(Recently, Cara Wilton asked me for me to write a guest post for her blog, “The Compact Camera”.  The following is posted on here.)

The beauty of street photography is that, unlike other disciplines within photography, it is pretty much left up to “eye of the beholder”.

Troll around Flickr, 500PX, Tumblr, and other various aggregators of photography and you’ll find that just when you think you understand what classifies as “street”, someone else gives you an entirely unique spin on the genre.

And that’s where I believe that I come in.

You see, there is school of thought that edgy street photography must come from midtown Manhattan, Los Angeles, London, or Tokyo.  And while I spend a great deal of time within the epicenter that is Manhattan, I prefer to explore the unseen parts of “The World’s Greatest City” (like “Washington Heights” and the Bronx).  In addition, I have the audacity to explore urban New Jersey such as the ungentrified parts of Jersey City, Paterson, Newark, and Plainfield.  By no means does this give me credibility amongst hipper photographers, but it allows for me to tell the story of oft-ignored cities.  These are cities which were left behind from America’s industrial past.  The attitudes of its citizens provide insight to a word that rarely sees The Shore and is a train ride away from the hope of New York City.

What I dislike are “voyeurs” who see urban America as some sort of zoo.  People will come with their dSLRs, their daypacks, a bottle of water and trek around “safe” areas snapping away.  It strikes me as if they are saying to themselves, “Ooh, look at how they’re living!”   Not only is this paternalistic, but devalues the surroundings.  I think that it is best to shoot areas which you know or have a general interest in.

As an adjunct professor, my students laugh at the fact that I actually walk the streets of Paterson, Union City, Newark and Jersey City.  I believe their minds have been trained to see their towns as ugly.  Yet,  their eyes are aglow when they see some of the shots.  They can’t believe that this is Their Town.  Photographers, especially street photographers, should see this as their mission whether it’s their own neighborhood, their favorite part of town, or a new city.

I think that it is important that I reference these cities, because I’ve seen a lot of street photographers make a name for themselves by putting the camera in the face of a random person.  While that may be the modus operandi in larger cities, where I shoot, that style is a license to kill.  The streets of urban New Jersey is a mixture of hardened veterans from The Glory Years and recent immigrants.  The former isn’t keen to “tourists” and the latter may have even greater concerns when their identity is revealed.   I have to make sure to use a bit of common sense on what to shoot and walk to avoid.   Some areas have a vibrant “underground economy”, obviously those transactions are never documented by my lens.

I enjoy being part of the environment.  I talk to the residents, I go to the stories, I interact with store owners.  This places everyone at ease with me, shows that I genuinely care, and allows my camera to capture intimate moments.  By being an active player in the community, I am in sync with the  rhythm of the neighborhood.   Conversely, when not in full view, not only does the photographer look as if they’re prying in an intimate moment, but they lose “feel” of situation.  Look at any great photograph.  The essence of that moment is captured because the photographer knew when it was time for the shutter to click.   Basically, they knew The People.

There are times which I rethink whether I need to leave my point-and-shoot and “graduate” to the dSLR.   Right now, though, the point-and-shoot fits my needs.  I do use manual settings, but I do not have to worry some of the concerns that come with adSLR.  Often, I find that people are less intimidated with the point-and-shoot as, in their minds, it looks “less professional”.    I’m thrilled with the results.

Only a year into street photography, I like the direction my work is going in.   I think that I’m able to catch beauty in what the “average” eye may simply walk past.  I hope that my shots capture an identifiable moment like the lyrics to your favorite song.  And if any picture can do that, then the photographer has reached their goal.

Law school is nothing like photography.

Of course, you don’t need me to state the obvious.  (Otherwise, Tim McCarver would be out of a job during FOX baseball coverage.)

See, in law school, you were primarily left to your own devices.  Beyond getting by with the help of your (close) friends, if you didn’t understand The Rule of Perpetuities, do you really think someone else is going to explain it to you?

I loved the education I received at my law school, but one (in)vaulable lesson was never to give anyone tips to the trade.  And that’s been my credo ever since graduation.

A year ago, as I started getting commentary on my photographs, I was asked by someone what did I use for post-processing.

I simply stated a free online program.

Wrong answer.

My sister explained that in terms of photography, that’s the wrong attitude.  It’s about sharing techniques, learning from each other, and advance the art.

Talk about an attitude adjustment.

But she was right.  (And still is.)  Over the last eight months, I’ve been in contact with a lot of great photographers who are more than willing to exchange emails, provide advice and commentary, with the hopes of making me a better photographer.  The likes of Shawn Hoke and Tieshka Smith have been invaluable in their lessons and motivation.  (I will be sending Mr. Hoke a bill for the countess roll of film I’ve developed over the last several weeks.  Meanwhile, Ms. Smith is just an all-around cool person to know.)

