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