Life and Religion
|Kiss & Tell: Players with no game at CIAA|
|A lot of so-called players came to town just to hook up|
|Published Thursday, March 7, 2013|
It may not be on par with Bike Rally or Freaknik just yet, but CIAA in Charlotte is definitely growing in its level of ratchetness.
Although it is supposed to be a time of basketball and celebrating the heritage of HBCUs, many fans come with the sole intention of hooking up.
It’s obvious by the way some women dress. Why else would you parade around in freezing temperatures in stilettos and outfits made with barely enough material to construct a bikini?
And the fellas also reeked of thirst and desperation to find someone to take home. I thought CIAA fans were supposed to be college educated or at least business-minded. But so many of the guys lurking the streets this past week were simple, creepy and stuck on stupid.
Too much to drink
Wednesday night I hung out with one of my girlfriends from out of town. She had just arrived in Charlotte so we met Uptown in the lobby of her hotel.
While at the bar, I noticed a guy we’ll call Randall was also there. I know Randall from work. He’s a banker, and I’d interviewed him for a story or two on finances.
I’ve always known Randall to be cool as a cucumber and always dressed in a suit. However, tonight he wasn’t his usual self. He was drunk. He was loud. He kept reciting 2Chainz lyrics and getting louder and louder.
The two guys with him appeared to be a little embarrassed, especially when Randall started making jokes about buying heroin. He would just walk up to strangers, put his arm on their shoulders and ask “Hey, man, where’s the heroin?” Then he’d walk off laughing hysterically and sit back down at the bar.
When he knocked over his drink, his friends told the bartender to cut him off. That didn’t go over well. He started to give them a piece of his mind, but stopped mid-sentence. He got this look on his face like he was about to be sick. As he made his way to the bathroom, he wobbled, walking with his knees pressed firmly together.
A few moments later I noticed him walking past the bar with his head down as if he didn’t want to be noticed. His friends waved him off and said he’d be OK.
Several minutes passed as I finished my drink, said my goodbyes, and made my way to the elevator. When the doors opened, I saw Randall standing in the corner with his head down and his hands crossed in front of him. His pants were wet. I guess he had an accident.
A hair fetish
Saturday, I went to a day party at the Epicenter with my girl Sasha. It was crazy packed. Yet, we managed to find a seat. We could have been there no more than five minutes before a guy who stood a little over five feet tall approached us. He said he noticed us because we had our original hair and he was tired of chicks with weaves.
He reached over and stroked Sasha’s hair. She explained to him that he should never touch a black woman’s hair.
“That’s just a myth,” he said.
“No it’s not,” Sasha replied. “We are black women, we should know.”
Then he told us his name, which I don’t remember.
“So how many kids each of y’all got?” he asked.
“What?” I ask. “Why do you assume we have children? That’s kind of stereotypical, don’t you think?”
“Come on, now,” he says. “How many you got? Two, three? Usually women get offended by that question when they have a lot.”
“That’s like us assuming you’ve been to jail and asking how many times you’ve been in the slammer,” I say.
“I’ve only been to jail once,” he said, missing the point. “And I have one kid, a daughter. She’s about four months old.”
“That’s young,” Sasha responds. “Are you still with her mother?”
“Nope,” he said. “She didn’t even tell me she was pregnant for seven months. She was too afraid I’d make her get an abortion. She was probably right. I didn’t think it was mine at first, you know how y’all women are.”
“Why are we talking about this?” Sasha asks. “This is a day party. We just want to relax and have fun.”
Then the guy slid into the booth next to me and started sniffing my hair and telling me how good I smelled. Time for a bathroom break.
There was a long line spilling out from the bathroom, and I didn’t have to go so I stood by the end of the hall scoping out the scene. Then a guy approached me. We engaged in some small talk.
He asked my name and told me he was in town from Atlanta. There was an awkward silence, which he broke by asking how I liked my eggs in the morning – scrambled or fertilized. Ewww. I walked away. Sasha would just have to find me in the crowd.
Groupies and fried chicken
Later, we went to hang out at the Westin. The lobby was crowded, and folks were still checking in. Then one of the guys at the front desk caught Sasha’s attention. He resembled a former NBA player who had it going on about 10 years ago, but not so much anymore.
He just went through a nasty divorce. His wife accused him of beating and cheating on her. She took all his money. The feds took his house for unpaid taxes, and now it appeared that his rumored gambling and drug addictions were getting the best of him.
He was barely recognizable. His slim body had lost its athletic build. He had on dingy jeans, a wrinkled thermal sweatshirt, basic sneakers and a leather hat covering his unbraided hair.
His appearance didn’t stop the groupies – both men and women – from sweating him. Soon, folks surrounded him asking for pictures. He turned down their requests. Seeing they were making no progress with him, the girls settled for hooking up with his friends. They paired off and made there way towards the elevators.
Sasha and I rounded the corner to the bar area, and noticed a well-known actor, M.Y., walking out surrounded by two big men who appeared to be bodyguards. Apparently some commotion had just taken place, as a woman by the bar continued to yell about how she didn’t care who he was, he had no right to disrespect her.
Some guy who was dressed like a neo-soul singer – plastic frames, fedora, brown leather jacket with shearling lining, and a large Rick Ross-style beard – explained what happened.
Apparently the woman said something to M.Y. about his notoriously ashy lips and he responded by telling her she could do something sexually explicit with hers.
Then the neo-soul looking guy started chatting it up with Sasha so the friend he was with thought he’d try his luck with me.
He didn’t bother to ask my name. Instead he asked what we were getting into later – as in after 2 a.m.
“I was thinking maybe we could stop by your place, and you could cook us up some chicken,” he said.
I pause waiting for him to say he was kidding, but it became obvious he was serious.
“I just thought maybe you could show us some Southern hospitality,” he said.
“Are you serious?” I asked. “I don’t even know you. Do you really think I’m going to invite into my home?”
“You don’t have to act like that,” he said. “I’m not saying cook a whole meal, just some chicken maybe with barbeque sauce. I can bring some weed and some soda.”
“The more you talk, the worse this gets so just stop,” I say.
“I’m just saying…”
“The answer is no.”
“You a southern woman, ain’t y’all into that kind of thing?” he continues. “I’m bringing the weed and the soda.”
“I don’t want your drugs. I don’t want your soda. I want you to stop talking to me and get out of my face.”
Then his boy jumps in and asks me why am I being so hostile.
To my relief, one of my real guy friends walks up and greets me with a hug. Finally, someone normal. The guys look at him and finally they walk away.
|Wow! Your experience somewhat mirrors the one my and my best firend had! If next year wasn't the CIAA possible final stint in Charlotte I would boycott it all together!|
|Posted on March 11, 2013|
|This is too too much! Really sad!|
|Posted on March 7, 2013|
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