DAMN, KOBE!!!!

DAMN, KOBE!! By William Fredrick Cooper

Written July 19, 2003

Like a giggly High School kid on the first day of new classes, I had my gear all ready to sport. Today was my day to chill at the Harlem Book Fair and support other authors who, like me, are in celebration of their accomplishments in our literary village. Selling books is a celebration, cynics say? Hell, every breath we take is an accomplishment these days. Instead of reading novels and embarking on journeys of adventure and excitement, many of our youth today are grabbing guns. Role models like doctors and lawyers are obsolete, having been replaced by gangster rappers, tote-carrying drug dealers, and immoral men, affectionately (yeah, if ever there was an oxymoron) known as playas. Our girls dress like Li'l Kim to go to school, y'all. And as a cherry topping befitting a negative sundae it's un-cool to smile in public, to say hello to a neighbor, and to tell Johnny not to do wrong, because parents who think they're raising kids insist rudely that he's not your child.

Love and respect for peers and elders seems archaic as opposed to en vogue.

So there I was, coming home early last night to get a good night's sleep; for Saturday, I would be on my feet all day, celebrating the efforts of my peers. Hell, I had to find out where the Book Fair's secret "After Party" was, so I can show them that some scribes are explosive dancers as well.

I mean, y'all, I even had my outfit picked out for the Book Fair. Black shorts, white AND ONE Marbury’s, my trademark sunglasses (Shit, I earned the right to look cool for a day - Smile) And I was going to rock a traditional LAKERS Warm-up. You know, the ones Jerry West and Elgin Baylor wore in the 1960's with LOS ANGELES spelled out in purple cursive print against a slammin' white background. When Wesley Snipes called Christopher Williams a "Pretty Mutha Fucka" in New Jack City, he was talking about what I was going to be a few hours from now.

And then, I turned the TV on ESPN2, and saw Kobe Bryant, his wife, and all kinds of legal representation at a table. To call the atmosphere somber is a gross understatement. It was like a funeral of a lost love one. Sad to say, the coming months might prove just that for basketball fans like myself, not to mention mothers looking for that oh-so-rare sighting of a public, positive role model.

You know, I always knew Kobe Bryant's would have a purpose in life. Having been born in Philly, the real "Employee # 8" (No apologies to the Boston Celtic's Antioine Walker, who had the title during late 90's REEBOK Commercials.) had spent his years of refinement in Italy, under the careful watch of his father, Joe "JellyBean" Bryant. Effectively Articulating the language of Tony Soprano fluently, his basketball game is like the perfect jazz song.

And no, I'm not referring to that CD 101.9, Kenny G/Najee crap that people have the audacity to call real jazz. I speak of Bebop and Bird, Count Basie and Coltrane, ‘The Little Giant’ Johnny Griffin and Gillespie, and Ellington and Eubie Blake. Old School jazz, where the clashing of chords, brass and basses seemed perfect in their unique world of musical perfection.

Kobe's game is like that. A perfect blend of funk and finesse; a fantastic fusion of flash and fundamentals. He could shake you to ground with a paralyzing crossover dribble, posterize you with a vicious, 360 slam, and, if bored, simply step out and scare opponents stiff with a pretty potent long range weapon known as a jump shot. He has it all in his roundball mall of basketball goodies.

I thought he had it all in his life off the hardwood. Respected parents, money that will funds grandkids and great grandkids for life, a beautiful wife, and, as of January, a new born child.

In a matter of time, I may have to say, with a tremendous amount of regret, that he didn't.

What the prosecutors in coming months hope to prove in the coming months is that he didn't as well. He couldn't have that 19-year old blonde, all-American mountain girl who auditioned for American Idol. They will say that instead of accepting that fact, he took her by way of sexual assault, then, in a fashion that rivaled mob-style getaway, broke out before sunrise; hours before a spa appointment. I pray that move was more of a deflection of attention as opposed to an admission of guilt.

