When Thugz Cry

It's been a while since the last entry to this blog, but something happened today (or perhaps it was yesterday. I've been travelling for 16 hours or so and my grasp on reality is tenuous, at best) that i felt was noteworthy, and so, here i am, noting it down.

Yesterday, i found myself on a plane headed to Dubai, where i would then take a connecting flight home, to London. This information is inconsequential, but i thought you might enjoy the context. Did you? Good. We'll carry on then.

I have recently come to the realisation that sleeping on planes is a sucker's game. You've paid for in flight-entertainment and to waste your time sleeping, an activity you can do when your dead, is akin to throwing money down the toilet. My reasoning on this matter may be dubious, but it's the conclusion i have come to, deal with it.

Doesn't he just look like he's being played by the system? I refuse. I shall be the player. 

So, as part of my new drive to work the system for every penny, i found myself watching 'The Help'. It's a wonderful, uplifting movie that deals with the social injustice that African American's were forced to suffer in the 1960s. It is told from the perspective of a young, aspiring journalist and the Black maids she gets to help her write an expose on the way 'The Help' is treated.

Excellent movie. Everyone should watch it. I'm really coming round to that Emma Stone girl. 

Now, i'm not ashamed to say, this movie caused me to well up. It was a combination of the personal tragedies in the lives of certain characters, combined with the stark truth that people genuinely had to suffer gross injustice like this, every day and in some places, still do.

Before we get carried away with our selves, i was not balling. I don't do that. Just the odd, manly tear. In ordinary circumstances this would have been fine, but unfortunately these were not ordinary circumstances.

Sitting behind me was the rapper Fabolous.

Nice chain.

Crying takes on a whole different dimension when you're sitting behind someone whose art form necessitates machismo and false bravado. It's important to put this in to context, though (I seem to enjoy doing that). This is not the same as sitting behind, for example, The Game. A rapper's whose lyrics are filled with so much anger (and brilliance) that he would probably eat his own chain before allowing himself to cry.

Don't Let 'Em See You Cry, Game! Don't Let 'Em!

Nor is it similar to sitting behind, let's say Drake, who, as much as i truly love him, would probably hand me a tissue and have a little therapeutic cry with me, were he to discover me blubbering in the seat in front of him.

Drake makes it too easy to make fun of him. He's still the sickest around, though.

No, i found myself sitting in front of Fabolous, desperately trying not to cry, all the while, waiting for him to poke his head around and say 'Yo, every body, check this! This N*&^a's crying!', followed by whispers and mutterings of 'that's just embarrassing', 'Thank God i'm not him'...

I wish there was a moral to this story. I wish that Fab had seen me and explained that real men really are supposed to cry and that his faith in man had bee restored, but that didn't happen. Instead, because my brother was too afraid to approach him, i was forced to ask him if he wouldn't mind taking a picture with my sibling.

Perhaps the moral of this story is that my brother and i need to man-up. Yeah, that seems fair.