My chance meeting with Henry Adebonojo at SummerStage’s ”Africa Day” was phenomenal.  To have a person with so much talent available at the click of an email, and willing to provide help and advice, is unbelievable in a world that gets competitive every moment.

In pushing the educational level a step further, I’ve been fortunate to participate in two Google+ NYC Streetphotographers PhotoWalks.  Not only did I have the chance to witness the techniques of some top hobbyists, but I’m walking the streets of New York with Leanne Staples and Vivienne Gucwa, amongst others, was akin to being a kid fresh out of high school, going to Yankee Stadium and standing next to Derek Jeter, Mariano Rivera, and Alex Rodriguez in the locker room.  You’re able to watch what made them great, but a bit hesitant to ask them for any tips because you don’t know if it’s your place.  (They, as do all the others associated with the group, are very welcoming people.  I just need to get over my acute shyness.)

Sure, there are old school types who believe that their “craft” is not to be shared, but when I asked “Kora Foto Morgana” about her post-processing, she was none too happy to explain her approach.  Just that simple message helped bring another life to my images that looked too bright, and at times, too harsh.

As I continue to explore different avenues in photography, it is delightful to recognize that I’m entering a hobby that is as varied as they eyes behind the lens.  But what is even more impressive is that the hearts belonging to those eyes are just as big.  It is this shared knowledge that is helping me become better every day.  I only that I will be able to return the favor to others.

Besides, who has actually ever met an attorney with a heart?

(Don’t answer that.)

Prolouge: By no means do I call myself a “street photographer” in the vein of countless others who have sites far more popular than mine.

Nevertheless, one question I get from my friends and “followers” is whether I’ve actually been confronted when taking photographs on the street.

I often tell them that (a) I know my environment and (b) I know who to shoot. I find this to be essential when taking pictures of strangers who are in the midst of their daily activities. I don’t believe that “street” shooting should be compared to going on a safari. Instead, I find the ultimate goal should be to illuminate the mundane and express its hidden beauty – without surprise, scripting, or being intrusive.

To that extent, my experience this past Friday was a lesson in how people don’t understand the nature of street photography and how this misunderstanding can lead to a volatile moment.

Time and Setting: Late afternoon, perfect sunlight and shadows
The Scene: Jersey City, New Jersey. Off Bergen Avenue. McGinley Square Area.
The Actors: Me (as photography), two adult men, and three children

(Cue: “Bewitched”-esque opening sequence music)

Action.

Because I knew the shot would involved children, I automatically asked the permission of the two adults. Both gave their enthusiastic approval. Perfect. And the I proceeded to take approximately 20-40 shots of them enjoying the early Fall afternoon. Laughter was the order of the day with the children hamming it up for my Canon PowerShot SD780.

(Cue: The Angry Woman exiting the salon next door and threatening music.)

“The hell you’re doing taking my daughter’s picture?!”

From there insued a heated five minute discussion where I explained to her that I had no idea it was her daughter and that the store owner gave me permission to photograph the children. Little did I know that the children were only his daughter’s friend, not his children.

Fortuantely, the store own “protected” me – as best he could.

“Don’t you know you need the mother’s permission?!”

Again, I explained that it wasn’t apparent that this child was without a parent. I had permission from the apparent adult in charge.

(Cue: The On-Lookers who only hear the word “children” and “pictures” along with the soundtrack of confusion, like The Bomb Squad production or something from EPMD)

“What kind of pedophile are you?”

“Don’t you know the law that you need permission to take a picture of a private citizen?”

To the first, I responded that I had permission. And she promptly left.

To the second, I reminded the “Street Lawyer” that I can take pictures of anyone in public provided I’m not selling their likeness for profit.

“Oh, and so you’re a lawyer?”

I pulled out my business card. Checkmate. He leaves.

Still, the problem remained with the mother. As much as I tried to cool her down, she had this impression that I was doing something nefarious. Even the store manager said, “He’s a good man. I saw his site. He takes good pictures. Very respectful.”

“Well, he wasn’t respectful enough to ask me! Get rid of the pictures!”

And she proceeded to stand behind me while I erased twenty-five pictures. Photographs that were some of the best I’ve taken in a long time.

“Sorry,” stated the store owner as he tried his best to understand my position.

Epilouge: The lesson is that no matter how earnest photographers may be, there is always a person on the other side of the lens who may not “get it”. And when they refuse to understand, it places not only the shooter in a precarious situation, but has the chance to place all urban photographers in a bad light. Fortunately, for me, it didn’t get violent, but it did get a hairy for a moment.

There has been a lot of debate on a popular street photography site as to whether is it wrong to snap a picture without permission. To that, I say, like a typical attorney, “Well, it depends…”

And the ultimate variable deals with children and their parents.

