Energy

I think it's important to note that I feel almost everything.

My foot striking the pavement when I run, the saxophone melodies off of Jay-Z's American Gangster, my Papa's excitement when I pick up the phone, the gaze on the back of my neck when I enter specific stores, etc.

With that amount of feels, there comes an amount of cares. I know I am using that word incorrectly, give me a minute.

On average, the most average-ass person interacts with trillions or ka-billions of molecules every minute of every day. That's the most mayonnaise, basic, carbon copy Joe-Smoe just existing in any space on this planet. This person more than likely ignores most of these interactions between single and compound molecules because in all actuality, who is going to intentionally interact with a ka-billy-jilly-ion particles every single minute. Who would care?

Now does Jody interact with all the oxygens I breathe per minute or sodium chlorides I consume at every meal? Heck naw. What am I, a psychopath? Do I think about interacting with those molecules? Heckers nopers. Do I look like a 7th-year senior on a trust fund at Penn State? Do I feel every one of these groups of atoms?

I don't think so.

Sometimes I am drawn to a certain energy. But sometimes I am always drawn to certain energy. It is as though that energy immediately needs to be handled and maintained properly even if that energy has literally no connection or tie to me. And what happens when a battery is powering a flashlight and runs out of chemicals and molecules and such to power this source of illumination? What happens when you're supposed to be the light to guide souls to a beautiful-land but runneth out of wax? Where does the candle get its wax when the wax maker hasn't shown up to work, but the candle still has to light the way?

I don't know

And I don't know if wax maker is a word,

Big K.R.I.T. 's new single off of TDT gives me a "1up" and gets me pumped and strong for most days,

Great Day

Consider the following:

I am the Jon Of The Year.

J.O.D.Y.

It has been proven time and time again. The invincible, miraculous, immaculate, impenetrable, unbeaten Jon Whiting. It can be proven with science and data charts and pie graphs conjured up by Carl Sagan; Jon is the greatest Jon of all time. I wish someone would have persuaded Jon otherwise.

It is not completely unfathomable, your glasses are not smudged your ears or not full of wax. I think. You are in the presence of greatness, every time you receive a musty hug from Jonny Boy, every time catch a slight glance of my bloodshot eyes from Jonny Bravo, every time you hear a stuttered sentence leave the lips of Jon-Jon, you should really thank him.

The awkward dance moves, the hour-long phones calls when yelling in your earpiece, the endless memes that have been golden-showered through your eyes, the anal punctuality at rao concerts; most people pay for this experience.

That’s right; the broken, broke, anxiety-driven, ashy, dehydrated, overzealous, distraught Juvy Jon has arrived through on your doorstep. And where will you be?

Madvillain created "Great Day" produced with Madlib, normally belted out in the car as I am riding through I-70

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.

Radio Ladio

I love my mom.
I love my dad.
I love my brother.
I love rap music.
I love gospel.
I love indie electronic-dance music.
I love running 5ks.
I love yoga.
I love video games.
I love my two dozen tattoos.
I love science.
I love teaching.
I love kissing people on the cheek.
I love dogs.
I love Jody.
I love my skin.
I love my receding hairline.
I Love Isaiah Rashad.
I love being from the south.
I love MF DOOM.
I love cosplaying.
I love races.
I love the name Virginia & Clementine.
I love chicken pad thai.
I love Terry Crews, The Rock, and Idris Elba.
I love pain.
I love soreness.
I love the 20 people who regularly read my blog.
I love progress.
I love cole slaw & baked beans on a sandwich.
I love when my roommate's friends leave alcohol leftover from a party.
I love my uncle.
I love my auntie.
I love Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World.
I love Radio Ladio by Metronomy.
I love white liquor.
I love gainz.
I love referencing strip clubs in Portsmouth.
I love Cousin Skeeter, Sandy, Beanie Baby, KAT, RisaLion, Jamal, and Renny.
I love plaid-collared shirts.
I love using nicknames for everybody in my contact list.
I love ugly sweaters.
I love rolling up the sleeves on my plaid-collared shirts.
I love doing Young Jeezy ab-lids.
I love cocoa butter kisses from old black ladies.
I love thick thighs and child-bearing hips.
I love NBA 2k.
I love Jon.
I love the security hard in high school who thought I was in a gang.
I love pizza.
I love dancing awkwardly on social media.
I love black superheroes.
I love christmas lights specifically when it is not Christmas.
I love apples.
I love black sitcoms from the '90s and early '00s.
I love trying my hardest.
I love Toro Y Moi.
I love when people pick-up the phone.
I love doing the Wakanda salute in Warrior 2.
I love Ben Wallace.
I love fried potatoes.
I love saying the n-word.
I love when people give me hugs without asking.
I love...

