Pardon Me Lady, But Could You Please Shut Up

Yesterday, I had my first Bolt Bus experience. It’s the new alternative to riding the lame Greyhound or Peter Pan to get to and from a few major cities in the Northeast. My trip was between Philly (boo) and NYC (yay!).

I was excited to make this trip for a few reasons. Firstly, Bolt buses have free Wifi. How cool is that?? Nextly, it’s rumored that these buses have more leg room. If you are over 5′4″, you know how immensely important this is when traveling.

One of those two features turned out to actually exist. The leg room was totally there. As a matter of fact, there were times during the ride when I felt as though I would fall between seats. As for the WiFi…yeah, no. No WiFi to speak of. I was saddened by this, even though I didn’t have an extremely pressing need for the internet.

Once I realized I wouldn’t be able to browse Facebook on my computer, I tried to read. After about five minutes of this, I grew tired and so, I stopped. As I tried to close my lids, I heard a persistent flow of voices coming from behind me. I peeked between the seats and saw these two women who had been reunited an hour before we boarded le bus. These two hadn’t stopped flapping their gums since they got on the bus. I’m all for catching up and stuff, but at 9:00 in the morning? Really?

While I tried to drown out the high pitched sounds of their excited little voices, another set became quite prominent. This time, two people in front of me AND two people to my right wanted to talk and hoop and holler across the isles. At one point, they even engaged in a game of “Let’s Disturb All the Other People On the Bus By Changing Seats and Let’s be Loud Whilst We Do It.” I was thrilled, as I’m sure you can imagine.

As I faded in and out of sleep, I kept hearing conversations from all over the bus. I don’t get it. We were all up by at least 7:30am. And now we sit in close quarters with others. Why didn’t these people know anything about courtesy? Arg. Go take a nap or something.

 

When Life Hands You Lemons, Suck On Em

Let me start off by saying, “Pause.”

The past few months have proven to be among the most fun, emotionally taxing, and financially strenuous times I have faced to this point. I have dealt with a cornucopia of things, probably no more or less than you have faced. In times like these, you learn what you are really made of.

Whenever things get rough people want to say, “Buck up. Turn that frown upside down.” Or the hackneyed saying, “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.” While that saying serves as an attempt at a quick fix, I think I’ll pass.

I came to this realization yesterday while I was in the midst of a meltdown. For about 2 hours, I felt like my world was slowly starting to burst at the seams. As I tried to fight back tears on the grimy streets of Philadelphia, I flipped through my mental Rolodex of Bible verses, positive quotes, and advice from my mother and grandmother in an effort to keep it together.

As I walked and reflected, it occurred to me that the lemons of life aren’t necessarily there to be turned into lemonade…at least not immediately. These lemons, also known as the everyday stresses of life, or the not so everyday formidable experiences, are gifts as much as they are burdens and pains in the behind. Here is my logic.

I’ve heard Kirk Franklin and Lupe Fiasco say the same thing: “Struggle is a sign that God loves you.” Though it seems counterintuitive upon first read, it makes sense. The struggle is where the good stuff happens, and life’s best lessons get learned. Its where you learn to call on your God, solidify your faith, flex and build up your inner strengths, and lean on your support networks. Its where you make mistakes to learn from, and build on, that wisdom we all admire in our parents and grandparents. Its where we go through things in order to build up our self confidence, and to serve as a blessing for others in the future.

Before you can get to the good part of life, you have to go through the valleys first. Yeah, they suck. You get all bruised and battered, shed some tears, feel weak, etc etc. But we need them as much as we need the good stuff. When I become a millionaire, I’ll enjoy my wealth a whole hell of a lot more because I experienced brokeness first. If I never experience loss, I may not learn to appreciate what and who I have in my life today, and express that appreciation going forward.

Trying appreciate the bad isn’t easy at all. For me, it is takes a conscious effort to experience the “bad” and not want to discard it from my mind, wish it didn’t happen, or swap it in exchange for a fluffy slogan. Instead, I carp about it, throw a mini hissy fit, and then thank God for it.

So back the lemons. True, they are sour and make you pucker up your lips and make funny faces. But without them, lemonade would just be -ade. Who wants to drink that??

 

My Life and Times in Los Angeles: Day 1.