(Cue curtains and “One to Grown On” chimes.)

“It’s not me, it’s you….”

I know that what I just wrote was trite, but in this situation, it really isn’t me.

It’s you.

See, I came to you on the rebound.  After a seven-year relationship, dating back to my days in the Bronx, the long distance relationship just became a bit too much.   I essentially scheduled my weekends around my ex.  I would be forced to leave my New Jersey home early on Saturday mornings, only to arrive in Washington Heights to find out that my ex wasn’t ready to see me yet.

Then I tried to be slick and catch my ex on Sunday mornings, but even then, my ex would be late for a variety of reasons…hanging out too late the night before, not receiving my phone call the night before, or simply not checking messages.  My ex knew how much I loved my Atlanta Braves in summer and New Orleans Saints in the fall, but wasn’t well-versed in sports to understand my “schedule”  My ex could care less about politics.   But most unsettling of all, my ex has a very myopic view of relationships.

Essentially, we were doomed to fail because my ex just didn’t get “me”.

That’s when I came to you on a nice fall afternoon two years ago.

Saw you inside the nicely scrubbed storefront and entered.

I was straightforward.  I told you my name and simply told you what I wanted.  (I was never known for having much game.  Those who I met before you attest to that.)

The cool part was that I didn’t ask for too much more than you could handle.  Soon, we fell into a nice routine.

I’d send you a text or quick phone, normally on Saturday mornings.  And you’d let me know if you were free.  If you weren’t, you’d be quick to let me know what time you’d be ready.  You knew that I am a busy man and don’t want to spend too much time waiting.

Two years later, it’s time for us to come to an end.

See, like most men in their late 30s, I know exactly what I want out of a relationship.  Always looking for perfection.  I’ve learned that perfection can never be found, but I can make certain to come damned close.

To quote my favorite line from Georg Levin, “I’ve found somebody new who has a different view on what we’ve had…”

(And by “we”, I’m mean you and me.)

The new person is everything you desire to be and could be one day.  Sadly, you’re not that now.

This person does exactly what I ask.  No questions asked.  They take an interest in me – something you’ve never done.  They’re reliable.  Dependent.  And not up for childish games.  Most importantly, I’m not a hobby to them.

I know you’re young, but a song from the New Jack group, Guy comes to mind:   “So here’s the news…I’m ghost.  I’m outta here!  Long gone!   The Lover went and left, so baby, you stay strong…”  (The Overweight Lover is often apropos in these situations.)

By the way, my new barber has led me to get great reviews…so much so that my old students, new clients, boss, even  The Muse, notice the change in my haircut, shave, and general appearance.

In other words, yes, it really was you.

Not me.

Who knew the 1989 American Music Awards would signal a sea-change in American music.

If you ask me, when George Michael beat “the soul deity that is Luther Vandross” for Favorite R&B Male Vocalist, blue-eyed soul was coming to an end.  (And if you don’t believe me, George Benson’s eyes proved it.)

To paraphrase the great De La Soul album, “Blue-Eyed Soul Is Dead”.  From that night forward, it would be hell for a pop artist to crossover to the R&B chart…unless it was Whitney Houston (and we all know that was a desperate attempt to remain relevant.  Plus, surprise, she’s Black.)  Today, American pop music is nothing more than pre-fabricated productions with no trace elements of soul.

So,  I figure it’s time to look back at the top six blued-eyed soul acts of my generation.

When formulating the list, I’m immediately taking out artists  groomed for “urban” radio.  This means that Jon B. and his faux-soul cannot make the list.  (Besides, he’s a Babyface creation.)  There can be no Lady T, who is more funk than pop, and we bless her for that.   Prince’s protegees TaMara & The Scene and The Family?  Not here.   And as much as I love her, Lisa Stansfield oozes so much soul that it’s a shame she never had a bigger impact.  (I always maintain that her “Real Love” and “So Natural” are the epitome of ’90s soul – so much so that the latter was never released in the United States.  As Funkmaster Flex would say, “You better cop that joint!”)

In no particular order:

Go West, “Eye To Eye“.   When I think of Go West, I often think of as the UK’s version of Hall & Oates.  From their initial single, “We Close Our Eyes”, you could hear Peter Cox’s voice and know that he studied The Philadelphia Sound as child.

“Eye To Eye” was their third release from their debut album.  The song never charted, but made an immediate impact on me from the first time I heard it.  There is an element of Bobby Caldwell in Cox’s voice and the song seemed as if it was a response to Caldwell’s classic “What You Won’t Do For Love”.  Given the right steering, the song could have easily had an impact on R&B radio or at least,  evening adult contemporary.   Sadly, Go West’s record company never took the chance to speak to a twelve-year-old growing up along the banks of the Mississippi River.