I certainly hope so, for his sake. While I'm not racist, I had my fill of all this interracial turmoil with the OJ trial, which depicted a promiscuous, cocaine-addicted, white woman as a larger than life heroine against a psychotic, obsessive, possesive Ex-jock with a short fuse. This is not to say Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman deserved their tragic end - HELL NO. But there's something about Black and White in the enterntainment arena that doesn't sit well. My opinion is simple: It doesn't mix.

And maybe its some of us men. Are we that scared of the anger and attitudes of our sistas that we need to run across the street the first chance we get, even for aggressive sex? Do athletes and entertainers think that they're all after our money? Now I know mothers who experienced turmoil and turbulence at the hands of black men are raising their women to be independent and demand security from men if involved, but are our women that greedy for money and unearned, underserved rewards? Aren't they finding their own shine, or does that growing sentiment about the black woman's demands on us being too much (MAYBE GUYS, THEY'RE TRYING TO PUSH US TO TO BE THE BEST WE CAN BE. IT MIGHT JUST HAVE TO TAKE A WOMAN MAKING US PRESIDENT IN ORDER FOR US TO GET IT. ) cause us to look for consolation and comfort from other races, even to the point of taking, as opposed to asking?

This is not to say the alleged victim is a bad person because of her skin color. She's a woman, and if Kobe assaulted...No... RAPED her, he should be prosecuted to the limits of the law. Given his circumstances, Kobe knew he had a lot to lose. And when Black mistreats white in this country, in any way, you run the risk of losing everything. Again, look at a freshly squeezed out of money glass of Juice as Exhibit A.

Yeah, their thinking is WELL, SO WHAT? So what they brought us against our will, then, whipped, hosed and lynched us when we fought back. So what they raped our women and killed our men with Tuskegee experiments. So what ?

But they feel as if with the advent of affirmative action, the playing field is leveled. Sure, and I believe Halle Berry won her Oscar for playing a positive role. Yeah, Denzel Washington too. Throw us a bone to shut us up, and we're supposed to be grateful. Hell, I was at a conference this year, and authors were saying that in spite our ever-growing sales numbers, they still don't how to market us. DUH- do they really want to know???

Wait, I got it…Sex, guns and drugs are the African-American way.

DAMN, KOBE! Why couldn't you have used better judgment? Couldn't you have kept your d*** in your pants till you got home? Sometimes, masturbation can keep you out of trouble, especially in Eagle, Colorado, where's there's very little of us. I was in a Utah airport in 1999 for an hour, decked out in a black leather coat, and I got twisted looks. DAMN, KOBE!! Didn't you see the danger of it all when you played the Denver Nuggets?

DAMN, KOBE!!! Don't you realize as many of our youth loved you? Damn, I loved that McDonald's commercial when the kids needed another guy for their 5-on-5 and picked you. We won't be seeing that anymore. Didn't you see that we hoped you would be different from most of our athletes, many of whom have kids all over the place from different women? DAMN, KOBE!!!! Didn't you see that our race needed more shining examples of you, that of an intelligent, articulate athlete doing the right things with his money and life?

DAMN, KOBE!!! Selfishly Speaking, didn't you know that I was really looking forward to rocking that LAKER warmup today?

DAMN, KOBE!

BARRY WHITE (1944-2003): A Friend Goes Home

BARRY WHITE (1944-2003) : A Friend Goes Home...
(Written July 4th, 2003)

My friend Barry went home this morning. God sure has a funny way of celebrating Independence Day, doesn't he? I Guess He upstairs needed a Maestro with a unique blend of classical orchestrated musical know-how and sensuous soul.

I met him at very young age, seven or eight to be precise, around 1973, when he was at the height of his powers. My mother would dim the lights to the living room, put on his music, and chill to the sounds of his deep, velvet voice while sipping on a beer or two. Introducing me to his distinct sound, one song she kept putting the needle back over and over again to listen to was "I've Got So Much To Give." Little did I know, those eight minutes and fourteen seconds would be the anthem of my life.

