The NABJ Chronicles, Part III

Well, in Parts I and II, I pretty much went through the chronology of my weekend.  The third installment is kind of like my Jerry Springer monologue, where we wade through all the insanity to find a message that all of us can take forth so we can take care of ourselves.  And each other.
I left Tampa with one question — when did cats start thinking it was cool to speak to women that are engaged in conversation with a man without saying any of the following….
1.  “Excuse me.”
2.  “What’s up, man?”
3.  “My bad.”
4.  ANYTHING AT ALLOne thing about NABJ — it’s an out of town trip.  The older I get, the more I realize that out of town trips are the same, no matter how old you get.  Whether it’s a church convention when you’re a kid, spring break in college, sales meeting at your job, whatever…the game is still the same.  I don’t even think I need to tell you what the game is.  You know the score.
That leads to some outright thirstiness.  Cats go no-holds-barred to try to have a story to tell by the end of the weekend.  Of course, if you’re running game that’s only gonna work for the weekend, your pimpin’ is a bit substandard.  But hey, it’s not on me to tell them how to play the game.  Do what you do.
Just don’t do it when I’m having a conversation.
I wanna say there were about six different times during my afternoon/evening in Tampa where I had some cat totally ignore my presence to talk to a woman.  Sometimes it was platonic.  Sometimes it wasn’t.  Each time, it was a flagrant Code violation.
Look — that shit only flies if you’re Morris Day.  And you know what?  All he did in “777-9311” was beg.  We have no proof that it worked.  Plus, as I say in this post, he got it wrong.
“I gots to be cooler than this cat you’re sittin’ with…”
Yeah, patna…but can you throw hands with him?  I’d knock the conk off Morris Day if he ran that nonsense in my face.
Or maybe not, seeing how I didn’t fight in Tampa.
One different cat interrupted no less than THREE of my conversations with women, and not once did he say anything to me.  And it isn’t just that he didn’t speak to some stranger.  He KNEW who I was, from my name to my occupation and work history…and never once said a thing.
Look…if you’re at a party, and you see a woman that you know, a woman that you’ve already spoken to that day, and she’s talking to a man, you take your happy ass on somewhere else.  We all know those are the rules, right?  You don’t know what she’s doing.  You don’t know what he’s doing.  More importantly, you don’t know him.
You just know enough to know that you don’t know, so you know you need to check back later if it ain’t no kind of emergency.  Right or wrong, cats die for stuff like that.
At least that’s how they do things where I’m from.  And you know where I’m from.
Earth.  That’s where I’m from.  Earth.
But that’s just one cat.  Don’t wanna come down too hard on him.
I’d rather come down on one motherfucker in particular.  I’m sure that some of you think it’s harsh for me to refer to him as a motherfucker.  After all, motherfucker is one of the words I don’t use on this blog because it can be a tad excessive.
But I have to call this guy a motherfucker.  Why?
Because, while I was sitting talking to a woman, dude slides up to the side.  I ask my buddy to my left a question right fast, and this dude starts spittin’ some of the most tired rap I’ve ever heard.  Cat called himself campaigning for someone.  At the club.  At 2 in the morning.  To someone that had company.
This prompted me to, loudly, ask my buddy, “do you think this motherfucker sees me sitting here?”
So yes, we have to refer to him here as a motherfucker.  Must not be his name.  He heard it and said nothing.
There is little as disrespectful as this, but it’s an NABJ calling card.  Wait your turn, man.
For example, if the motherfucker in question had waited his turn, he could have had all the time in the world to find out that said woman had a boyfriend, and he was swimming upstream.  I figured that out early and just enjoyed the conversation (talking to a smart, pretty woman >>> pretty much everything else).  But I wouldn’t be breaking in, violating the Code, for a woman I’m not about to sleep with.  That’s like breaking into someone’s house to find out they’re Amish.  Won’t need any help lifting the TV, will you?
Clowns.
This happens every year.  One year, an old head did the same thing, following a woman and me from room to room to room, spittin’ game dead in my grill to her, and without shame.  I just let it happen.  She had a boyfriend, too.  I wasn’t macking.  Whether he knew it or not, neither was he.
This is especially improper behavior at a work convention.  We can’t handle this properly.  If a cat is gonna try to pull something from right off your arm, he’ll also utter fighting words.  If you’ll do the first, the second is within your realm.
Can’t be fighting at the convention.  That’s a great way not to be able to get a job down the line.
So you just sit there and get disrespected.  The woman isn’t your woman, so you can’t tell her to shut it down.  You just post up and play it cool.  Or as cool as you can.
This, gentlemen, has to stop.  Now.  It’s inhumane to give a cat legitimate cause to step to you when he can’t.  All rules of workplace decorum are centered around stopping people from taking matters into their own hands.  Why?  Because we can’t fight at work.
By the same token, we can’t fight at conventions.  However, there are no rules outside the convention center.  There’s only the Code.
Please, fellas…abide by the Code, OK?
(Also, if you work the door at a club, and someone comes running in to look for a phone, and they try to get past you, PLEASE don’t say they are “disrespecting you.”  Everyone respects what you’ve got to do, but man, if you’re gonna go to the mat over being disrespected — hate to say it — but the clubbing industry might not be where you wanna work.  Your authority is minimal.  Unless you’re a no-neck boy, you just gotta be polite.  I don’t make the rules, but it’s what it is.  Just a thought.)
So that, ladies and gentlemen, is a day in Tampa in three installments.  Great to see all the folks, and thanks to all those who offered hospitality and kind words.
To the clowns — step your game up.
To both of them and all groups in between — see you in San Diego.