No one should have to grow up feeling unsafe in the place they call home. But Tania is living her childhood in a city that saw 506 homicides last year alone. 443 of these homicides resulted from guns, and 65 of those shooting victims were age 18 or under. Simply put, that level of violence is terrorizing.

Wait. “Terror”… terror… where have I heard that word recently? Oh, right. Boston.

On Monday, April 15, two explosives were detonated near the finish line of the Boston Marathon, killing three people and wounding more than 260 others—an incident that President Obama called “an act of terror” the very next day. One of the suspects later engaged in a frenzied gunfight with police that Thursday night and then fled, resulting in a massive manhunt that for all intents and purposes shut down the Boston area all day Friday, until the suspect was caught Friday night in the nearby city of Watertown. Anna Lanzo, a Watertown resident, called the area a “war zone” in the days following the bombings. (Sounds a lot like what Tania said.)

The continuous media coverage of the bombings and their aftermath made sure to highlight Boston’s suffering—a mixture of shock, confusion, anguish, and fear. News cameras and photojournalists brought the faces of these grieving Bostonians into clear focus, showing the world the pain and sorrow of these residents following this out-of-the-ordinary incident.

But why don’t the citizens of Chicago get the same attention, when Chicago’s violence and subsequent suffering—its terror—is perpetual?

I fear that the perpetuity of violence in Chicago, in and of itself, is part of the problem. Because these homicides happen so often in Chicago, it’s seemingly grown to be the expectation, and the severity of the situation is greatly diminished as a result. In effect, many of us have been desensitized to violence in areas like the South Side.

Part of the problem also lies in the false and self-deluding perception that this gun violence just hurts those who were supposedly “asking for it” or “had it coming”—you know, the “thugs,” the gang members, etc. But the victims who “die by the gun” aren’t always the ones who “live by the gun.” (And should we as a society even be making such a distinction about who is worthy to live and who should die?) More and more, we’re seeing innocent bystanders across the country and especially in Chicago losing their lives as a result of this gun violence: 15-year-old Hadiya Pendleton, shot in the back and killed while simply standing with her friends in a Chicago park; 18-year-old Janay McFarlane, gunned down and killed walking home from a corner store; 6-month-old Jonylah Watkins, shot and killed while just riding in a minivan with her father; and countless others. As Hadiya’s grand uncle, Nathaniel Pendleton, said in January, “People are afraid to go out, sit on their porches. It’s horrific. Every family is suffering.”

Again, that’s terrorizing, and exactly the same suffering being felt by the families of Krystle Campbell, 29, Lu Lingzi, 23, and little Martin Richard, 8, who were all just watching a marathon race when they were killed by a bomb blast.

Whether or not the continuous violence plaguing these Chicago neighborhoods fits within the technical definition of domestic terrorism, the fact is that there’s not much of a difference in the grief and the fear experienced by Boston residents (a couple of weeks ago) and by Chicago residents (every week).

The day after the Boston attacks, President Obama explained, “Anytime bombs are used to target innocent civilians, it’s an act of terror.” But the bullets exploding from gun barrels, ripping apart lives in Chicago on a daily basis, clearly terrorize that city’s residents as well. With that said, the discrepancy in the amount of attention—and resources—given to these two cities is inexcusable.

At the end of her essay, though, Tania told her readers how she continues to keep going:

Living on the South Side can be so hard at times. It’s stressful and tiring. But you get through it. I deal with it by just getting used to it, because that’s the only way I know—taking one day at a time. I have bad days and good days, but … at least I get through the day to see another.

Simply put, we need to understand that gun violence on our streets is terror. And we need to act accordingly in our response to ensure that Tania and other residents in similar neighborhoods don’t have to “just get used to it” anymore.

As I made my way toward the café, though, my beautiful day got real ugly, real fast.

Walking at a hurried pace—as I was in a rush to get my food and get back to the office—I was impeded by this woman in front of me who wasn’t paying any attention to anything except whoever was on the other line of her cell phone. Seeing as how she was moving at a glacial pace, I started walking to the left of her so I could pass by her and keep it moving. But then, for some reason, she deviated from her path and also moved a little to the left—not to purposely cut me off, but just because she was completely aloof and unaware that anyone was behind her.

Her change of path caught me off guard since, at that point, I was extremely close to her and still walking at the same hurried pace. To keep from running into her, I stopped abruptly and almost tripped. As I was about to move to the right and go around her, however, a man walking in the opposite direction toward us told her loudly:

Watch your purse.