ABC, “The Look of Love“.  When you look up Blued-Eyed Soul with a British accent, you’ll see Dusty Springfield.  And Martin Fry.

Fry fits the dictionary, if stereotypical, view of the genre.  Dashing blonde hair with the voice that could have easily made him one of his generations best soul singers (if not for The New Romantic Movement and the aforementioned award George Michael won).  ”The Look of Love” was so contemporary, and yet a throwback, all at once.  The lyrics were heartfelt taking the listener on an emotional rollercoaster that is called “relationships”.  The synths, and neo-disco strings, and Fry’s voice made these the quintessential soul record.  And if it wasn’t for the Georges Seurat-esqe video, America would have sworn that Fry was Black.

Simply.  Good.  Music.

Culture Club, “Time (Clock of The Heart)“, “Colour By Numbers”.   I steadfastly maintain that if you took away Boy George’s makeup, you’d find the British Smokey Robinson.  ”Time” is the best Smokey Robinson homage this side of ABC’s When Smokey Sings”.  Again, the simple bass and lush strings were the perfect alternative to American R&B in post-disco 1983.    One couldn’t ask for anything more.

If only to solidify Culture Club as a 1980s blue-eyed soul force, the group came back in 1984 with “Colour By Numbers”  In the annals of Blue-Eye Soul, this was a classic.  Part-pop, fully soul, the album was genre-bending enough to be enjoyed by young and old, Black and White.  ”Victims“ was the best record many of you have never heard.   “Black Money” was blessed with Boy George’s vocals and Helen Terry’s response.   “Miss Me Blind” was contemporary blue-eyed soul at it’s best.  Complete with a guitar solo, warm bass, and Boy George’s voice, the song captured the best Culture Club could offer. Meanwhile, “It’s A Miracle” featured the incomparable Terry’s scat over a soulful groove.  Who knows direction the group could have gone in had it not been for Boy George’s gimmicks and drug habit?

Hall And Oates, Anything From 1981-85.   Listen, there is nothing that I can say about the duo that hasn’t been written or thought about.  And I’ll avoid the obvious “Philadelphia soul” cliché.  You select any one of their hits and it has soul all over it.  ”Sara Smile”.  ”Kiss On My List”.  ”Make My Dreams Come True”.  ”Private Eyes”.  ”One On One”.  I’ll make special mention of “Adult Education“ and “Method of Modern Love“.  The former is one of Hall & Oates songs that everyone seems to skim over.  But there is a vibe that is unmatched on any of their previous songs.  More of a harder edge to it.  And at the end, Darryl Hall drops sixteen bars for good measure. (Okay, so the rhyme is a bit weak and it’s not sixteen bars, but you know what he’s trying to do.)  ”Method”, on the other hand, is relaxed.  But the closest the group comes to truly taking the next step to urban contemporary music.

Bobby Caldwell, “Open Your Eyes”.  You’re not a soul aficionado if you’re not familiar with Caldwell’s hallmark, “What You Won’t Do For Love”.  And while you love Common’s “The Light”, it’s the sample that showcases the true soul.   Caldwell’s “Open Your Eyes” is that paean to his love.  (In fact, around my part of the world, he might even reference her as The Muse.  But then again, I digress…)  As with the format for the above-mentioned songs, Caldwell’s song is simple – basically a piano and his voice.  The emotion is true and blows out the candles off the competition.  Play this on a warm summer night.  Everything else is just details.

Honorable Mention:  Rick Astley’s ”Whenever You Need Somebody“, Dan Hartman’s “I Can Dream About You” (Don’t be fooled by the video.  Hartman isn’t Black.), anything from Dusty Springfield, George Michael’s “Hard Day“, and Jazzanova’s “Let Your Heart Beat Free“.

A special thanks goes out to the man who convinced me to switch majors from political science to communications studies (rhetoric).  He’s been good at helping debate lists like these since S.A.W, August 1991.

As one of my closest college friends can attest, I’m a glutton for sports talk radio.

If you ever need proof that New York baseball fans are not the brightest, just listen to WFAN when someone calls to propose that the Mets should trade Dylan Gee for Josh Hamilton and Elvis Andrus because “the Rangers need pitching and cannot afford to have these two stars come 2015″.

Imagine my head exploding two years ago when Yankee fans were furious that then-Mets reliever Billy Wagner had the nerve to come out to “Enter Sandman“.

Now, as we all know, Mariano Rivera had no idea who Metallica was when the metal classic was assigned as s his “entrance” song.   But those opening riffs became synonymous with the future Hall Of Famer.  And to some, the song was his alone.