We hear about it on television. It’s glamorous. It’s sunny. It’s superficial. It’s “awesome”. It’s L.A. I had the pleasure of visiting Los Angeles for the first time this weekend for a conference (I had so much to say about the conference itself…please see later entries). Because I had never been there before, I boarded my 6:30am flight from Philly with all these grand images of what L.A. would look like running through my sleepy mind. Pretty colors. Tanned peoples. Smoggy skies. Palms trees. All that good stuff.

When I finally landed at LAX at 11 something AM (PST), I was highly annoyed by a few things. Firstly, my knee caps felt like they were going to fall off of my legs as a result of being cramped in seat designed for people who are 5’5” or shorter. Next, as I turned my phone back on, it read 2 something. This jacked me up, to say the least. Even after the time self adjusted, I could not wrap my mind around the concept of this time zone change thing. I think its silly.

After feeling like a herded mammal, I finally walked off the plane to see…nothing spectacular. From my understanding, LAX is one of the busiest, and from the looks of it, most outdated large airports in the country. So much for first impressions.

I made my way to baggage claim, waited for what seemed like an eternity for my one little bag and did some people watching. Baggage claim is one of those places that can bring out the true nature of the human spirit. Family members grab only their bag from the conveyor, leaving their grandmothers and children baffled. Children get pushed by adults for a closer spot to stand and watch the empty belt spin ’round and ’round. Young people push past older people, and offer little to no assistance with their bags. People bump into you like they want to start something, but then get all timid when you give them that look. You know what look I’m referring to…that “Don’t do it to yourself because today is not the day” look.

After watching an older man jump onto the moving belt thingy to unclog the passage from whence the luggage flowed, and having to give these young ladies my other look: the “if you keep sizing me up like that, you will get beat down or cussed out” look, I got my bag and proceeded to wait for the shuttle to the hotel. Fun times.

When I got outside, I expected flashing (flashing) lights (lights), but found none. No limos. No famous people avoiding being spotted. Slightly disappointed, and annoyed by the volume of people trying to push past me to get on the shuttle, I made my way to my final destination.

This was day 1.

 

Men Ain’t Worth @#!t…Right???

After reading a few posts by fellow bloggers (Slim Jackson and his pal Seattle), and participating in conversations with friends about men and relationships and such, I felt moved to reflect on…::insert dramatic music here:: “the independent woman”.

In the last decade or so, a phenomenon has swept the nation…the “Independent Woman” craze. The original Destiny’s Child sang about her time and time again, movies put her up the big screen, and women embodied her. The message is touted all over the place: “We don’t need no man.” This may be true in a basic sense; a woman that has “her own house…her own car…she a bad broad,” doesn’t need a man to provide those things. I am a member of a class of women that fall into this “independent” group; we have our own cars, our own jobs (or loan checks) to pay our bills, we are relatively well educated, and thus on track to have high earning potential.

Now ladies, I’m all for being able to have your own. Lord knows its important. But if we are not careful, we may begin to fool ourselves (and our potential boos) and fall into the trap. What trap is this you ask? The one that says women don’t want or need men.

That’s hogwash. Don’t believe the hype.

What type of women does not want a man at some point in her near or far future? Maybe the woman that is highly embittered by her relationship experiences, so much so that she can’t move on to the next. Or maybe the woman riddled with high levels of insecurity, so she huffs and puffs and walks around like she doesn’t enjoy the affection of a man. Then, there is the woman that has been hurt so badly, that she just can’t stomach the idea of getting close to the opposite sex in the near future, if at all. There are also those who just want to play the single, sexy, and free game. To her I say, “Play on playa.”

Well I’m going to let you in on a little secret…even the strongest, most successful, well educated, high earning woman, wants a man…a man who will make her “feel like a woman.”

In today’s word, women have to do a lot to get a lot. If she wants top notch career, or lots of letters behind her name, she has to learn to “toughen up” and stay focused. She may have to compete with men in these areas. And then she has to date them too? Geez.

As she’s doing all of this, she may develop a layer of protectiveness that at times may keep people at bay. It sorta comes with the territory. But as my friend Slim points out,

“While every normal man with at least minimal confidence would love to have a strong and independent woman, there comes a point where that independent attitude becomes a turn off.”

Men realize this. It is just as important that as women grow older, more mature, and more experienced, we keep this in mind as well.