After a split-second of shock, I flipped.

(Now, in case you’re confused, let me give you some additional context. I’m a 23-year-old black male. The woman in front of me was probably in her 30s, and she was white. The man walking toward us was probably in his early 50s, and he was also white. His remark resulted from his concern that this black guy (me) was trying to jack this white woman for her purse and everything in it. Don’t mind that I was dressed neatly, wearing a crisp button-up and jeans—it was “casual Friday” at work—and had my work BlackBerry sitting snug in my belt holster. All he saw was a black man running up on a white woman, and he just knew I was up to no good. But anyway, back to the story.)

I stopped in my tracks, turned around to the man who had now just passed us, and asked him—very vehemently—what his problem was. He didn’t feel the need to respond, though, so I walked up and snatched him by his shoulder and asked him again. His response:

You just don’t know sometimes.

He was right. Sometimes you don’t know. And I continued to tell him, angrily, how he didn’t know anything about me. He didn’t know about my decent middle-class upbringing, complete with piano and violin lessons, spelling bee competitions, and oratorical contests. (My backyard basketball hoop was even complemented by a badminton net—yes, badminton—further out in the yard.) He didn’t know that I had an exceptional education from one of the top universities in the country. He didn’t know that, at that moment, I was rushing from my job editing policy documents for one of the most important think tanks in the nation. All he knew was that I was a black man, and in his eyes, that made me more likely to be up to no good.

But in the middle of telling him about myself—and about himself as well—he interrupted me:

Calm down, it’s not that serious.

He was only halfway right this time. No, I wasn’t calm—it was taking everything in me to keep from punching him dead in his face. But to me, it was more than “serious”—my almost-blinding anger came from a place of deep-seated hurt. It hurts to work so hard, day in and day out, trying to make something of yourself, only to be judged by a society that has formed countless stereotypes and inaccurate ideologies about you since before you were born. It hurts to continually feel like you have to prove that you belong in a society and a nation that was built on the scourged, sweat-soaked backs of your great ancestors. It hurts to always have to be overly cognizant of how you talk, how you walk, how you look, etc., just so you’re not seen as a threat. And it hurts to see that no matter how well you do all of these things, you can’t really change how society will look at you. It’s just like Kanye said:

Even if you in a Benz, you still a nigga in a coupe.

It just hurts.

Either way, I didn’t have much more to say to the guy, as I could tell he wasn’t genuinely interested in what I had to say. It wasn’t going to be a teachable moment—at least not for him. He wasn’t willing to take time to see the seriousness of the situation and the flaws in his thinking because he was only focused on defusing this encounter with the angry black man in front of him.

In my outrage, though, I was reminded of a piece that the TV host/journalist/author/critic Touré wrote for Time earlier this year after the Trayvon Martin tragedy. In it, he gave a beautiful piece of advice to young black men everywhere:

Racism is about reminding you that you are less human, less valuable, less worthy, less beautiful, less intelligent. It’s about prejudging you as violent, fearsome, a threat. Some people will take that prejudice and try to force their will on you to make sure you feel like a second-class citizen and to make certain you get back to the lower-class place they think you’re trying to escape. The best way to counter them involves not your fists but your mind. You know your value to the world and how terrific you are. If you never forget that, they can’t damage your spirit. The best revenge is surviving and living well.

He’s definitely right.

I’ve had a lot of time to cool down since the confrontation happened, and although I’m not as purely infuriated as I was when it initially happened, it still cuts deep. Do I hold any hate in my heart for that guy and his wayward thinking? No. If anything, I just feel bad for him. But am I still angry at the rampant racism in our society that’s not only a result of that wayward thinking but also encourages and reinforces that type of thinking? Yes. And that won’t change—not while I’m still subjected to the continual pains of double consciousness, always looking at myself through the eyes of others. When I don’t have to do that anymore, I’ll stop being angry.

I guess this is the point in my post where I should offer potential solutions for fixing the racism problem. But honestly, I don’t really have any solutions, and I don’t think racism will ever go away. My only reasons for writing this were (1) to vent, and (2) to make it clear to others that:

• Racism still exists.
• Someone’s judgment of you doesn’t define who you are.
• The best thing you can do is to keep your head up and keep living, realizing your true value and your worth.

That’s all. So thanks for reading.

