blacked out and he is telling me to aim at the trash can. It's also weird because I am 72% certain I have used that reference before. I have to pee and cut my hair.

*Crazy In Love plays in the background

Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind has been on my list at the most watched movie of all time. I first heard of it listening to the OST while Jay Electronica rapped over the original score.

I'll Probably Never Let You Go

It is 7 o'clock on a Saturday morning. The sun peaks over a handful of clouds. Slight breeze. Around 47 degrees. Slight possibility of rain this evening. 

There's an old lady staring at me as, I obnoxiously talk on the phone with Big KAT. I'm sitting on the hood of my '06, hollerin' and keke'n' like I'm at a '98 Def Comedy Jam headlined by Bruce Bruce. If you have ever seen me talk on the phone, you're missing out. It is a parade of me doing forward folds, half splits, two-stepping, cleaning things that do not need to be cleaned, punching myself in various spots on my torso, shoulder shimmies, for the most part.

But today I'm just sprawled out on my car in the middle of a parking lot of Planet Fitness on Lakeside. On one side of the gym is a PetCo; I sometimes quickly go in to use the bathroom before I run down West 44th Avenue. Straight down to Sunnyside and back. Or down Tennyson and 29th. and back up Sheridan. Depending on if I want to make a straight line or a parallelogram. 

However for now I am now pacing in a calm frantic around my car, like I am running away from brother after I threw a ball in his face.

 (after I threw the thing)

* 7 year-old me (who hasn't been punched yet): Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow

11 year-old JW: I haven't hit you yet

7 year-old me: AWWWRGJSSJDNSKDJDSKDJ

11 year-old JW: Forget it,

7 year-old me: 😀

11 year-old JW: (body slams me)

I am fairly tired on this point in the conversation, Big KAT has been talking for 45 minutes about getting her liver removed or whatever, and I am only half listening at this point. I reminisce about sitting on a park bench on front campus beside her. Didn't know who or what or if she was. Started talking to her about whatever. Must've been for 2 hours. Don't know why she didn't leave,

I forget that all of my best friends in college through an aggressively unique way: 

Sandy- starred at her from two rows back in Chemistry I for 3 weeks straight, bought her food from the school cafeteria for 2 months until I ran out of meal swipes a month before that semester ended,

Jamal - after a freshmen writing class, I asked him to eat with some friends of mine in which he told me he was already eating with some friends. They were the same friends.

Cousin Skeeter - well, he's my cousin

Beanie Baby - after going to the gym multiple times, she told me my hair was trash but offered to style it for free. I reluctantly accepted as I had no money or clippers to do anything with it,

Renny - the last two months of college, everybody was gone. I asked her to go to Salamander Springs Farm on an outing randomly as she dated my then boy crush and wanted to get to know her. Became my #1 confidant post-college.

I always thought it to be interesting that everybody was given a nickname by Jon. It is how I manage things. Ever since I was in middle school I was obsessed with alter egos based on abstract nomenclature. But I rarely call people by my nicknames for them. Wait, hold up.

Jonny Boy: Hey KAT I gotta' go,

KAT: Whaa-

Jon: I HAVE TO PEE

KAT: Okay, you don't have to yell

Jonathan: Have a wonderful day ma'am

"Some Girl" by Goldlink ft. Steve Lacy has been the got-to for elevating my mood whenever I'm down,

Trying to Be Cool

It's night time in Denver. January 14th. 2 o'clock in the morning on a Saturday, last-call and booty-call hours.

Was staying over a friends near Capitol Hill. Couldn't sleep after a drunken bender all day. My left calf starts to itch and imaginary 808s sound-off in my head. My double-jointed-semi-ashy-large-distal phalanges start to rub gently over one-another. I vault out of bed and snatch up my cheap Newtons, my cheap reflective pack, and my cheap wireless Insignias as I crouch out of the door. The frigid breeze pimp-slaps me right cheek, a nonverbal cue to get back inside. "Gotdamn" I respond and rev up my hamstrings, open up my hips just enough to get one more customer in. My phone lights up to show me Strava and Spotify to help me stay alive on the run. Then I start.

Running in the city, especially at night is like tap dancing to me. A solo jig that I can make up my own melody and rhythm too. My feet are slapping the side of the sidewalk at its own pace and my legs are extending-extending to whatever I need to hit my stride. My running pace at this point is wherever my mental state is during these sessions. This run is to purely pleasure to my mind. Endorphins tingle up and down my spine like pure, unfiltered electricity. Old school hip-hop is literally the C.R.E.A.M. to this double shot of espresso venti caramel frappucino. The city lights are dancing over me like strippers lap dancing at the Blue Flame. Drunken bar patrons are just existing and are a blur. When Jody gets going at this point, Jody literally has no idea what is going on.

Excuse my french but I am high as fuck as this point.

Everything is flowing at a sustainable, high functioning speed to complete my runner's high. I am happy, full, a little horny, and most of all I feel cool. I feel invincible. Man, I wish this car would hit me. I wish someone would come out and stab me in the gut and take my 5s. I wish someone would say some shit to me. My left foot hits the ground, my right foot hits the ground. I am tap dancing like that one kid who stays tap dancing in those shows in the 70s, completely in my element.

I stare up at the Capitol building on my way back, smiling like some idiot who just put blueberry syrup on some blueberry pancakes. Smiling so hard as my feet trip over the a crack in the sidewalk and my happy-ass falls face-down onto the sidewalk, tryna' to be cool.

"Trying to Be Cool" by Phoenix has been the anthem for years since I was a wildcat in Richmond Hill.