When you think about it, there isn’t enough thought given to closer’s theme music.  The songs seem random.  I mean, I’m not sure about Brian Wilson’s connection to Boston, hip-hop, or Ireland, but “Jump Around” really doesn’t strike fear into opposing batters.  Hell, I can recall Mike “MC” Lin gigging  to the rhythm back in Allison Hall,Northwestern University, circa 1993.  To see young boys and grown women with fake beards, waving signs and jumping, is more akin to a party than coronation.

To paraphrase MC Search, “It’s [2011], son and somethin’s got to change.”

The way I see it, the relief pitcher’s theme song is his identity.  When is played over the public address system symbolizes not only the end of the game, but who is about to burst through those bullpen doors.  Consider back in the day, relievers were essentially eccentric pitchers who failed as starters.  Gene Garber, Dan Quisenberry, and Kent Tekulve had their sidewinding motion.  Al Hrabosky was named “The Mad Hungarian”.  And you couldn’t be in the bullpen without wacky facial hair.  (Ah, the ’70s, how do I miss thee?)  Today, these are highly paid players who can’t last more than an inning.  The least they can do is give us something that we can relate to.

The way I see it, the relief pitcher’s theme song has to be akin to the wrestler entering the ring.  The fan must know who it is from the opening note.  And the song must say oodles about who this man is and what we as fans are about to witness When I think of the days of Mid-South Wrestling, I think of one of the most famous individual theme songs in “sports”, er, acting history.

Did The Junkyard Dog, with a dog chain around his neck and “Thump” down his thighs, enter to Harold Melvin & The Blue Notes’ “The Love I Lost“?  No!  It was Queen’s “Another Bites The Dust”!

NOW!  THAT’S what I call a theme song.

Yes, “Enter Sandman” is cool and says a lot about Rivera’s shutting down the opposition.  But by his demeanor, we know that he is no badass.  (Actually, he appears to be quite docile.   Maybe too docile.)    Plus, the song was bestowed upon him.  A great closer?  Sure.  But he and the song are no love connection, Chuck.

“Killa” Craig Kimbrel, my personal favorite, uses “Welcome To The Jungle”.  (As does Joakim Soria.)  How many times has that tired riff been used to “excite” an a sports crowd?  Ever since Jeremy and Travis got the Davenport North H.S. football team “hyped” back in 1990.   We went 4-5 and yes, missed the playoffs.

Guns & Roses is phenomenal on a public address system, but has all the personality of a Derek Jeter interview.

Jonathon Papelbon’s “I’m Shipping Up To Boston” by The Dropkick Murphys?   Meh.  I’m a bit more partial to The Standells’ “Dirty Water”.  Even if it is more of a victory cry than symbolic of the player running in.    And since Sox faithful already use “Diry Water”, why not liven it up and go with some that is so cliché.  (When a New York sports host is using a song that is defined by a Boston player, yes, it’s cliche.)

The best entrance song not used?  Public Enemy’s “Get The F*** Outta Dodge“.   You get the frantic aggression that is a Bomb Squad production which is certain to amp everyone in the park.  Even if the song is twenty years old, the hip quotient is high if only because no other player is using the song.    Sure, the song really isn’t instilling fear as it more about playing loud music and standing down the police, but just the beats alone make it a treasure.  I never said you actually had to play the lyrics!

Second best?  Eric B. & Rakim’s “Follow The Leader“.  The fact that my New Orleans Saints did not adopt this song during their title run is enough to make me upset.  So why can’t a reliever use this one? Imagine the P.A. system bass when the opening beat of the song rock the stadium.  ”Fear The Bead”?  Nah.  ”Fear the fastball.  This game is over!”  Plus, you have the dizzying beats which states to the opposition, “We’re on top!”

As a baseball fan, I’m far from a traditionalist.

All I ask is that our relief pitchers remember they’re entertainers.  And consider the fact that every hero has a theme song…which is unique to them.

Six days into 2011 and I’ve yet to follow through on any of the banal resolutions that I set for myself when the clock stuck midnight while walking the streets of the Bronx nearly a week ago.

I’ve yet to go to the gym.  I’ve yet to change my eating habits.  I’ve still yet to call my grandmother (though she did call me during the Northwestern game).  And I’ve still yet to book a flight to my spiritual home, New Orleans (but I swear, I will do so).

Beyond the simple universal resolutions such as “to get better” or “to make everday count”, I resolved this year to take a bit of my own advice.  This means, I need to write more.

By writing more, I don’t mean to blog more.  Trust me, having a blog today is akin to having a Rubik’s Cube back in 1983.  It’s no longer fascinating.   (Hell, I barely even tell my friends that I have it save for the occasional link on Facebook or Twitter.)  Plus, we all blog for different reasons.  Some being aspiring professionals, others hobbyists, and other just want to rant.  Nevertheless, the idea of placing our ideas into the ether is somewhat thrilling…except for those who may aspire to run for political office one day.