Trayvon Martin

Soon before sunset on the evening of February 23, 17-year-old Trayvon Martin was shot and killed in Sanford, Florida. But he didn’t bring this on himself—in fact, quite the contrary. He was gunned down in a gated community by 28-year-old George Zimmerman—the community’s neighborhood watch captain—while walking back to his father’s house from the store, where he went to buy some Skittles and an iced tea.

Trayvon’s actions seem innocent enough, right? Well, it seems young Trayvon was guilty of a crime that I didn’t even know existed: “walking while black.” Zimmerman, upon seeing Trayvon on his way back from the store, felt that the young man had a “suspicious” (see: African American) profile. As a result, Zimmerman decided to call 911. (Fair enough. If you’re scared, call the cops. Doesn’t seem like he had any real reason to be scared, but hey. To each his own.)

According to Sanford Police Chief Bill Lee, the 911 dispatcher told Zimmerman not to confront Trayvon, but Zimmerman decided to get in his car and follow the teenager anyway. When police arrived to investigate, Trayvon was laying dead in a patch of grass, with a gunshot wound in his chest. The bullet came from Zimmerman’s gun.

The neighborhood watch captain claimed, however, that it was purely an act of self-defense—although Trayvon was unarmed and Zimmerman outweighed the teenager by at least 100 pounds. (Does anyone understand how that’s self-defense? I don’t.) As Martin family attorney Ben Crump put it:

When you add it up, it just doesn’t even make sense. Trayvon Martin, a kid, has a bag of Skittles. [Zimmerman] had a 9mm gun. Trayvon Martin didn’t approach George Zimmerman, George Zimmerman approached Trayvon Martin. So how can he now assert self-defense?”

Crump is absolutely right. It doesn’t make sense—unless you insert something called “racism” into the equation.

Now, I really hate having to pull the race card. I’d much rather give people the benefit of the doubt in situations like these and say that their actions weren’t driven by racism. I really would. But it’s tragically obvious that this was a racially motivated crime. When looking at the facts, I just don’t understand how anyone, black or white, can honestly think that Trayvon’s skin color wasn’t the reason Zimmerman felt threatened. If Trayvon had instead been a white kid (and renamed Trevor, or something to that effect), he would have undoubtedly made it back home safely—Skittles and iced tea in hand.

What really eats me up, though, is the police’s response to this entire fiasco. Tracy Martin, Trayvon’s father, explains:

When I asked the police why there’s been no arrest, they told me they respected [Zimmerman's] background, that he studied criminal justice for four years and that he was squeaky clean.

My question to them was, did they run my child’s background check? They said yes. I asked them what they came up with, and they said nothing. So I asked if Zimmerman had a clean record, did that give him the right to shoot and kill an unarmed kid?

Of course it didn’t give him the right. It’s bad enough that this sad excuse for a neighborhood guardian took it upon himself to end Trayvon’s life, but the fact that the police—who are supposed to be the real guardians of our society—are accepting this guy’s claim of self-defense absolutely incenses me. There’s no reason why they shouldn’t throw the book (or the entire library, for that matter) at this guy.

But at the end of the day, we just have to face the fact that racism is alive and well in our country. Just yesterday, I saw a Public Policy Polling survey that found that “29 percent of likely GOP voters in Mississippi and 21 percent in Alabama think that marriage between people of different races should be illegal.” Really? And to think, some people had the nerve to say that President Obama’s election signaled our grand entrance into a post-racial America.

Anyway, I’m reminded of what the late, great James Brown said once upon a time:

I think what I came through is great, but my son can take it to another level, not having to fight racism. His mother’s a Norwegian and I’m mixed up four or five times, so he can face the world.

Unfortunately for the Martin family, Trayvon wasn’t mixed up four or five times, and had to fight to the death against the racism that is still very deeply woven into the fabric of our nation. But don’t let George Zimmerman win this fight. Sign this petition to prosecute Zimmerman, express your outrage online and in your communities, and insist that justice is served.

The untimely loss of a life is always lamentable, regardless of the circumstances. But the murder of this 17-year-old in cold blood, through no fault of his own, based solely on the fact that his skin was a “suspicious” color, is a tragedy that is absolutely inexcusable. We can’t sit idly by and allow his killer to go unpunished.

239. That, ladies and gentlemen, is my total cholesterol level.

The "Land, Sea, and Air Burger" from McDonald's.

When I went to the doctor for a routine checkup a couple of weeks ago, I decided to get my cholesterol checked. A week later, my doctor called me and said that my cholesterol level was a little elevated. So I went in to see him a couple of days after that… and that’s when he dropped that huge number on me. (If you were wondering, your cholesterol level should be under 200.)

