To my Philadelphia 4-way stoppers (particularly at the intersection of McCallum St. & Allens Ln.): Seriously? Why do you have to wait for me to drive all they way up, come to a complete stop, make eye contact with you and then wave permission for you to pray, continue? No really. I want to sit here at full-stop for at least a minute and pretend that I dunno -- I'm on a beach in a hammock with a fruity drink in my left hand -- oh no. That's just my cell phone.

(And for real. Who do you have to talk to at 7:45 in the morning? I can't even stand to talk to myself at that hour.)

Every day this week I have arrived at the 4-way stop to find a neighbor awaiting my arrival. Now I won't say that I run stop signs -- it's more like I just pause and ease on through. (I mean, it's sorta like how I don't chew my food exactly 32 times each bite. Is that really necessary?!)

So the fact that there's someone waiting for me to pull up and stop annoys me, well, because it means I'm actually going to have to stop.

This of course leads to the "Can you see me here on your right? I'm going to go now. [Car eases out] I think it's my turn to go now. I'm just gonna ease on out her- wait! [Brake pump!] It's not my turn is it? [Inching out a wee bit more.] No wait. [Brake] Maybe it is your turn..."

The waving starts. You know. The "kind cup" wave as I like to call it. When it's inverted it's the "c'mere/here kitty, kitty/no you go, really" wave. When it's not inverted it's the "bye, bye" wave generally reserved for babies. Or sometimes it's the Betty Boop flickering of one's headlights -- really quick and coquettish as if our cars are flirting with each other at the 4-way stop.

"Hey [vrroooom]. Come here often? [Wink/flash, wink/flash]"

But I could really do without the mini caucuses we're holding at 4-way stops in the Mt. Airy/Chestnut Hill area. I thought the rules were fairly simple. If you get there and are alone, guess what? You can be the first to go. If you get there before the rest of us do, you don't have to wait for the rest of us to come before you carry you home.

I also feel that a big reason why people go through the "I don't know if I'm supposed to go" dance is because they don't know their right from their left. I swear every time when I arrive at the stop sign at the same time as the person to my right, they insist that I go. This morning the gentleman waved and flashed his headlights (at the same time) and waved again with an attitude as I sat there shaking my head. You defer to the person on your right, do you not? There is no, "But officer! I had the left-a-way!"

Anyway I went, but I wasn't happy about it. I should've just eased on through the damn thing like I'd originally intended.

* * * * * * *
In other news, I really do not like Akon. At all. The whine in his voice -- man. I just don't know. I did not think Keith Sweat could be outdone so handily, but Akon really might have the edge here.

Sidebar: Keith Sweat is a begger for love, whereas Akon is just plain bossy about it. Keith's whine works the very last nerve reserved for holding out -- please come back to him, please let him make love to you, please make it last forever. Akon, in the voice of an obviously constipated 6-year-old, just wants to smack the shit out of you all over some floor.

I also just read his "bio" on Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Akon). No inkling of "like" now officially exists (even though Wikipedia is not exactly official, I know.) Not just because he's an alleged polygamist, or because he cut out the middleman by purchasing his very own diamond mine in South Africa (enterprising, no?), not even because his name is so ridiculously long and contains what could very well be Ebonics for "booger" -- Aliaune Damala Bouga Time Puru Nacka Lu Lu Lu Badara Akon Thiam (seriously?), but because he's from St. Louis and not Senegal.

For the record, St. Louis and Senegal are not the same place. I don't know how many times I've seen him listed as Senegalese. Sure, we all have our heritage, but whatever. 

I'm adding Akon into what shall now be known as the Random "Ethnic" Black Dude Who Lyrically Urinates on Music As We Now Know It file (or something shorter and catchier if I can think of it).

Shaggy & whoever his "It Wasn't Me" sidekick was.
Wayne Wonder.
Shabba Ranks.
Approximately half of the Marley boys.
Milli Vanilli
Haddaway.
Ini Kamoze.
Lou Bega.

You know them. They come out of nowhere bedecked vibrantly in whatever is the fashion (or accessory -- see Akon's diamond mines, please) of the day. They look, as in appear, to be black -- but not regular black folk black. Black like "There's something about his voice ... maybe he's from another country ... like Jamaica!" black.

Their music is catchy. Very catchy. 

Shaggy's "Hey Sexy Lady" had this kind of thump to it that the whitest person down the hall from me in a hotel on Spring Break just flat out couldn't resist -- "It's like my heartbeat yo!"

Remember "Here Comes the Hotstepper?"

Murdurah. Mags detested that song with a vehemence she usually reserved for Kim whenever she used the N-word or answered the phone with, "Yeah. This is her."

My gripe is that clearly it's annoying, but I am on to this trend now, as I have been for some time, and I want it to end. I feel that there's some white wizard behind this. And in my mind he looks just like Mr. Drummond from "Diff'rent Strokes. " 

It's time to yank back the curtain, because the cycle of oversexed, philandering "eh, mons" streaming from my car radio is really putting a hurting on my whole desire to hear at least one song from a brother from somewhere in this foresaken world that isn't so damn salacious. 

If you hear one. Let me know. Otherwise you can find me blastin' the hell out of some Billy Ocean because we are in fact sharing the same dream -- he, looking for the Caribbean Queen, and I, loving the idea of being one chillin' on a beach right now.