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November 4, 2005

thanks for nothing, jim 2.0

A hearty ebogjonson.com hat-tip to all the eagle-eyed readers who wrote and called to point out that your humble narrator was the only 90s Book & Snake Negro left out of Greg Tate's recent history of black journalism at the Village Voice. (As I posted rather obliquely a few days ago, Voice film critic J. Hoberman recapped five or so decades of VV film criticism in that same issue and similarly, Kremlinological-like, erased my successive, almost ten-year stints as film intern, Associate Photo Editor, contributor and smoking-room denizen.)

Rest assured, gentle readers, that your No-Prizes are in the snail mail.

Since none of my closest and dearest pals from my Voice days placed in the 50th Anniversary Issue's various beauty contests, I can't really lay claim to any particular personal injury, and therefore have little to say about either critic's history. The whole thing certainly does call to mind, though, a bit my father and his drinking buddies were fond of rolling out at family gatherings. The bit goes like this:

A group of men are standing in a circle, drinking. One of the men (very often my father) looks around, finds a mark outside their oval of intimacy, smiles a vicious little smile at said mark, and announces to those nearby that he knows exactly "kisa neg'sa peze" - i.e., exactly how much the nucca in question weighs. In response, another man looks theatrically over his shoulder at the mark and opines (and I'm translating), "Thing is, I hear dude claims to know exactly how much you weigh." To which my father nods, holds up his drink to the mark, flashes even more grim, pointy teeth and says, "Yes, you are correct, my friend. It is indeed a race to the grave."

Or, as they say in the original Haitian: "Giddyup!"

Posted by ebogjonson in media, on November 4, 2005 11:59 AM