I can’t say I didn’t see it coming, though. Anyone close to me knows I have an affinity for the unhealthiest foods (see: the “Land, Sea, and Air Burger,” pictured to the right, that I actually ate a few months ago). And I do exercise, but only on occasion. And, last but not least, high cholesterol apparently runs all through my family. It was really only a matter of time.

It’d be hard to tell that my health wasn’t in great shape just by looking at me, though. I’m 6’0″ and somewhat skinny—as my doctor said, the “perfect disguise.” Truth is, you never know what’s going on under the surface. So even if you don’t think you’re in terrible shape, get everything checked out anyway—better safe than sorry. After all, if you don’t have your health, what do you have?

That’s why I’m determined to get this right this time. And you guys can hold me accountable—through my blog. Now, I don’t think you should ever rely on someone else to hold you accountable; you should have enough self-control to get this kind of stuff done on your own. But it always helps to have others pushing you, encouraging you, and applauding your efforts. And that’s why I want to publicize my journey getting my cholesterol back down to 200.

So what do I have to help me on this journey? A few things:

• FitBit. This is my latest little gadget, and I’ve gotta say, I absolutely love it. Basically, as my girlfriend would say, it’s a “swagged out pedometer.” From day to day, it tracks how many steps you take, stairs you climb, miles you walk, and calories you burn. It also tracks how long you sleep, and how well you sleep. And with its online food log (you have to manage this yourself), it tracks how many calories you’ve consumed, and can help you plan the best way to lose weight. Cool, right? The best part, in my opinion, is that if you know other people with a FitBit, you can connect with them through the FitBit website and compete against them to see who’s the healthiest of them all. Not bad.
• P90X. Dieting is only one part of the equation—exercising and being active is crucial to getting your cholesterol down, too. So I’m starting back on a regular P90X workout regimen, which will not only help me get healthier, but will hopefully buff me up a little bit in the process.
• Family and friends. Like I said, high cholesterol runs in the family, so my parents and I will definitely be keeping each other in check. But I’ve also told a lot of my close friends and co-workers (and now, the entire world) about my cholesterol, and so far, they’ve all been extra supportive and pushing me to do better. It’s great to be surrounded by people that really have your best interests at heart.

Anyway, I’m about to leave my desk to go get a very healthy Bombay Chicken Salad from Cosi next door, but I’ll admit, it’s tempting to just walk an extra block up to Five Guys and get a bacon cheeseburger with everything on it. With some Cajun fries on the side and a large grape Fanta… ugh, Jesus, please give me strength.

Happy Birthday! You’re 63 today, although you really don’t look a day over 40! (Okay, maybe 45. But you still look great!)

I’ve already told the world how blessed I am to have such an amazing father. But to have an amazing mother, too? I must be blessed and highly favored.

As with any parent and child, you and I have our fair share of disagreements. But whether I agree with you or not, at the end of the day, I know you have my best interests at heart, and that you only want what’s best for me. You have no idea how much I appreciate that. The older I get, the more I realize that it’s hard (actually, almost impossible) to find people who will have your back no matter what. So thank you for just being there for me when I need you.

I know no one’s perfect, but you’ve been an amazing example in my life, especially when it comes to loving and caring for others. Whenever I’ve seen anyone come to you asking for help in any situation, I’ve also seen you do your best to help them in any way possible. So many people can vouch for your kindness. You’ve given so much of yourself and cared so much for others. Every single day, you truly embody what it means to be selfless.

The Bible says:

And do not forget to do good and to share with others, for with such sacrifices God is pleased.
— Hebrews 13:16 (NIV)

If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need but has no pity on him, how can the love of God be in him?
— I John 3:17 (NIV)

I know without a doubt that God is pleased with you, and the love of God brightly shines through you.

I also realized your love and care first-hand when you quit your job in 1995 to home-school me for the next seven years, from second grade all the way through eighth grade. I’ve never been a parent, so I can’t imagine the sacrifices I’d be willing to make for a child. But I do realize how much of a sacrifice it is to quit your job. The fact that you would do that just for me… I really don’t even know what to say.

I could go on and on about what you’ve done for me; the list goes on forever. So I’ll just say thank you for everything you’ve done, and thank you for helping to train me up in the way I should go. Like I said, no one’s perfect, and I know I’m definitely not perfect. But because of your influence in my life, I know what it takes to get there.

