The King of Marvin Gardens

I'm butter like Parkay, far out like Stargate
Get bored and walk on niggas like Park Place
-- me, circa 1995

So I'm at Walgreens the other day with wifey, and we decide on the spur of the moment (as is often the case in a home with two artists) to buy some board games. She buys a four in one set that features tic tac toe, backgammon (which I now have to reteach myself how to play), chess and checkers. I decided to buy Monopoly, which I had talked about buying for months, yet -- like many noble tasks that I talk about -- never got past the blabbering stage. It doesn't take much to get me excited: man we own MONOPOLY! Opening up the box reminded me of so many memories of past games.

• October 2, 2002: Down to my last $20, but owning Park Place and Boardwalk with a hotel on each, your boy swiftly manuevers his way through the minefield and comes back to win the whole frickin' game.

• January 19, 1991: Lost, but watched in amazement as an unnamed friend of mine patents the practice of buying all the cheap properties on the first side of the board, swiftly putting hotels on each of them, then failing to buy anything else the rest of the game. When teased about his pride in redeveloping such crime-ridden, poverty-laced slums such as Baltic Ave., my friend replies, "But y'all some soft suburban niggas. I got the 'hood on lock." Unfortunately, his $100 rent doesn't add up quickly enough to pay the debt when he lands on Marvin Gardens (with three houses), and then -- on the next roll -- Pennsylvania Avenue (with a hotel). He went bankrupt and the projects on Connecticut Avenue haven't been the same since.

Okay, I don't really have many more memorable games than that. (I'm really more of an Uno and Scrabble dude, and I'll smash anybody in Connect Four.) But it's time to get started. My wife and I are both nice people, but hopelessly competitive. It should be fun. If I wind up at your doorstep at three a.m., though, just let me in. When she loses, Wifey be on some old, won't talk to you for two days type madness. But I can't talk, I be on some old won't talk to you ever again type madness. Monopoly. Fun for the whole family.

Haven't done much in the way of scouting locations for my movie, since, due to prior commitments that I was recently reminded of, the earliest I can hope to shoot is the first weekend in June. One of the locations is walking distance from my house. Have I gone inside? Called the people there to ask permission? No, I drive past it every night and come home and watch basketball. But I did buy my DV camcorder online as well as order some new business cards. And I'm placing in ad in Back Stage West looking for all my actors.

The short is called "How Shawn Parker Fell in Love." It's a 25-page, loosely autobiographical script about a playboy who falls for a girl after rescuing her from a suicide attempt. No, I am not a playboy (regardless of what lies my high school or college friends might tell you) and no, my wife never tried to kill herself. But it's still loosely autobiographical. I originally wrote the script about three or four years ago, but due to the fact that I was in the beginning of my burnout from Hollywood politics (I am just now returning), it just sat and collected dust. But it's time now. I'm going really low budget, as I'm coming off my own credit card. It's a risk, of course, but so is wasting my life waiting on an infrastructure that doesn't care about me to come knocking on my door.

American Idol calls me a like a sexy ex-girlfriend. I think it's the devil's ploy to make me less productive than I already am. Paris is at the point where I'm questioning why she's even on the show. I'm like, "You're 17 and cute and have a once in a lifetime talent. In addition, you're the granddaughter of the lady from Sounds of Blackness. You coulda just went out and sang in the middle of Times Square and got a deal." She's too good for them. I like Mandisa. And Katharine MacPhee is who I'd be rooting for if Paris wasn't the second coming of Billie Holiday. Chris and Ace are holding it down for the fellas.

As for my musical tastes, someone asked me why I'm always shouting out old music. There are some younger cats doing it today, but mostly here's why. I've really been on Stevie's Talking Book lately, especially "Lookin' For Another Pure Love" (Jeff Beck's guitar solo kills it) and "Tuesday Heartbreak."

Otherwise, just chillin'. Enjoying my Pistons' dismantling of our so-called biggest threat, the Miami Heat. And why have I been mesmerized by Adam Morrison all year?

Dude is bony, has an ugly J, plays no defense, but why is he my favorite college player since Penny Hardaway? And why is he still not the most revolutionary player in college right now? Back to Morrison, it looks like the NBA owners and suburban white fans will finally get their wish. Meanwhile, March Madness is getting ready to rumble, so we can watch the further deterioration of my bracket.

Not my greatest work, but nobody beats the Biz. (Or Elgin Baylor.)