No, by writing more, I literally mean placing a pen to the pad.  (Thanks, Chuck D. for that immortal line.)

At the end of every semester, I tell my composition students that the only way they can become better writers is to write more.  I explain that they live in world that transition from word processing to computers to handheld PDAs which allows them to communicate their thoughts in an instant.  And often, with words that contain all the emotion of a lyric sung by Rihanna.

That’s in stark contrast to the first twenty-five years of my life.  From the earliest days of elementary school, I used to write my favorite baseball players.  I wrote Dale Murphy how I hit a towering home run.  Chris Chambliss was told of how I made a great defensive play.  Rickey Henderson learned how I stole bases, mimicking his loose fingers just before I took my first step.

I would transition from sending fan letters as a child to having “pen pals” in junior high.  The exchange of correspondence to other young adults living in Australia, Sri Lanka, and other far off places gave me insight into the lives of others, while allowing me to thoughtful explain my place in the world.

However, the most important letters would come during my years in college and law school.  I would set aside my Sunday evenings to compose letters to friends at other schools.  In the days before email, my letters were a personal journal of my experiences in school.  The letters carried a pathos that allowed my friends to understand the emotional rollercoaster that is the ride from freshman to graduating from law school.  There were no need for emoticons and shorthanded language.  It was all about the thought behind the words with the only intensifier coming though the use of an underscore or a strikeout when a word was spelled incorrectly.

Even my first few years in New York was punctuated by letters and postcards that detailed my adventures at a new job, in a new city.   And the various women I dated would marvel at the letters and cards that they received via post.  It was a tangible symbol of affection that could be retained even if I was down the street, in another borough, or even another state.  My feelings were documents and could never be questioned.  (Or so I thought.)

And then technology took over.

As stated by a friend last week, with the immediacy of emails, the personal connection is lost.  For me, I’ll receive an email from a friend, read it, “star” it on Gmail, and never come back to it.  It gets lost in the shuffle or simply forgotten.  I try to write my emails with the flowing prose of my letter writing days, but I realize that my friends are far too busy (or tired of reading a computer screen all day) to appreciate the effort.

To paraphrase The Buggles, “Technology killed the letter writer.”

So, my goal for the next year, is one that I hope will carry through for the rest of my living days.  I would like to write at least one letter (or card or postcard) to someone who I deem to play an instrumental role in who I am today.  It may be the same person in consecutive weeks, it may be different people.   But in a world which is becoming radically closer everyday, the human touch is still what’s missing.

And maybe single-handedly, I’ll help save the post office.

(Make sure you email, text, or FaceTime me next year to find out if I followed through on my resolution.)

For the most part, I deem myself to be a man of decision.  I know what I know, and while I’m willing to explore issues more and able to adapt, I know what I like.

I love my favorite sports teams.  Have a jones for Happy Joe’s pizza and Whitey’s Ice Cream.  Hate beef.  And will never allow a condiment to touch a sandwich or a hot dog.   Decisions come easy to me.  I only applied to two colleges because my mind was sold on one and the other guaranteed admission.  For law schools,  only a handful because I didn’t desire to be anywhere else.

Yet, when it comes to looking for clothes, I’ve been inflicted with a trait known as “The Half Check”.

This phrase was coined years ago when a friend had the (mis)fortune of shopping with me.   I walk through a number of stores, look at dozens of shirts, review scores of ties, and spend hours in the process.  She bore witness to this tireless process of indecision.  “Yeah, it looks good but…”  or “I like it, but let me see if I can find something better…”   At the end of the day, there would be money in my wallet because I needed time to think about which shirt and tie was best suited for me.    As the grand plan went, “Oh, I’ll come back next week and buy the one I like the most.”

Essentially, it’s gone past the initial stage of “like” but not quite ready for a commitment.  And yes, it drove her bananas.

Without fail, I would return to purchase the shirt that I liked the most.  Only for the store to (a) not have my size or (b) sold out with no chance of restocking their inventory.  I’m left in a lurch and my friend was say, “That’s what you get with The Half Checks….”, while shaking her head in mock disgust.

Despite a variety of alleged remedies, The Half Checks have stayed with me for decades.

I caught another case this past spring.  While walking around Manhattan, I found a pair of great Camper Hella shoes for the weekend.  If any shoe was “me”, these were the ones.  It’s just that I didn’t need the shoes, and figured that I’ll come back some time soon.

Blame it on the heat, but my time in Gotham City was limited this summer and I never made it back the store.  Last week, I recalled those same shoes and checked online so I could place an order.

To paraphrase Ken “Hawk” Harrelson, “(Shoes.)  Gone.“

Damned Half -Check!