So today, on your special day, I hope you understand how much I appreciate you in my life. I really couldn’t ask for a better mother. I hope you enjoy your birthday, but I hope even more that we can share many more of them together.

Love you always,

David

With that said, I haven’t really commented at all on the Troy Davis case before now. Almost all of my friends did, though. Every time I logged into Facebook or Twitter over the last week, someone on my News Feed or my timeline was imploring others to sign a petition to the Georgia Board of Pardons and Paroles to grant Davis clemency. After the board denied him clemency, though, people were asking others to call the Jackson District Attorney’s office, Georgia Judge Penny Freezeman’s office, and the U.S. Attorney General’s office to tell them that Davis still didn’t deserve to die.

Unfortunately, it failed.

Some will say it didn’t fail, however. They’ll say that, although the execution took place, attention was still brought to the issue at hand. But for how long? As much as I appreciate the outpouring of outrage over Troy Davis being murdered—let’s just call it what it is—the most painful part about it for me is knowing that by the time 2012 is here, 95% of us won’t even be thinking about him. I’m sure there will be some of us who will never forget this event, but by and large, the name “Troy Davis” won’t be on our minds in a few months, maybe even a few weeks. The only thing worse than an innocent man being put to death is that same man (and everything he represented) being forgotten.

I won’t get into the ethics of the death penalty or any of that; although I think it’s completely wrong and inhumane, that’s not the point. The point is that we can’t forget Troy. Injustices like these happen all too often, but it’s not often that they get the publicity that Troy’s case received. Let’s do our best to take advantage of all the attention and turn this sickening and shameful situation into a positive, and use Troy as an inspiration to fight for true justice. If we don’t, Troy will have died in vain.

Ironically, this month also marks the end of my first year at my first real job in the real world. After finding a job, moving away from home, paying bills, and claiming myself on my taxes, I can say that I’m pretty much on my own now. I’ve learned a lot from being on my own and having to take care of myself, although I realize I still have a long way to go. I just feel blessed, though, that I’ve had such a great example in my life of what it takes to be a good man.

Being a good man requires a lot of things. Strength. Leadership. Compassion. Hard work. Commitment. Loyalty. Just to name a few. I’ve seen all of this and much more in my dad across the years, and for that, I’m thankful. It’s impossible to remember every piece of advice he’s given me, but what I can remember is what I’ve seen in his character. On top of that, he’s also man enough to realize when he’s messed up. Given, it doesn’t happen often, because he’s on top of things 99.7% of the time. But when he’s not, he’s not too arrogant to admit that he’s wrong. Too often, men succumb to their egos and refuse to admit when they’re wrong, because they think that shows weakness. Nothing could be further from the truth. It takes a strong man to recognize his mistakes; a man that can’t admit being wrong is just insecure.

What I admire most about my dad, though, is that he’s a man of his word. Thinking back on the 22 years of my existence, I can’t remember a single instance in which he’s lied to me. That, in and of itself, speaks volumes about the kind of man he is.

Honestly, I wouldn’t be half the man I am today without my dad’s presence in my life. Sure, I tell him that kind of stuff a lot (well, at least twice a year for Father’s Day and his birthday), but I want to take every opportunity I can to let him know just how much he means to me.

Happy birthday, Dad. I love you.

When we dwell on our mistakes for too long, it impedes our growth. After all, how can you go forward while looking backward? (Try it. Go outside and start walking forward with your head turned behind you. See if you don’t run into something.) You can’t be your best if you’re allowing your past to haunt you continuously.

But that’s not to say that you should completely forget your mistakes. If you’ve made a mistake, you need to look back, analyze the situation, and figure out what went wrong. It might hurt in the short term to take a good, hard look at yourself in the proverbial mirror and figure out where you messed up, but it’ll help you tremendously in the long term. Although experience is the best teacher, you have to do your homework after class in order to learn your lesson.

At a certain point, though, you have to actually learn the lesson and move past the past. Just let it go, and keep it moving.

That’s all. Just felt the need to say that. Hopefully someone will be blessed by it.

That’s why I like the idea behind the Social Tattoo Project. The project is, in their own words, “making empathy permanent.” Here’s what they have to say about it:

People care about a world crisis… for a week. But we think the world’s issues deserve more than just a moment of empathy.

The Social Tattoo Project is making empathy permanent. Our volunteers are getting tattoos that represent worldly issues, but they have no idea what their tattoos will be. They are letting you decide.

