Hey Y’all,

            Yesterday was busy.  Got some reading and writing done, visited my wonderful aunt in the hospital—she’s doing fine, went to Kwanzaa, and ended the night at church, what we use to call “watch meeting.”  It’s believed that “watch meetings” began December 31, 1862, as slaves “counted down the time” for the Emancipation Proclamation to “take effect.”  My wife and I have never been “club” people, per se, but we have always loved live music.  (No disrespect to the listserv members living in other places, namely New Orleans, Atlanta, New York, Chicago, Detroit, and Los Angeles, but Mississippi still produces the best musicians.  They may all be playing in the church now, but they are still the best musicians.  In fact, Jazz may have been invented in New Orleans, but it was crafted by Mississippi musicians who went to New Orleans looking for work…But, I digress.)  Anyway, Monica and I have never spent New Year’s Eve at a “party.”  In our twenty-two years together, we’ve always spent New Year’s Eve on the couch eating chicken wings and drinking Root Beer Floats.  Even after leaving “watch services,” we would return home to wings and floats.  This ritual of wings and floats was originally our Friday night ritual that somehow became our New Year’s Eve ritual.  However, has many of you know, I no longer drink Root Beer Floats because that’s about 330 to 660 calories, depending on the size.  And, I rarely eat after 7:00 p.m. because by then I’ve usually consumed my 2000 calories for the day.  So, this morning as we were leaving “watch services,” Monica stated, “Since I can’t have my wings and float, you’ll have to read your poem about it.”  So, I’ve attached that poem, “Root Beer Floats and Chicken Wings.”  It’s a bit dated because it references a time when people still rented VHS tapes, but I hope y’all enjoy it.

            Also attached are pictures of me in a Christmas gift from my younger cousin Nikki because I’m always bugging young people about wearing t-shirts with faces of people about whom they know little or nothing.  Usually, they are wearing t-shirts with the faces of Bob Marley, Angela Davis, and Jimi Hendrix.  Of course, when I see this, I am inclined to ask, “So, what can you tell me about the person on your shirt?”  And, consistently, the saddest response is from the young people wearing a Bob Marley t-shirt:  “I know that he smoked weed.”  To which, I often respond,  “If that’s all you know about one of the greatest socio-political artists, I should choke you until your eyes close…permanently.”  Then, of course, I begin to spew lots of facts about Hendrix, Marley, or Davis that they couldn’t be bothered to know.  Yet, sometimes, it becomes a pleasant conversation as the young person learns something about the person on their chest.  But, I just can’t fathom that I would wear an image of something or somebody about whom I don’t have an idea who they are.  Even as a young person I wouldn’t do that.  What if that person goes against everything I hold sacred, like fried chicken or making sure we have that good grape juice during communion?  As such, I tell them that one must know at least three things about a person before one wears a shirt with that person’s image.  One young man actually said to me, “Man, I know that Bob Marley smoked a lot of weed, had a lot of children, and was shot.  Dat’s gangsta!  What more do I need to know?”  It was at that moment that I realized that we are living in the last days populated by reality tv babies.

            Then, one day, at a family gathering, I was grilling my cousin Nikki, and someone asked where are my t-shirts.  To which, I responded, “I only wear t-shirts to exercise or clean the house.”  I continued, “I can’t remember the last time I left the house wearing a t-shirt.”  I know that it was 1988 the last time I wore jeans of any kind, blue or otherwise.  (And, as an aside, it was 1989 since I listened to the radio…well the radio that plays the current hits.  I do listen to the Saturday morning Blues Workshop featuring Pops and Mississippi Sinatra aka Po’ Spoonie.)  As far as I’m concerned, t-shirts are for exercising and cleaning not for fashion.  And since no one there could believe that I don’t own or wear t-shirts as “fashionable outer wear” my cousin Nikki got me this cool gift.  Now, I feel like a rock star ‘cause I know at least three things about the person on my chest.  Yet, after this one-time wearing, I’m going to frame and hang it on my office wall because t-shirts are for exercising and cleaning, but what my cousin Nikki gave me is a work of art.  Later.

C. Liegh McInnis