The person versed in Freud may claim that “The Half Check” symbolizes my fear of commitment.  Or always wanting to seek all available options before settling down.  In other words, the reason why this thirty-seven year old man is still single (to the dismay of his parents, sister, and friends).  But one has nothing to do with other especially since I’ve spent the better part of my post-law school years involved in one LTR after the other.  So I haven’t followed Beyonce’s advice, but I’ll still admit that my relationships are far more legitimate than her “marriage”.  (Really, what man would be coy about being  married to Beyonce?)

I’ll justify The Half-Check by saying that it  is not me being wishy-washy.  I just need to assure myself that this article of clothing is one that I can see myself wearing for an extended period of time.  Therefore, this is not a situation calling for snap judgments.  (“Style is time.  They say fashion’s only now.”  Or so sang Darryl Hall.)

In other words, I’ll admit to being worse than a sixteen year old girl looking for an outfit for her first date.  I’m that particular.

There is no known cure for The Half-Check.  I’ve been told that if I see something I have to buy it.  But that’s impulse shopping.  Why would I ever consider doing that?

But I will face my fears head on this weekend as I look for clothes to complement the onset of fall.  For many of you, it will be an easy task.  But if you see me wearing the same clothes from last year, you’ll understand it’s because I’ve still yet to shake The Half-Checks.

“‘So-And-So’ is a fine ass nigga….” – Facebook Post

“So, my friends and I saw a couple of niggers hanging out in front of the bar….” – Neighbor

Honestly, I can careless about a private conversation between Mel Gibson and wife.  Further, if a Black woman calls Dr. Laura and expects to get sympathetic advice about her interracial marriage, then obviously that woman hasn’t listened to an hour of anti-compassionate conservative.

I am particularly disturbed at a generation of non-African-Americans cavalierly using “nigger”, er, “nigga” while talking with me (and probably countless other African-Americans).   And before you fly off the handle, I’m not referencing a a generation of Latino youth who have added it to their lexicon.  (Raquel Cepeda has a fine discussion on this topic.)

Instead, I’m puzzled at White youth who have appropriated the word and made their attempt to redefine it’s meaning.    This was not part of the deal when President Barack H. Obama was elected just twenty months ago and a calvary of commentators hailed that our nation was entering a “post-racial” age.

What galls me is that these kids feel comfortable without  the presence of mind to consider their words. There is no uneasy pause, no gratuitous “I’m sorry if this offends you” (even though the speaker knows that it will), no filter.   It is apparent that we are not in need of a national conversation on race or  ”nigger”.  Instead, each person using this word must be told privately, and directly, that this word can’t be tossed out because you can’t think of a better word to describe a person of color or your friend.

Several times over the past few months, I’ve been told by these people that I’m being “overly” sensitive to the word.  Not surprisingly, these have come from individuals who are in their early twenties with questionable educational backgrounds.    Maybe it is not fair for me to generalize, but their insufficient vocabulary is noted when they use such a word.  It particularly noteworthy because anyone with a working knowledge of recent American history (let’s just start at post-World World II America) would realize the cultural and political significance of the word.

This tends to escape them.  Or maybe, they slept through their American history course.   Or maybe, they just have a myoptic view of contemporary America.

It is too easy for anyone to finger popular culture.  Just as violent movies have a tacit correlation to crime, for-profit “urban” culture does not give these individuals license to use this word in my presence.  I am not acting out a corporate fantasy of “urban life” on a music video or some early 1990s movie.   Just a quick glance at me and they will readily understand that I’m a professional having attended one of the nation’s premire universities and law schools.

Or maybe,  they don’t see that.

The use of this word by non-African-Americans in a conversational context trivializes my presence.  It is a subconscious reminder that despite my age, profession, or believed “status” in their eyes, they see me as equal to them.  Or even less.   Sure, they can argue that this is not their intent, but then again, if they understood the meaning of the word and it’s use, this is implied by their word.

Like many African-Americans, I’ve been the recipient of someone spewing the word to underscore their misunderstanding of me simply because of my pigmentation.  That alone prevents me from hearing “joy”or “friendship” it is used.  These people can’t play the “I-Didn’t-Know-Your-Personal-Pain” card because they needn’t know what I’ve been through.  Common sense should act as their compass on terms to avoid.

(And I refuse to engage in the “why can Black people, and some Latinos, use the word, while I can’t” discussion in this blog.  I’ll save that discussion for a future “Real World” episode.)

“Nigger” or “nigga”.  No matter how they drop the “r” and emphasize the “a”, they will never understand the impact that such a word can have on the ear of the listener.  It’s been said that a word can be whatever you make it.  In the end, it’s up to the user of the word to understand the consequences of their limited vocabulary.