For each tattoo, we will post 4 trending topics on Twitter, and the most tweeted trend will be the subject of the tattoo. To vote, tweet #socialtattoo and your #favorite trend of the 4 to @social_tattoo. With your vote and our volunteers’ skin, we can make what the world empathizes with today, what we care about forever.

Crazy, right?

I’m not sure if I’m brave enough to volunteer my own skin for a social tattoo, but the idea is definitely intriguing, to say the least. Even as someone who’s only voted for the tattoos, the project’s made me a lot more conscious to not just let the tragedies suffered across the world fade so quickly from my memory. I hope others take away that lesson from the project as well.

Follow the Social Tattoo Project on Twitter @social_tattoo and check out their Facebook page, too.

Give me a [BLEEP]ing break.

Let’s put this in perspective. One of those floor tickets amounts to:

• 33.58% of my monthly rent
• Four full tanks of gas in my car
• $21 more than what I’d have to pay to go skydiving again
• $47 more than a brand-new iPod Touch
• Round-trip airfare and hotel accommodations for three nights for my upcoming Miami getaway

I could go on and on, but you get the idea. Anyone who pays $276 to see these two guys (however talented they may be) perform is insane. But my gripe with the ticket prices goes a lot deeper.

I’ve continually been getting more and more annoyed with these two. I’ve supported their music and their art, attended some of their concerts before, bought some of their albums, and even bought some of their books (although I have a couple other books to finish reading before I crack open Decoded). After all, I respect people who are talented and put in hard work.

But then they changed up on me—well, actually, now that I think about it, Jay-Z did most of the changing up. Kanye put out “My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy” back in November, and it was one of the best albums I’d heard in a while. I appreciated the fact that, regardless of his ego or any other less-than-favorable character traits, he was still giving 110% and making A+ music.

Jay… well, not so much. “Blueprint 3″ was a pretty average album. And his features since then have also been pretty average, in my opinion, especially compared to his original Blueprint-era lyrics. To put it bluntly, he’s just gotten lazy. As my partner-in-crime Alex Pope said earlier:

There doesn’t have to be substance to what he does anymore because it’s all about his name and the brand. It’s almost like his philosophy is “less is more.” Like the tiny French dessert they give you at a five-star restaurant. And his skimpy rhymes are to be savored because of their scarcity.

Well said.

Back to the main topic, though. After hearing “H*A*M” and “Otis,” not only did Jay and ‘Ye not come hard at all, but they also sounded ridiculously out of touch, bragging about how rich and great they are. Now, I don’t have a problem with celebrating fame and wealth; if I were worth more than $450 million like Jay is, I’d probably act a complete fool. But my thing is, did Jay forget his rhymes in “Moment of Clarity” when he so eloquently stated:

We, as rappers, must decide what’s most important,
And I can’t help the poor if I’m one of them,
So I got rich and gave back. To me, that’s the win-win.

Jay, you’re worth more than $450 million. You’re already rich. Taking $276 out of my pocket doesn’t seem like you’re giving back. With that said, I’m not as mad at ‘Ye about this. After all, he did say back in 2004:

Why you think me and Dame cool? We assholes.

At least he was straight up about it.

On top of that, it’s a little easier to swallow the high ticket prices coming from Kanye, since you know he’ll always do it big at his shows. But Jay-Z doesn’t even seem to care about that. According to Rolling Stone:

The [New York] Post‘s sources say that West is pushing for a flashy concert with “next-level production,” while Jay-Z is focused on keeping costs low in the interest of paying back a long-term advance from the promoter, Live Nation.

Keeping costs low?! They’re charging $276!!! C’MON SON!

Anyway, on August 12, I’m going to see Kendrick Lamar in concert at D.C.’s 9:30 Club. And my ticket only cost me $25. That’s an exponentially better value than a $276 Jay-Z/Kanye ticket, seeing as how the 24-year-old Lamar is already better than Jay and ‘Ye. (Yes, I just said Kendrick Lamar is better than Jay-Z and Kanye West. And Mr. Alex Pope agrees. So sue us. Alex’s in law school. You’ll lose.)

At the end of the day, Jay and ‘Ye can have their Throne. They can sit up there, basking in their own glory, disconnected and cut off from everyone else. That’s fine. But I’m giving my respect and support to the Kendrick Lamars in the game who still give 110% and still make music that the rest of us can relate to.

And I’ll save $251 in the process. Sounds like a good deal to me.