Radio Ladio by Metronomy was my first intro to indie EDM and needless to say, I completely lost my mind.

Been Ballin'

I thoroughly believe in the quarter-life crisis and all of its splendors.

The post-college limbo, the uncertainty of a profession, running rapid like a stray dog in heat (or a 46 year-old white man training for the Rock ‘n’ Roll marathon in Virginia Beach); this sometimes feign depression hits people in different ways. I decided to ignore most of these mid-20s dilemmas by completely submitting to everything.

Jody is the epitome of a quarter-life crisis; moving to Denver without any self-sufficient funds, leaving a job and partner with a tin of gin in one hand and a 40-pound kettlebell in the other. Staying in 7 cities in a year, mooching off of friends, going on dozens of Tinder dates, accumulating credit card debt are things that a 21 year-old Jody would not condone.

But Jody is also the epitome of a quarter-life euphoria; moving to Denver with blind optimism, starting 3 new jobs that will be hold dear, moving on from a relationship, dating people freely, doing yoga and mimosas on late Saturday mornings, experiencing almost every city in the Denver metro area.

From the age of 21 to 25, the soundtrack of my life going from “Angels” by Chance the Rapper to “Been Ballin’” by Ballout. One song inspiring hope and joy and optimism while the latter inspiring hope and joy and optimism with a side of a fickle and frivolous baller-ish lifestyle.

Every time my Newtons hit the pavement, every time my fingertips reach my toe tips, every time I toss a weight in the air is the only certainty I feel. It’s nice because most people do not even have that and it has chiseled off of the confusion of my 20s. I know exactly what my body will do and when and how it will do it. It won’t fail me because it can’t. Because I am not sure what I do without it.

"Been Ballin'" By Ballout ft. Chief Keef has been looped in my head from my favorite social media favorites King Vader and Lenar.

Hotwater Cornbread

I don't like the taste of cornbread all that much. Cornbread probably was created because Dollar Tree needed its own brand of box cake. It's one of the most overrated "a la carte" items on the soul food menu. What the hell is corn meal? Sounds like something you feed to pigs about to be slaughtered or what Big Baby Davis eats for his mid-morning late breakfast.

But cornbread to me has been one of the most referenced foods if you have ever held a conversation with Jody. It started over a decade ago with the movie Love For Sale;  two comedic relief characters performing the catchy song "Hotwater Cornbread" in a romantic comedy full of comedic relief characters. And it hasn't ended.

I used the song name for my usernames, gamertags, and occasional stripper name. Most people know I love nicknames and alter aliases (to where every person in my phone has their own nickname and personalized emoji). I find a name or an object or idea and my brain will loop the phrase or image until it is dissolved into my mind, for eternity. All of the movies, people watching, rap songs; one thing is snatched up from art and my brain has to have it and obsesses over it, like a crack-fiend. You may imagine how certain antics Jody does now comes into full play.