Later.

My neck, my back, myneckandmyback © Ezell from Friday

Man, what a week. Where do I start? I had a ball with my boy Reshard in town. We went to the Clippers-76ers game last night (no Iverson, so sad) and then headed out to Roscoe's Chicken & Waffles for... chicken & waffles. Don't laugh if you've never had it, those in the know know where I'm coming from. He talked me into going out and playing ball on Monday, knowing I ain't been in true ballin' shape since... man, I don't even want to expose myself like that. But friends have a way of getting you to do stuff that you know you probably shouldn't do, so me and him and his brother went over to the Westchester Y to shoot some ball. The first game felt awkward to me, but my biggest surprise was that, endurance wise, I was in much better shape than I had anticipated. By the second game, I felt more in sync with myself. Unfortunately, my teammates didn't see the same things that I saw, so after I missed a couple of shots (badly, I might add), they pretty much froze me out. During the third game, I jumped to block a shot and felt a slight pull in my back. I disregarded it, until a few plays later when I jumped to block another shot and felt a STRONG pull, like someone punched me directly in my back. Remember the dude from He-Man who had the big iron fist? Yeah, it felt like he punched me in the back. That was it, I was done. I went and laid on the ground like Larry Bird in the '92 playoffs until the game was over. Even now, it still bothers me a bit when I lay down.

So I came home and told my wife what happened. She laughed.

Me: Just cause I'm 29 and had a back problem doesn't mean anything. Tracy McGrady is younger than me and he's got back problems too.

Her: But he's a multi-millionaire.

Me: I want a divorce.

But on to better things like a hip-hop forum... Wednesday was classic! You may remember that I mentioned my co-worker Markus who is an ill hip-hop beatmaker and producer. Well, Reshard and I have been rhyming on and off since junior high and I can honestly say that we're two ill cats. We bring out the best in each other and with his brother in town from D.C., it was just adding fuel to fire. So the three of us drove over to Markus's crib in Koreatown to hear his beats and we ended up freestyling to them for about 2-3 hours straight. It was sick. For those who have doubts, this is something I wrote last week:

Your boy JGil stay phat like killer whales
And impale all these frail MCs with tall tales
Talking bout your hoes & clothes, defeating foes
I suppose that your nose looks like Pinocchio's
Who's the grimiest and who's the graviest?
Subterranean like the US Navy gets
Divine like blamelessness
I'm out to game on just
Any MC who write rhymes with aimlessness
I destroy any scrub whoever try and stop me
Leave your family shook, waiting on the autopsy
Wonderin how you got mutilated and strangulated
Separate your crew like my flow was segregated

But that was written. That night, the three of us were coming straight off the dome, unrehearsed, and uncontrollable for hours. And Markus's beats were SICK. In June, he's supposed to get the rest of his equipment in (the reason why our classic session went unrecorded) and Reshard's gonna fly back out so we can lay it down.

Back to b-ball, March Madness is in full effect. (Sorry, for the old school slang, I've been listening to a lot of Public Enemy this week, trying to figure out how Flavor Flav ended up with this.) My bracket looks like a war zone already thanks to teams like Iowa (well, at least Steve Alford can start getting ready for the Indiana job) and Kansas. Thankfully, I chose the George Mason and Montana upsets, somehow. But as long as my Final Four teams are still around (Duke, UCLA, Boston College and UConn -- intriguingly, the same picks as Dick Vitale), I figure I'm in OK shape. I love this time of year. I remember in high school, on the first two days of the tourney, we'd race down to the cafeteria, get our lunch, then head back to the AV room to watch the first games. March Madness brings the country together: it makes you root for the Bucknells, the UNC-Wilmingtons, the Wisconsin-Milwaukees and other schools that you would normally never think about, all for the vanity of having a perfect bracket.

Music: I've been listening to Gil Scott-Heron obsessively this week. I'm back to fooling around with my keyboards again and songs like "A Song for Bobby Smith" and "Home is Where the Hatred Is" (I see you, Kanye) have been a big inspiration. Books: Been too busy to read any lately, but here's one I want to read soon. Angela Nissel is a hilarious writer and a really nice woman that I had a chance to meet back when her first book, The Broke Diaries, came out. I actually was able to have a conversation with her and didn't get all starstruck like when I met Zadie Smith. But for real, y'all, Angela Nissel. Support her.

That's it for now. Next time: scouting locations for my short film and more March Madness madness.