God, my friend made so much good music over the years. Right Now, as I type this, "I'm Never Ever Gonna Give You Up." plays on my computer. Moms told me I would be making love to his music when I grew up. She was so right. Does anyone besides me own the 9 minute version of "The Secret Garden", the song made with Al B. Sure, James Ingram and El Debarge, the Quincy Jones produced extravaganza? The last two and a half minutes of this creation, Barry lets Fly.

"Take it Off," this man of portly and musical stature demanded in Love Serenade, wanting his queen in the suit she entered the world in. Man, I wish the so called- balladeers of today could take a pen and study his genius. It's not about what you say you can do to a woman in lyrics, song, music and voice, it's in how the seduction of the performance is conducted that drives her wild. A deeply romantic man, Barry White knew how. There's no better music than Love Makin' Music, and it seems to me he did it better than most. Man, if he and Marvin Gaye had ever collaborated on some stuff, the black population in the world would have increased by ten.

Even when he went uptempo, it was ecstasy when he laid the track down next to me. Ever let loose on a dance floor to "Your Sweetness Is My Weakness"? If you can make it through to nine minutes, then we can hang. Somehow, he did more justice to Billy Joel's "I Love You Just The Way You Are," than the creator did. Sho You Right!!! I Couldn't Get Enough Of His Love when he told me to Beware, and Practice What I Preached.

Damn, I would give a limb to hear him lead the Love Unlimited Orchestra once more here on earth, for he had some so much to give, still. But while the journey with my friend has been brief, I rejoice that he is home, in a better place. All of our lives have been enriched because he shared his with us.

Rest in Peace, Barry

Surrender To Romance
By William Fredrick Cooper
Written: Februrary 14, 2003

LOVE:
A strong affection for or attachment to another person based on regard or shared experiences, interests, personal or familial ties; An intense attraction to another person based on sexual desires; the deep tenderness, affection and concern felt for a person with whom one has or wishes to have a relationship based on a sexual attraction.

ROMANCE:
To woo; to attempt to gain the affection of someone; to act in a chivalrous fashion or sensuous manner.

According to my good pal Noah Webster, these are the definitions of the aforementioned energies of power. However, personal explanations of these words are derived from personal opinions, orientations, preferences and experiences. Occurrences in our youth and present day sometime shape our attitude towards these words, often leaving us skeptical, cynical and wary of exhibiting the behavior of love or the action of romance. More often than not, we feel we have to control Love and Romance; why harness something so authentically enriching? Our failure to nurture the behaviors of love and the actions of romance is doing a disservice to both our partners and ourselves.

If you ask many, the Art Of Romance, being Romantic, or allowing oneself to exhibit or be the recipient of Romance is archaic. Not true. ROMANCE IS WHAT YOU MAKE IT. Start with simplicity: send your loved one a note, a card or a poem, just because. Or, make an afternoon phone call and reveal your innermost thoughts and fantasies of passion. If you ‘re conservative, then tell your loved one that the day won’t be complete until you have held their hand.

Remember that Romance doesn’t take an obscene amount of money. You will find that people appreciate the little things in life, such as holding hands, pulling out chairs, assisting with coats and holding doors open. Even just sitting together watching the sunset or watching your favorite movie is Romantic. Writing love letters, or simply reading the Sunday morning paper with your lover is a way of expressing yourself romantically. Or, in an important alternative, sharing GOD by worshipping together at church. Allowing the genesis of love into to your souls together while praising Him is a fine display of being evenly yoked in Love.

If you want romance in your life, you have to learn how to be romantic. For instance, send your lover on a treasure hunt to you, offer her a sensual toenail polish or offer to give him a close, close shave. If your lover watches sports all day on Sunday, make it more enjoyable by giving him/her a quickie and a sandwich during halftime. Romance can be light and airy. Buy a couple of monster water guns and have a water fight that leads to passionate lovemaking.