In terms of celebrating popular culture, the New York metropolitan area loves its icons.

Paterson, New Jersey has a monument to Lou Costello.  The Port Authority Bus Terminal honors Ralph Kramden.  And just this past week, Times Square remembered ”The Kiss” with, yes, another statue.  It’s just a matter of time before someone erects an image of George Jefferson on East 96th and Lexington Avenue (heading south) or on 59th and Lexington Ave. (heading north), which proclaims “Welcome to the Upper East Side…Movin’ on up!”)

So, when it was announced that the New Jersey Nets filed formal papers requesting a name change for the 2012-13 season, everyone was chiming in with their recommendations for the nickname of the new Brooklyn basketball club.

The Association need not hold a contest.  I have the new team name right here.  I say that Brooklyn should honor its greatest basketball export…Freddie “Boom Boom” Washington.

I present to you…your very own, Brooklyn Boom.

Now, hear me out.    When it comes to Brooklyn, there are a great deal of icons.  Junior’s, Fulton Street, BAM, Ebbets Field, and the Marcy Houses are known all over the world.  But it was “Welcome Back, Kotter” with the image of grey, industrialized 1970s Brooklyn and a simple theme song that brought the “fourth largest city in America” to our homes on a weekly basis.  This program alone solidified Brooklyn in the soul of a nation soon to be gripped by the passionate throes of disco.

The Boom’s eponymous character, portrayed by Lawrence Hilton-Jacobs on  “Welcome Back, Kotter“, was the star of the James Buchanan High School basketball team (though he perpetually seemed to be in his junior year during the history of the show’s four year run).  And while we may never be quite sure about Washington’s success after his salad days of high school, I can assure you that Mr. Washington represents the essence of Brooklyn.

Yes, even more than Black Frank White.

When you think about it, “Boom Boom” Washington IS Brooklyn.  Sure, he’s from a bygone time when Brooklyn was provincial, more akin to a series of small communities, as opposed to a united borough, but he represents core elements of Brooklyn which remain true to this day.   “Boom Boom” presence filled the classroom in a way that Brooklynites can fill a room.  (Just go to a party and cry, “Where Brooklyn at?!”   See what I mean.)  Brooklynites don’t have to announce they’re there, you can simply tell from their style of dress.  It’s already noted.

The new, well, old, basketball team must showcase the essence of their new city  in a way that a Knickerbocker, their dreaded rivals, can’t.  Kings County residents can see a bit of themselves in “Boom Boom” Washington.  From the downtown cool of Brooklyn Heights, to gentrified Park Slope, to the great unknown of Bushwick, to hipsterfied Williamsburg, and to the “Edge of the Earth” Bay Ridge, Freddie Washington incorporates all of you.   He’s fashionable, opinionated, intelligent, loves a good time, all the while looking out for his neighbor.

At at time when Brooklyn is becoming more for the haves than the have nots, “Boom Boom” Washington has his feet in both worlds.  He’s firmly striving for greater heights while maintaining a sense of reality.

Imagine, the Brooklyn Boom with their alternate uniforms.  Sure, Phoenix has “PHX“, Atlanta has “ATL, and I love how Golden State simply has “The City“.  The Boom will be outfited with the signature phrase “Hi There” scripted across the chest.  A basketball, with the silhouette of the Brooklyn Bridge, creating that broad smile.  Freddie’s ‘fro will shadow the ball and topped with his knit cap.  As the kids would say, “The Boom’s logo is mad retro, yo!  I gotta cop one before my bestie gets their gear.”

(And for the old Heads out there, “boom” is classic onomatopoeia used in a variety of hip-hop hits.  See, so the team name pays homage to the Boogie Down artform stolen, but perfected, by those who graced the very streets you walk today.  I’ll even let Funkmaster Flex high-pitched voice and “explosion” sound become the Boom’s sound effect to get the B.C. crowd amped.)

This goes without saying that the Boom will also serve as a political protest of sorts.  I doubt that the powers that be would be clever enough to realize that “boom” is the sound of the dynamite that helped create, the still unconstructed Atlantic Yards and Barclay Center project.  It will be a subtle reminder that thousands of those displaced will never be forgotten each time their beloved basketball team paces the parquet.   (Hey, if “She Bop” and its not so subtle support of masturbation can be a Top 40 hit in 1985, then veiled political references can grace a professional sports team in 2012.  Yes.  We.  Can.)

I’m certain that whatever the current New Jersey Nets choose as their new moniker, it will not have the cultural relevance of the Boom.  But I ask that you keep the pressure on them.  Make sure that TV Land gets behind this to signal their 1970s classic programming.   Call WFAN and 1050 ESPN.  And yes, sport the ‘fro to show solidarity.

Together, we CAN make history.