If I could chill with my favorite mythical blackfolks, who would it be and why?
First off, I reserve the right to demand a recount. This will not be the be-all and end all list. It's just what I'm thinking right now. I'm the host and the dinner is laid out in a big modern glass house in the woods like Fallingwater. It's a bright spring day and outside the lush greenery sways in the breeze, the sounds of a brook can be heard above the hush. Songbirds are getting their mack on, and it's pleasing to hear.
The living room has large fluffy couches and a brown berber carpet. I'm kinda sprawled with a glass of Frangelico, and the guests arrive.
It's Andre Braugher. He's wearing jeans cowboy boots an oversized white shirt and a leather jacket. He drove up in a Jeep. He orders an orange juice and settles into a corner.
Next is George Kelly. We embrace. George, I need you to get all this down, I tell him. He's the man I trust to get it right and tone down my embellishments. Plus, all my homies get a free pass.
Angela Davis steps out of the cab at a brisk pace. She stamps out a cigarette and immediately asks for directions to the bathroom. I'm watching her. I swear to God she's casing the joint looking for emergency egress.
Vernon Jordan has no tie on. I can tell he must have just taken it off. Damn, I didn't realize he was that tall. He's still talking on his cell phone as his driver opens the limosine door. He's in a dark suit but he's wearing old sneakers. I don't understand it. Ayaan Hirsi Ali gets out of the other door. Ha! a twofer. She needs the security.
Speaking of which, here's Thabo Mbeki. I don't know what I was thinking when I made these invitations. All of this conversation is going to be way over my head.
Who's this? Who invited Barbi? A tall skinny blonde chick with a weird walk and oversized sunglasses pushes her way into the kitchen to the left of the front door. Braugher perks up and George pauses from his browsing of my bookshelf. Now that she's got all the attention of the house she pulls off her wig... It's Dave Chappelle! Angela shows a ripple of disgust, Ali doesn't get it. Mbeki has the first line "Cocaine is a terrible thing", he says. Chappelle asks where the weed is at Angela scowls. Braugher looks at me as if to ask permission. I say, hey this is my property - Doowhatchalike outside. He pulls a dime out of his right boot and they head to the patio.
I put on some Sonny Rollins and after Ms. Ali is seated and Jordan finally hangs up his cell phone, I announce that there are still several guests yet to arrive, so have a drink or a snack and make yourself comfortable. Angela Davis has pushed Mbeki into a corner and seems to be lecturing him about AIDS. Jordan crashes on the sofa and asks for a double scotch.
Ahh.. here's the man. Herbie Hancock. He quietly skulks over the piano and suddenly the room starts to come alive. He's improvising and vamping off the Rollins song on the stereo. This is going to be the greatest evening of my life.
Just then I hear a ruckus outside. One of the guys in black near Jordan's limo is running towards the door. He opens the door and falls forward, a man in a mask wearing something bulky steps over his prostrate body and then... WHAM.
Homicide bomber.
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