sum and saf strike again.



yeah, it's the (comma) yo kids hitting you up again with a collabo blog. last week, we presented a retrospective of the bet 25 soiree. this week, we take aim at neo-soul nigs.

"How to tell if You're a Corny Neo-Soul Nig."

You had an ankh-shaped wedding cake.

“Orange Moon” was your wedding song.

You call your kids your “seeds.”

You call your girl your “earth” or your “rib.”

You call your grandparents your ancestors.

You cover for failing to pay the electric bill by lighting candles for so-called ceremonial purposes.

You have matching thumb rings.

You can’t get an erection without the following: 1) Sade playing in the background; 2) aroma therapy candles; 3) pouring libations; and 4) chanting to Eshu.

When it rains, you dance and when you dance, it rains.

Dudes- you call other dudes “Sun” (and not on some Mobb Deep shit).

You call females “Queen” (on some Halle Berry shit).

You own Jill Scott’s poetry book, all of her albums, a concert tee shirt, and you’re cryogenically sealed your flyer to her after party.

You own the following CDs: N’Dambi, Ledisi, Adriana Evans, Lizz Fields, Julie Dexter, Donnie, Ursula Rucker, Yahzarah, Geno “Junebugg” Young. (self-roast. sum owns all this shit.)

You have an ongoing monologue about the various dimensions of your personal energy.

Your mood corresponds with the weather, like a mood ring and shit.

Dudes – you wear Jesus sandals.

And you put your ‘locks in assorted, intricate up-dos.

If you don’t live near a beach and have a cowrie shell anywhere in your vicinity…

Carol’s Daughter in your internet bookmarks.

You went to Philly just to see Black Lilly.

You’ve never been to Philly, but you know what and when Black Lilly is. (self-roast.**)

You own the DVD of “Sankofa: The Director’s Cut.”

Your dog is named Zion.

Your son is named Zion.

Your daughter is named Zion.

You changed your name from Leroy to Zion.

You call your house Zion.

You claim not to use credit cards because you don’t want to be too tightly bound to the materialism of this plane of existence, yet, the truth is your parents fucked your credit up by putting their phone line in your name back in the day.

You seriously considered majoring in black studies in undergrad.

You wear a gele, but carry a Louis Vuitton purse (that’s that neo).

You used to date a pussy poet.

You are a pussy poet (punany lives!).

You paid to see the Def Poetry Jam show at a theatre.

Georgia Me is your homegirl (like you went to high school with her and shit).

You believe in astrology (Librans and Pisceans are funny as fuck, for the record).

You know all the principles of Kwanzaa.

You celebrate Kwanzaa.

You act like you like your meaningful Kwanzaa gifts.

But you still take Christmas gifts like a mu’ fucka (again, that’s that neo).

You buy your signature fragrance from the dashiki nig on the corner.

You wear dashikis.

You have more than one.

You’re an Okayplayer charter member.

You actually started a discussion board on that bitch.

Your screen name on that bitch might be something “Thirdeyeblind,” “Euphratesthugniggas” (if you catch this, you’re live) and “Femadrift.”

You fuck with “Electric Circus” harder than anybody (including Lonnie Sr.) should.

You and your girls have a book club. (self roast)

You slept on the sidewalk to get tickets to the Sugar Water Festival.

You deny owning Lil’ Kim’s “Hard Core.”

Moreover, you deny that “Queen Bitch” is the shit (“I am a diamond cluster hustler/queen bitch/supreme bitch…”).

You have a talking drum in your apartment.

And one of those thumb piano things.

You had henna tattooing at your baby shower (and your ass ain’t Indian…dots not feathers).

You had a nude photo shoot when you were pregnant because you were your “most beautifullest.”

Your four-year-old has locks.

Kindred are your relationship role model.

You’ve got six kids because you kept on trying to track your cycle with the fucking moon.

You’re divorcing neo to marry soul.

You don't need nick's notes to get this shit.


feel free to comment here, or on saf's blog.

until next time, this has been the sum and saf half (the tentative title of our forthcoming reality tv show.)

**self-roast: basically, to call yourself on your shit.


also, i'm going to the bay this weekend, so no essay. and shit will prolly be late next week.

it's ok. i know you'll miss me.