Of course there are always the surprise trips to the city of lights.. .Paris or the city of love... Venice. Your pockets might not be that heavy. In that case, surprise your lover with a trip inside your heart. Pick them up from work, blindfold until you reach your destination. Take the blindfold off and let her/him open her/his eyes to the sights and sounds of a wonderful candlelit dinner with white-gloved servers waiting along with a violinist expressing your love for her/him through music. You can also surprise your lover with a day at the spa together. Have his and her massages, facials, pedicures and manicures. Not only can these things be sensual, it is a wonderful thing to do as a couple. If you’re left alone for a short period of time, a little smooching is okay.

If you don’t live with your lover, call him/her in the middle of the night and make love over the telephone. Call in the middle of the afternoon and ask your lover... What can you do with: A Cup of Ice, A Candle, A Peppermint, and plenty of time...? Leave them guessing and anticipating. If they continue to ask you what can be done, tell them this: “I can show you better than I can tell you. It’s like the Matrix: "No one can ever be told what it is, you have to experience it for yourself”

Most of all, make your partner feel that in this moment, here and now, they are the most important, desirable, sexy and beautiful person in your personal universe and thank them for sharing it with you.

I truly believe in Romance, for it is the ultimate manifestation of love, God’s most precious gift to us all.

I GOTTA KEEP MOVING BUT I WON'T FORGET...

I GOTTA KEEP MOVING...BUT, I WON'T FORGET... By William Fredrick Cooper

Written September 3rd, 2002

I picked up the Tuesday edition of the USA TODAY, and all the sobering memories came back. Seeing the flames come from way above, then, another plane, flying low; its destination: MORE DEATH. The fact that people leaping to their deaths saved other lives leaves me twisted. Can you actually call them heroes? Can you actually call those bringers of doom, officials who deemed the South Tower safe after tragedy struck North, on the carpet of blame? You can't question their lack of judgment, IF THEY WERE ALIVE. They didn't know.

I am a fire marshal at my job. I’ve been one for 7 years. Adorned with a Red Cap, I spearheaded thousands of fire drills, much to the chagrin of counsel trying to close that last deal, taking that last conference call. Lord Knows, I've interrupted plenty of them, and was the subject of much derision. Yet today I keep asking myself: if put in a situation to save lives during a catastrophic event, would I have been brave enough, or would I have panicked? It's different from the outside, as I remember myself, helping, aiding and consoling. But could I have endured 56, or 102 minutes of heat, smoke and fire to save lives like some who aren't here today? Could I have given my life altogether?

Sixteen and one half minutes to make a critical choice. Live or Die. That's what those in the South Tower above the 78th floor had to do. In biblical times, Lot 's wife had a choice too, and she rolled ‘snake eyes’, by way of pillar of salt. At least they had a choice. In Washington , in rural Pennsylvania on those planes; they had none. Christ, those planes...

I took my old daughter to the movies on a summer Saturday evening in July, at Battery Park City. What was supposed to be pleasure for two turned into somber, sullen thoughts as I showed her Ground Zero from a window. Maranda, after shedding tears, asked me if they had a chance. Daddy tried to tell her, "Yes, some did, baby, but others..." As I turned my face away to conceal the agony ripping my heart in two, seven words came into my head, those I share, from a soul that cares:

I GOTTA KEEP MOVING...BUT I WON'T FORGET.

I GOTTA KEEP MOVING...BUT I WON'T FORGET. How can I, when after carrying out a mentorship responsibility with Harlem Hospital , I conversed with a fellow soldier, trying to make difference? This trooper, a retired firefighter, shared with me a story, the sole reason why he gives back. He and a fellow fireman both were six days from retirement when summoned to duty on that fateful day. His partner, a lifelong friend, was a little faster than he, and rushed into the building, leaving him behind. "Let's get some people, and get out," He says to my fellow mentor. As if weaving through watermelon explosions falling from the sky (BODIES) and metal from buildings and aircraft weren't enough, he said. Next thing he knows, the Tower falls. He barely makes it across the street, and covers up in preparation for the afterlife. Today, he wonders if his friend had the opportunity to do so. He helps kids now, because his friend did. I hugged him last Friday. That's all I could do.