Crew

Hey let's be honest. I miss the south. The-the-the family, the love, the soul food, the proximity. It is the place that birthed me and raised me into the Jody I am today. All of the racism, the sexism, the closed-mindedness, the humidity, the Willacoochee accents slathered with some Twiggs County slang. Oh lord,

It was not until I got to Denver and stayed for a few weeks that I realized how special below the Mason-Dixon line was to me. I have ran over 1,000 miles in the 303 in the past year, and have yet to be called a nigger or monkey or get heckled by my fellow people. In fact, I can't even remember how many times I was cheered on running down 16th Street Mall at 2am in the morning on a Saturday. But while in the south, where I have lived 94.8% of my life, I don't remember how many times I was verbally attacked by being called a nigger or monkey or get heckled by my fellow people.

Yes I count being called a nigger while running in Gloucester Point, Virginia at 8 am, a verbal attacked. I don't remember the kids face (most white people look the same to me and of course I call grown men kids when they act accordingly) even though I stared them down as they sped off in their '02 Ranger.

Couldn't even run in Portsmouth at 5am without black folk looking at me like I'm suspect. I remember not running in Portsmouth just because I thought someone might physically attacked me. Because I was warned while in the barber shop to not run near Norcom high school.

These things happen, right? I should be conditioned at this point to be tolerant of ignorance. It wouldn't dare happen to Denver, as I blare out "Crew" by Goldlink and Co., making strides along Welton Street. Maybe Denver did a better job at suppressing its ignorance by ignoring it? If you don't see ignorance or interact with it, those things just disappear through natural selection right? Right,

"Crew" by Goldlink ft. Brent Faiyaz & Shy Glizzy reminds me of the east coast and the nostalgia of the south.

Blood on The Leaves

I think about how my life will be when I am 32 years-old. I think about how my Papa feels whenever I call him and catch him at the right time for a 15-minute conversation. I think about how a kid reacts when I redirect them after talking during an exam. I think about what would happen if I didn't leave you. I think about about how painful that needle is when it hits my skin after every tattoo.

I think about how my body feels since it's been over 2 months since it hasn't had some sort of alcohol in it. I think about you a lot. I think about holding my body weight directly over me in gym and how vulnerable I feel underneath it. I think about the two bites I take before swallowing a forkful of chicken pad thai.

I think about how Noname was feeling when she performed Bye Bye Baby and if she didn't mind if I cried singing along with her. I think about the endorphins that flood my body when I hear a Cameo song when I am lifting. I think about what that guy was wearing on his crotch in that one Cameo song. I think about how Astro & Snoopy feel after I run them every Saturday morning at Hilltop.

I think about how hard it has been for me to enunciate specific words since I was 7 and wonder if I should take more speech classes. I think about my old friend who committed suicide a month ago and wondered if I could have helped. I think about how wacky it must have first sounded when Kanye West mixed together "Strange Fruit" & "Down 4 My N*ggas".

I think about how Shanita feels when I send her obscure memes with no context. I think about much joy I feel when I post a new dance video. I think about the people I blocked in my life because they made me feel like rotten two-week leftovers. I think about the 180 kids I left in Norfolk and if they ever think about me. I think about how Christmas lights look on my skin as I wrap myself in a fleece blanket and pass out on the carpet.

I think about how much I love running in the city and weaving through black figures and illuminated posts. I think about you and me and leaving behind the mundane life of a stable 25 year-old. I think about the people I instinctively hug or call after a run or if I get off of work. I think about how rooted I feel when I flow through triangle series in a Vinyasa flow.


And when I think about everything and the mind gets flooded...

"Blood on the Leaves" by Kanye West has always had a special place in my heart.

Gentrified Cornbread

It's 3:18 pm and I am sitting in a coffee shop. I used to say coffee is the devil's nectar but here I am sipping on a venti caramel frappuccino with a dose of espresso. It is not called 'express-o' don't worry, I checked.

So as you can see, I reopened my blog (again) with ultimate hopes of "chillin' tf out" during this next school quarter and updating folks on why I love physical fitness and how it connects to my overall Jonny spirit. 

This is not a "how-to-guide" on how I balance teaching yoga, running dogs, and the high-and-lows of being a 3rd year teacher as well, as I do my own fitness practices. This is just how a Jonny boy does it and yes, these things may nest its way into my blog.

I will be blindly optimistic, vent, rant, praise, throw up, eat the throw it back up again,.I will sing, dance, yell, laugh and I will do it by making paragraphs 2-5 sentences in a palpable (that's for you JW.)

I think highly of myself (even as far as calling myself J.O.D.Y. = Jon of Da Year) but I know how much life can suck and I know how blessings just fall on top of head while I ignore them because I am still cursing on why life sucks. 

But there is so much to the little things of life that are so important: like getting a good crack-of-the-neck, kids who try to race me on my 5-milers off Colfax, that guy in Planet Fitness that falsely told me I look like Terry Crews. 

Oh geez, I keep telling y'all what this blog is about to be about and what 'imma do' and la-di-da. Wait well let me get one more attempt in,

This blog is about all of the things in life that make me happy, make me sad, make me tired, make me glad; this blog is about how I ran a 5k in 17:12 while I was hungover from 2 40s and a few shots of moonshine; this blog is about how kicked a lady in a face while I was demonstrating a headstand; it is about my 5th grade P.E. teacher who called a 9 year-old with a fragile psyche fat; it is about my mom's cornbread that had a little too much butter in it that had to be gentrified by using olive oil & basil leaves. 

Welcome to Gentrified Cornbread.