Let’s see what Mary J. Blige has to say on the subject. In her song, “Feel Like a Woman” from her most recent album Growing Pains, she says,

“I want you to rescue me…I don’t want to compete, I just want to be the only girl that you need…I only want to do what you tell me to…won’t you show and prove…I’m tired of screaming independent…I want to start depending on you.”

When I first heard the track, I must admit, I was like…this a little too much; “Only do what you tell me too?” Whoa Mary. But as I listened to it more, and tuned in to myself, as well as my male and female friends more, I realized how true the words were. Women want to feel protected, and safe. We want to feel like we have a strong man to stand beside. We don’t want to be all tough at work and at home. We get tired of being independent. It’s draining. We want to be able to make our boos happy, while they works to make us feel like the soft and precious gems that we are. ::insert batting lashes here:: hehehe.

Just as important as the words are in stating what women want, Mary J. raises another point. “…Won’t you show and prove.” My good men, we challenge you see beyond the facade. We want you to be the strong manly men you are, trust and believe. Ladies, I challenge you to tune into what you really want, whatever that may be. Sadly though, because you guys are from Mars, and we’re from from Venus, we often speak different languages, but often say the same things. We have a lot learn about, and from, each other.

Let the learning begin.  Share your thoughts.

Disclaimer: Yes, I know I made sweeping generalizations. It’s fine.

 

The Big Move: Part Two

Hello friends. Its been a week since my last post about moving out on my own. During this time, I unpacked all my ish. The process was kind of annoying. I wrapped up glasses and other kitchen stuff in layers and layers of newspaper…then I had to wash all the stuff before I put it away. And all those trinkets. Dear goodness. But before I could even put my stuff away, I had to first wipe down and line the cabinets with some sort of plastic cabinet liner product. Arg. I digress.

After I had all the boxes emptied, and newspaper scattered all about the house, I looked around at my new pad with mixed feelings. Let’s start with the positive first:

I made some progress.

All of my belongings, or most of them, had a place. And I got to choose where that place was.

There’s no real pressure to be neat (unless someone is coming over).

This may sound silly, but its true. If I leave an article of clothing on the floor, and I don’t want to pick it up right away, I don’t have to. Plain and simple. No pressure. Thankfully, I am not a slob, and this feeling doesn’t keep me from wanting to keep a tidy home.

My TV, my choice.

I can watch what I want to watch, when I want to watch it. Unfortunately, I still don’t have cable yet, so my options consist of TV on DVD (Friends [don't judge me], Fresh Prince, the Cosby Show), or movies that I have seen at least twice before.

There is no question about who ate the rest of my favorite snack.

Why you ask? I hope you didn’t. If you did, proceed to the little “X” at the top of this window.

So yeah, thus far it seems that living alone has some perks. But its not all rainbows and butterflies. Observe.

I get…so lonely.

No friends in the next room. No one to laugh with or share a story with in person after an annoying day with the others. I walk up to my door in the evening, happy to be home, but saddened because no one is on the other side to greet me. Maybe I’ll get a kitten.

What if I want something from the kitchen…

And I’m all the way in the bedroom? I can’t holler out for someone to fetch a glass of warm milk for me. I must either get up and get it myself, or suffer without it. Damn it!

It’s weird grocery shopping and cooking for one person.

It’s stupid. I have to buy things in smaller portions. Or if I can’t, I have to risk that big ol’ bag of Tostitos getting all stale. I have to split packs of meat (pause) in half. Or buy smaller cans of tomato sauce. Buying in bulk is no longer an option. Now I’m sad. I like bulky things.

You have to do everything yourself.

No more sharing chores. I wash the dishes. I clean the bathroom. Vacuuming…is all me. Sweeping is too. All the bills? Yep, you got it. Me. Me. Me.

Now I have to get dressed up…all alone.

Going out used to be this cute little process…I’d run up and down the stairs looking at everyone else apply their make up and put their outfits together, whilst I did the same. We would offer each other advice or clown each other when something looked silly. Now, I have to fend for myself. What if my outfit looks silly? Who’s going to tell me before I leave the house? I guess I have to start “trusting myself”. W/e.

What’s that sound coming from the other side of the house ?

There is no one around to help me brave the dark of the night to investigate. Just great. Granted, I live on the top floor of my building, and the likelihood is that no one is in my apartment. Even still, I get worried.

As you can see, most of the negatives have something to do with being alone. After living with my close homies under one roof for the last 6 years (4 if you don’t count the time I lived on campus), this is a pretty big adjustment for me.