I GOTTA KEEP MOVING...BUT, I WON'T FORGET: I have a childhood friend I see every now and then, and he gets on me for being too kind to him. I talk to him when there are no words to be said, sometimes driving him crazy. His bravery compels respect from me every time our paths cross. You see, my friend, Frederick Curry, kissed his wife Beverly goodbye one Tuesday morning, the last time that day. He remembered her calling him, saying she'll find a way out, then, to say goodbye. I often wonder what it feels like when you know your about to die, and there's nothing you can do to stop it. Some had to choose between two evils. Heat or leap. My friend, is a brave man, and I love him for it. If he can keep moving, I can to.

I GOTTA KEEP MOVING...BUT I WON'T FORGET: I must travel to Oakland next week. I'm flying on September 12th. Things are safe now; or, as safe as they could be. But still I weight this thought: if I knew it was going to be all over, have I done enough to make a difference? Has my heart and soul gone into every word I write, whether it be suggestive, seductive or sensuous or somber, sullen or thought-provoking? Have a touched as many lives as I could, shared as much love as I have inside? Could I give my life so that others could live, as the Pennsylvania casualties did? I feel unfair that I'm here and they’re…

But deep down, in the depth of their world that breathe life into the living, they urge us with my words. I GOTTA KEEP MOVING... Because they are not here to share tomorrow, I GOTTA KEEP MOVING. Not for me, for them.

BUT I WON'T FORGET.

A REMINDER – by William Fredrick Cooper
Written September 25, 2001

I want to reveal to all that yesterday my legal travels took me downtown, to Wall Street, about three blocks from the fallen towers. Walking from Manhattan's Supreme Court, I noticed the Blimpie's on Park Row where my breakfast was interrupted was covered with dirt and debris. Went in Bondy's Record Store next door to inquire about the new Michael Jackson single ‘You Rock My World’ , and despondency was all over the owners' face. After sharing a look that revealed his lack of business, all my lips could say is “Hang In There, man." Hopefully, he found solace in my words of compassion.

Gotta Keep Moving, I said.

While walking down Broadway in the rain, the sight of barren, soot-adorned stores were shell-shocking. One store that stood out in memory was a Modell's by John Street. The windows were blasted out and the items on display were a filthy gray, covered by ruins from the collapse. Fulton and Cortland Streets as well as Maiden Lane provide a clear view of the wreckage. Have you ever seen one of those old movies where troops invade a city gutted by the ravages of war? How about TIME or LIFE Magazine pictures of captured cities? That's what Church Street looks like.

People are walking the streets with surgical masks. You wanna know why? The awful stench of death and fire is so nauseatingly unforgettable. Gazing incredulously, people were either taking pictures with camcorders or vomiting in the streets. That there was no medium between the extremes was stupefying. Viewing the fenced-off damage from across Broadway, I felt over 3,000 bodies calling out to me, begging for a single breath of life. Anger surged through me as I wondered the whereabouts of the mastermind who created this catastrophe. Don't let me find him: I'LL RIP HIS HEART OUT THE WAY HE DID TO THOSE GRIEVING FAMILIES HOPING FOR MIRACLES.

They're still digging; the fireman and search groups, that is. A week and a half later, they're still praying to find at least one survivor amongst the rubble. To date, there have only been FIVE. FIVE. FIVE!!!!! Hoping against the inevitable, all the families of the missing want is closure, one of New York's Bravest told me. They can't even find that. I heard a sobering illustration from a police officer. Bodies of the leapers didn't hit the ground flat, they exploded on impact. Between that tragic out and the thousands crushed and burned beyond recognition, dental records and DNA tests (Records, I don't know.) are necessary to match body parts. BODY PARTS. After conducting my business, I went to a lounge area in a nearby skyscraper and sat for an hour, trying to make sense of it all. All I kept thinking is: These people didn't ask to die. Neither will the innocent people abroad, or the young lives we’re about to lose fighting for a country still squabbling internally.