Fast forward to the spring of 2018. Hotwater Cornbread has evolved into Gentrified Cornbread and has become the epitome of who Jody is. All of the southern soul influences of food, culture, exercise (or lack thereof), people, etc. Everything I do has been refined to be more acceptable or polite in today's society, based off my ignorance of the word "gentrification"

- Adding chia seeds to pasta dishes
- Teaching a hour-long Vinyasa flow with Lauryn Hill serenading middle-aged white people
- Hanging pictures scientists of color throughout the hallways and in my classroom
- Running in well-lit neighborhoods but blasting King Sosa, Big K.R.I.T., & 21 while making aggressive physical gestures
- Making the devastating combo of pasta, red meat, and cheese in a hamburger helper but dumping sun-dried tomatoes, arugula, and sweet peppers in that bih for a veggie boast.

Maybe I am getting the definition of gentrification mixed up with "adding seasoned salt, black pepper, and garlic powder to chicken that hasn't been cooked properly"

Nevertheless (or nonetheless) the idea of gentrification to Jody has always had a negative connotation, especially with housing development. Of course renovated housing in Denver has displaced thousands of families to better suit couples with no kids who can afford high rent gourmet brunch spots on Sunday mornings.

Wait, let me restart.

Gentrification is supposed to make things more desirable, optimal, and beautiful. Right? The idea of Gentrified Cornbread is to improve on the design of everything imaginable. The food, the culture, the housing, the wellness, etc. Whoever the mayonnaise-colored man who started all of this kicking working class out to pop-up high-ceiling booty-looking houses left a bad taste in most people's minds. But a good taste if you ever get eggs benedict; I recommend you try Tupelo Honey's near Union Station. Simply sublime.

Until I saw my first piece of actual gentrified cornbread. It was pale. Not held together well. Chia seeds made it look like a rotting corpse that was stuck in a river for too long. Drier than the crevice of my thumb and index finger with no cocoa butter. Tasted like the one time I ate kibbles 'n' bits when I was 15 that no one dared me to eat.

Maybe scratch this whole entry or completely digest it, you're an adult. On paper.

This all started with the movie Love For Sale with two comedic relief characters in a romantic comedy full of comedic relief characters. And it hasn't ended.

I don't think it ever will,

"Hotwater Cornbread" by the fiction rap group K3 & No Doubt from over a decade ago started the chain of ridiculous nicknames Jody has given himself.

"Hotwater cornbread

I said,

Got popped by the feds

Now I'm seeing red

I pee'd in the bed,

I must be dead"

Navajo

It has to be noted that I don't think Masego in his song Navajo is a racist for making direct yet sexy references to a woman who he calls an "Indian" who people normally identify as somehow who has been there since the beginning of a relationship or someone who is rooted in their culture. Eh, maybe he might be a little racist. Still hits though.

I am going for a 4-miler and queued up 3 Masego tracks that keep my pace honest. I think about my worn burgundy sleeves that stretch about 3 inches past my wrist, how my knees look like I've been kneeling on mummy caskets, and if I should switch out my Colorado expired tags to my unexpired Virginia tags.

Finally have gotten back into teaching yoga which flopped after my full attention had been diverted to the school year. I routinely forget that I have my 200-hr yoga certification, and it seems like I am not to assertive about earning back that $3k.

Yoga has been by far the best physical fitness to practice to remediate me after yelling at precumbescents and having my award-winning hips planted in a car for 1.5 hour commutes lately. I still have night terrors that my booty will look like Hank Hill's gluteus maximus.

The butt which is famously connected to the hips is by far the most interesting part of the body to me. It can be a pancake or resemble to apples or have the texture of a spoonful of jell-o, or big and hard like something that may be big and hard. I obsess about the genetics that I am alley-ooping over to my young ones when they hatch from underneath their momma's buttcheeks which will be bountiful. What id I have one of those loser's kids who have no booty or maybe the kid who has to have butt-pads installed so it won't hurt when they sit because it is all bone, like wings from B-Dubs. What if my kid is twerking on someone and somehow elbow them with their own butt? Tragic,

Tragic.         

The song "Navajo" by Masego found its way into my playlist through it's hard bass and sexy sax solo towards the end of the song.