Thankfully, I am a big girl. I’ll be alright. Sigh.

 

My Beef with the Cops

The cops stay getting at me, yo.

On Saturday night, my friends and I tried to go to a club in Philly (1st mistake). We drove from the crib (house) after getting all dolled up, to the club and we started looking for parking. Now ladies you know about this: when you wear pumps to a party, and you drive, the objective is to find parking as close to the spot as possible. So we drove around for a lil bit…and boom…we find a parking space on the same block as the club! ::insert heel clicking here::

Once we pulled into the spot, we looked around for any signs that we shouldn’t park…there were none. We put some money in the meter and sashayed our way to the club. (By the way, the line was ridiculously long. I was highly annoyed.)

As we stood in line, it became clear that we would probably not get in before the advertised time to receive free admission. So while we devised our backup plan, we made a trip back to the whip (car). As we sashayed our way back up the block, what did I see? Mr. I’m-so-lame-cuz-I’m-a-bike-cop ticketing the car in front of me. I scurried in my pumps to see if I too got got, and sure enough there was a coupon tucked ever so gently betwixt my wiper and my windshield.

Get ready. This is when I start to lose it.

After it hits me that this man has ticketed my car, the conversation proceeded as follows:

Me: Officer, why are you ticketing these cars?

Mr. I’m-so-lame-cuz-I’m-a-bike-cop: There’s no stopping here.

Me: Um, where the F does it say that? That sign says 7 AM-12 MID. We put money in the meter.

Mr. I’m-so-lame-cuz-I’m-a-bike-cop: On the signs.

Me: Um, there are no signs. [Sidenote, usually when there is an area designated for no stopping, usually there are signs tied to every meter. On this faithful evening, no such signs existed.]

Mr. I’m-so-lame-cuz-I’m-a-bike-cop: There is a sign. Its tied to that midget meter at the end of the block.

Me: That sign was not there 20 minutes ago and you know it.

My Friend: Yeah, word, that wasn’t there. I looked.

Mr. I’m-so-lame-cuz-I’m-a-bike-cop: Fight the ticket ma’am.

Me: (As he tickets the next innocent car) You’re an f’in jerk. I hope someone pushes you off your bike.

Now, I’m not one to go around mouthing off at armed state officials all willy nilly. But when they piss me off, they can get it too. While I was cursing out the first bike cop, Mr. Fat Bike Cop comes rolling up the street, so I stop him to ask him a few questions.

Me: So that officer said that there is no stopping in this area. Why the F, aren’t there signs tied to every meter?

Mr. Fat Bike Cop: Well, blah blah blah, what it looks like, blah blah blah, is that someone took the signs off the meters.

Me: So why the hell haven’t you put them back on? Isn’t that your job? Don’t the police put the signs on? And why is there just one sign magically still on the midget meter? This is bull and you know it.

Mr. Fat Bike Cop: Ma’am you should, blah blah blah, probably calm down, and let me answer your question.

Me: You tried to answer. You’re answer is BS. Do your job and put the signs back up and stop harassing the young black men on motorcycles [this comment stemmed from witnessing a cop yell and curse at black man on his motorcycle for looking at this cell phone]. Fat bastard. And I’m not paying this ticket.

Then I closed my door and proceeded to drive off, pissed and disgusted with the Philadelphia Police Department. If I was black man, I know things would have probably proceeded a little differently. Care to offer some scenarios?

I’ll let you know how the court date goes.

 

Less money…mo problems: Part Dos

As promised I have returned to deliver part dos about a topic that is highly relevant in today’s sorry sorry world…the oh so elusive dolla dolla bill yall. I posted part one of this topic a few weeks back.

So what has changed since that post? A whole lot. Of nothing. At all. I, like much of the rest of America, still find myself strapped. No, not with my 9mm. I find myself in this awkward tween stage that all victims of higher education face. I go from having money (albeit loan money,) to trying to sell rocks, I mean books, for a little extra cash. Yes, I am employed. But I think someone is playing a mean trick on me. My money might as well have the Milton Bradley guy on it, cuz its practically useless!

Example: I was in Pathmark the other day, getting a few things for dinner. Please oh please, tell me why Pathmark brand pasta was $1.29 a box? We’re not talking about Ronzoni here. Just good ol’ Pathmark brand. And what about Marsala cooking wine. $4.59 a bottle. WTF? Milk? Forget about it. If you buy your own groceries, you know what I’m talking about. If you don’t, boo to you.