This week, I have to say goodbye to Frederick Curry's wife. A week and a half later, I found out the love of this family friend's life was a telemarketer at Cantor Fitzgerald in 2 WTC. He's a strong man, to have gone this long without closure. Now, he must move on.

So will the family of Brian Bilcher, a high school friend turned firefighter. Serving as a bodyguard for my 4'11" runt ass at Susan Wagner High, I see in his later years that his protective status never changed. He was one of the 300 missing firemen. I didn't think his selflessness would end up costing him his life.

Right around the corner from my job, on 47th Street and 8th Avenue, is a fire station adorned by candles, flowers and pictures. Nine families were gutted by the loss of their fathers or husbands. Tears fill my eyes as I write this, but my heart tells me I Gotta Keep Moving on, even if I can't escape the pain.

While it's refreshing to see all this racial unity in the midst of horrific turbulence, in the back of my mind I wonder what will happen after the fighting stops. If there is an America left, how will it be before Black and White finally stand together on even ground? I'm being optimistic here. Don't depress me with the answer to that. Will I continue to be disrespected by foreigners (who have ingested slanted opinions of our people from the media that’s fed to them before their arrival to the land of the…ahem…free?) who refuse to put my change in my hands at newsstand after a purchase? Will women continue to clutch their purses when I enter the elevator of a corporate building despite seeing me dressed in professional attire? It happened today, again. If I'm in jeans trotting down Madison or Fifth Avenue, will I still be considered guilty of wrongdoing, before proven innocent? Will I be able to get a damn cab when in a hurry? Will the Dred Scott ruling still be subtly enforced even though many of my own will have shed blood because of your wars?

I wish I were home, where my ancestors roam.

I GOTTA KEEP MOVING/PART II...by William Fredrick Cooper
WRITTEN: SEPTEMBER 14, 2001

They say rain is healing. I sure hope so, for we sorely need it here in New York. Our Big Apple has a chunk of it missing.

Playing their melodies in horrific harmony to achieve a predictable effect, murder, mayhem and madness have completed their tragic symphony of terror. Millions watched speechless as a chorus of sirens and screams sang like some awful chorus. Not only in financially powerful districts (WTC-New York City), but our military hearts (Pentagon - Washington) and rural souls as well (PA). Bull's-eyes adorned every American target as fear has rooted us all. We wondered if upon dawn's awakening, our skylines, and most importantly, our hearts would be altered once more.

I Gotta Keep Moving, I told myself through these days. Tough people live in this land. Seeing those taking time out to care and share in spite of it all has fortified me. Sure the phone rings here as normalcy, or a semblance of it, returns. It will be annoying for sure, but in the work provided today, I will find a cure.
I Gotta Keep Moving. Tough People live in this tough land.

Tough People live here. That's what I said as I walked downtown via 7th Avenue and saw the Puerto Rican Search Team headed to the gloom that awaited their findings downtown. That's what I said as I saw the many pictures of love ones on the news, clutching photos of the missing, hanging on to hope, praying for a miracle. Would I, could I tell them the truth?

Tough people live in this land.

That's what I'll tell myself tomorrow. I was supposed to talk about a novel I wrote in DC. Before this, I wanna heal with First Sunday's Book Club and maybe, with sharing some of my New York Story (it pales in comparison to others.) help them cope with what they've seen down there. No, I'm not Bob Hope. I'm Just a brotha from Brooklyn tryin' to make a difference. Helping others, helps me, for it's all part of the process, I tell myself.

I Gotta Keep Moving.

Though terrible sadness and quiet anger grip my soul, I realize the lives of many have changed forever, compliments of four wayward airplanes. But we all must keep moving. While not safe as before, not as powerful, we realize what we buy and build hardly defines us anymore. From this day forward, maybe hearts strengthened with resolve and resilience will. We Gotta Keep Moving, people...Tough People live in this tough land of ours.

William Fredrick Cooper
-copyright 2001

GOTTA KEEP MOVING By William Fredrick Cooper

I GOTTA KEEP MOVING by William Fredrick Cooper -
(Written Wednesday September 12, 2001)

I Gotta Keep Moving. Tough people live in this tough town. That's what I told myself last night as I sat at my desk till 8:30 PM, trying to will myself home, to Brooklyn. That's what I told myself as my "Q" train crossed the Manhattan Bridge last night. (DOES ANYONE KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE BEING THE ONLY ONE IN YOUR SUBWAY CAR FOR AN HOUR??) That's what I told myself this morning, when my boss told me he needed someone at work. My sister in Florida thinks I should go to a trauma unit to desensitize, but in case you don't know, I'm a bit stubborn. I actually think I'm good at this self healing thing. But after something like this, what in the hell do you do?

I Gotta Keep Moving. That's what I'm telling myself, even though the Century 21 where my express bus left me some eight minutes before death is now a memory. A European man in the Chinese restaurant last night told me that "WE WERE ASKING FOR THIS." It took everything in my power not to strike this person.

Were we asking for the innocent lives of thousands to perish? People who were at work, drinking coffee, or situated at water coolers laughing, telling loved ones to "have a nice day", then, have their own days and lives ended in the most tragic way imaginable?

Were two people asking for this fate: Jumping out of an eighty-something floor window, holding hands, having to choose this way of mortality than being engulfed by flames?

Were 343 firefighters and officers asking to die while gallantly trying to save lives? Were many kids, husbands and wives asking for unconscionable, unjustified, inexplicable abandonment?

Was I asking for these vivid memories? A breakfast at Blimpie's, some 300 yards away on Park Row, interrupted by a loud crash, the scent of fire followed by gray smoke? A Pregnant woman, crying to me for release brought on by shattered nerves? I found a restroom for her at a Reade Street Parlor, and even found time to crack jokes with patrons about the Denzel Washington Movie (The Siege) and how I have determined to find that 6th Cell.

I wasn't asking for the memory of being on Broadway with a correction officer at 10:25, telling people to swim upstream by foot because you couldn't trust mass transportation. Was I asking for what happened five minutes later: A crashing sound, then the smell of new smoke? Nope. I sure wasn't asking for the vivid picture of unnerved police officers streaking by me, saying "They got the Brooklyn Bridge", as well as another woman saying "They got another plane coming, They're gonna kill us all." But that's what I got. Yup. Even the officer by my side took flight as I remained calm. Tough people live in this town, I thought.

I Gotta Keep Moving. A pizzeria on Prince Street is where reality set in for me. I called my Ex, my daughter's mother, to see if she was OK, for she worked at 388 Greenwich Street. (Two block away from that venue is now covered with debris and dirt.) I didn't even panic when there was no answer; numbness was on auto pilot at this point. A couple of calls later, I found that the Staten Island Ferry she was on returned to the Island once the second plane hit. God is real Good, I sighed.

A white woman next to me, however, may not have been so fortunate. Beet red and crying, after she hung up the phone, she collapsed into my embrace. You See, her son worked in 2 WTC on the 84th floor, and she was unaware of his whereabouts. As tears fell from my eyes, I offered a brave smile. "He's OK," I uttered, then left the store.

I Gotta Keep Moving.

Tower Records, on East 4th Street was my next stop. Was I asking for the vivid memory of people embracing on staircases upon entry, crying profusely? Or the red-eyed lady who inspected packages with tissue crumpled in her left hand? On the news the showed a man who somehow escaped one Tower fro the 82nd floor, and prayed for that woman on Prince Street once more.