I can’t even drive to NY anymore for my weekends o’ fun and adventure. My little “gas efficient” car costs over $40 to fill up. And lets not talk about tolls. EZ Pass gives me feeling like I’m getting over or something as I drive through the tolls, like I’m not really paying…then the statement comes…and I cry inside.

Instead of continuing to gripe, because Lord knows I could, I’m going to share some ways I have tried to ease the tension on my purse strings.

Create a budget.

And work to stick to it, within reason. Start with living expenses and bills first. Make sure you have a line for personal spending…we all like to go out to eat (notice the way I didn’t word that phrase) or buy a new pair of shoes now and then. And please pay yourself first. Put a little away in a savings account or a shoe box, if you want to keep it old school.

Don’t by stuff you don’t need.

Yeah, I don’t really like this one either.

Sign up for mobile/email updates.

These are helpful because they let you know what’s good with your account, good or bad. Balance updates and direct deposit notification are my personal faves.

Don’t be afraid to negotiate, or ask questions.

Ah, my saving grace. Ask those credit card folks or insurance people for extensions. Ask them about fees and “fixed” deadlines. See if they can be unfixed, or re-fixed. What’s the worst that can happen? They say no? You’ll still be screwed anyway, so just give it a whirl. You could be pleasantly surprised.

Until next time…um…yeah.

 

Hip Hop blows right about now.

Yes, I did say it.

I LOVE music. All kinds of music. I have been known to rock out to a lil of everything (note: this list is not at all comprehensive) : Jay (first and foremost), Lupe, Kanye, Common, Coldplay, India.Aire, Usher, Alicia Keys, that new Leona Lewis chic, Beenie Man, Linkin Park, even some Dixie Chics every now and then. Deep down though, I love hip hop (some say rap, but w/e). I love the feel of it ; the way you can turn the volume and bass all the way up in your car and watch the rear view mirror shake (or hear car parts rattle as a result of the same); the way it almost instantly causes to you bob your head, bounce, shake, or wave your hands in the air like you just don’t care.

And trust, I’m all for the club bangers. We need that music that makes you lose it at 1AM, after you’ve had a lil dranky drank. But, I can’t listen to club joints all the time. Every song is sounding the same. Same lame flows. Same corniness. You have these fools releasing singles talking about “You see me, Hi Haters”. No. “Bye” to you Maino.

I am so tired of hip hop right now. All the beats are sounding the same. All the rhymes talk about the same things: Money, bling, “hos”, slinging rock, and clothes. Great. Thanks for nothing. What’s worse than the limited topics though: there is no real creativity. Music in general seems to cover a very limited scope of topics, with good ol’ love (or loving) consistently at the top of the list, which is fine. But seriously though: who the hell is giving these guys record deals?? We could do without Hurricane Chris, Young Berg, and a bunch of others. And even Soulja Boy Tell Em. He can go too. True, “superman that [young lady]” was cute and fun, but I’m sure the world would have continued to revolve around the sun had that song never been made.

An example of creativity and newness: V.I.C.’s “Get Silly.” Or Hot Stylz “Lookin’ Boy”. Creative concepts. Interesting approaches. A few witty lines here and there. Can these guy do it again though? I dunno…

What happened to longevity? Remember MIMS? Perfect example. He released a song that was lame but new, so everyone got all gassed. True, he made some pocket change from ring tones and such. Good for him, really. But, dare I ask: where is he now? Not on the radio. Hopefully, he is somewhere spending his money wisely.

You know who I blame it on? New York radio. That’s right. And other major cities, too. AOL Radio is a national radio station of sorts. Why the hell haven’t I heard 1 New York artist in the last 1.5 hours? No Philly artists either (you don’t even hear Philly artists in Philly so…). Chicago? I know yall have hot artists. Lupe, Common, and Kayne can’t be it. Cali? Hello? Texas? All this bust-it-baby and drop-and-give-me-50 hogwash…it’s gotta stop.

And this concept of “rotation” sucks. Playing the same bum song every hour…please. Take a risk. Go out on a limb…and ::gasp:: play something new, maybe even different.

I blame it on us too. We, the consumers, encourage this lameness by buying, downloading, and requesting it. Stop. Just stop. I find myself bumping albums that came out years ago because of music’s current state. It’s sad.

Disclaimer: Just in case this came across as me being anti-Southern rap, I’m not. I’m just anti-lame rap, period. We have our share in NY too. Juelz? Yayo? I’m a lil embarrassed by them.

Thoughts for food: I need some new music. And chances are you do too. When you come across something that is legitimately hot, exercise the kindergarten based concept and share with others. I heard some stuff by this new guy, “Tyga.” Its still under review.

Any suggestions on songs or CDs I can “buy”? Spanks a mil.

 

The Big Move: Part One.

Graduating from undergrad often marks entry into the “real world”…but not for ya girl. My delayed version of the real world has been full of rather predictable transitions: the start of new semesters, buying new books, getting to know new people, etc. True, I moved to a new city (yay Philly…) and started a new school, both of which came with challenges: trying to make it in grad school, getting used to those man capris and Philly beards, hearing sirens 24/7, and the list could go on. Thankfully though, I was blessed to make these moves with people I knew and loved (pause…shout outs to them…you know who you are). So while I had to get used to a lot of things, having this sense of familiarity and comfort made the transitions easier.

Fast forward…2 glorious years later, I find myself…how do you say…at a bittersweet point along the proverbial road of life. All year, I knew this change was coming. And as the inevitable approached, a crapload of emotions cycled through me: excitement because I could finally have normal sized bedroom; sadness because I would be leaving those who I have come into my flyness with; fear at the thought of having to cook for myself…all the time; confusion at the idea of “living alone”, like, what the hell is that??

I had been consciously and subconsciously delaying the move. I signed my lease months ago, but still had the luxury of staying at the old place, so I did. Over the last few weeks, I watched all the roomies leave the house one by one. I helped pack up rooms filled with great memories. Drunken, I mean, sober, fun. Late nights talks about randomness. Making fun of each other. Making fun of others. Man bashing. Days of doing nothing. House parties. Marathons of The Wire. Dinner parties. Beef with the landlord. Fostering a neighborhood cat. Drama. Stress. Lots of wine “tasting”. Oh yeah, we did work sometimes too.

So Sunday was the big day. After church, I picked up the U-Haul, and filled that bad boy (take that take that) up with all my goodies. Not to be confused with “my goodies”.

After hours of sweating, rapid breathing, and heavy lifting, I was officially moved in. Yay because my body was aching, and I was tired of lifting stuff. Boo because here I was at last, all alone in an apartment full of boxed up stuff, an empty fridge, and a bed that needed to be put back together like Humpty.

Stand tuned for Part two.

 

An evening with the good ol’ NYPD

What happens when you mix 300+ Black people (mostly men), loud music, good food, and tasty alcoholic treats, on the streets of NYC? You get the NYPD primed and ready for action.

Last night, I attended a very well known Greek event, in Harlem USA. The event started as it usually does: a couple hand-fulls of people casually socializing, eating plates of food, and guzzling down cups of “purple drank”. This crowd grows from a few, to a few hundred in a matter of hours. Its an interesting sight to observe. As the night grows later, people spill into the streets, talking, flirting, laughing, having minor altercations here and there…you know, nothing out of the ordinary for a large gathering of this sort.

As the crowd grows, so does the police presence. For me, the presence of the police often leave me feeling a little uneasy, especially when I’m with my good Black men…Why? Because I fear the worst.

Police rolled up the block a few times, flashing (flashing) lights (lights), and whooping whooping those damn sirens. One car turns to two. Drive-bys (no, not those kind) turned to stops in front of the frat house. Sitting in the car turned to po-po getting out of their cushy cruisers and walking up the street, hands on 9s and billy clubs. Sounds like a recipe for trouble? I certainly thought so.

Thankfully, even after the beautiful and highly illegal fireworks show, the evening went on without any police altercations or arrests (to my knowledge). While this is something to rejoice about, please believe the good ol’ boys in blue worked to be as obnoxious as possible by blaring that really really annoying high pitched pulsing siren sound thingy for about 20 minutes straight in an attempt to disperse the hyper, yet non-violent crowd, and restore peace to the block. Unfortunately for them, they just gave people a reason to stay longer. What’s the reason you ask? Nothing too fancy…it was just nice to see their silly and somewhat childish tactic fail, because people were still on the streets when I left after 3am. Take that take that.