I wasn't asking for planes to fly by in the sky as I approached 8th Street. You could see the fear in people's eyes. Do I remember asking for the lingering picture of a woman wearing a ripped gray dress, covered in dirt, in a debris stanched stupor, determined to get home? I offered to buy her a bottled water but she said no. I could see why. Following suit on her drive:

I Gotta keep moving.

Approaching 23rd Street and Broadway, you could see the Empire State Building. Was I asking for the worry I now felt, knowing that could possibly be a new target for these barbarians? My two-way pager was beeping like hell now. I sure didn't ask for the trepidation my brother, Jeffrey felt, who was at my job because he knew I was at Court. Through it all I tried to remain composed.

I Gotta Keep Moving. Tough People live in this town.

The Time Square Jumbotron showed Palestinians rejoicing in the street, guns held high, teaching their young to become assassination-happy war mongers. Guess we all asked for that too, huh? Was I asking for security guards, who know me from the many late hours at my job, interrogating me upon entry of my building as if I were a terrorist who flew the fucking planes? Did I ask for the tearshed as I dropped my bag in relief as I saw my brother, who had been crying himself?

Was I asking for the tears when shedding my formerly black, now charcoal gray suit last night? I couldn't pick up the phone last night. And after President Bush's speech and the reporting of the 7 WTC collapse, I just turned on ESPN2. The tomb-like ride on the "Q" train this morning, was I asking for more watershed while riding across the Manhattan Bridge, I saw the Trade Center no more? There wasn't a dry eye in the car.

A day later, and we gotta keep moving.

I wasn't asking for the conversation with a survivor this morning, who told me, upon escape she saw firefighter and police rush by her into one of the towers, and how she passed people with mouths agape, just watching. And how five minutes later, the tower collapsed, and all those people could very well be dead now.

Was I asking for the vodka I now sip at my desk to calm my shaking hands, to ease the pain? Eventually, it'll dissipate, for I gotta keep moving. Tough People live in this tough town, I must remind myself.

Even if they are at the brink.

William Fredrick Cooper

WOULD YOU MIND (Inspired by Janet Jackson's 'Would You Mind)

WOULD YOU MIND ??? (Inspired by Janet Jackson's "Would You Mind...") By Ronn Midnight
Written May 13, 2001

Five minutes to Ten.

Sitting all alone at work once more, wanting to bathe someone, play with someone, have my emerging hardness dance with a love after dark. Janet's CD flows while drinks with the boys await me downtown. But I can't leave. Not now, not while my loins are still afire, and the primal urges within are surfacing. Not now, while I yearn to taste a valley only the sweetest of love provides. Not now, as my manhood craves the warmness of a loved one.

All of me wants all of you, forever.

Can I take you there again, on another journey through my fantasy suite? Can I unravel the threads to your inhibitions tonight? Undressing you, then caressing you, I long to satisfy, so to your carnal passions I comply. Can I go inside your luscious canyon with a fluttering, hypnotic object, lovingly probing and exploring your succulent ravine of amour? Can I rub my bald pate against your womanhood? Mmm, I can just taste the dew that flows from your honey dripping from my eyelashes.

As we dance slowly to rhythm of Janet's erotica, my senses are aroused by the tenor of our nude embrace. The soft texture of your skin, the pillow-like feel of your lips has desires raging uncontrollably. Gosh, the lust blazes from you as well, for liquid droplets of love from a tunnel only wanting me runs between my thighs. Without a word said, our dark eyes of desire meet. We both know what's about to happen next.
Sampling your lips - NO DAMMIT, I THINK YOU ME KNOW BY NOW: NOT THE ONES UPSTAIRS - the scent of you filters through my brain as my tongue collides with something salty, yet syrupy sweet. Feeling the shivers of incomprehensible, yet indescribable pleasure run through you as my mouth performs orally, I unleash the sexual tension manifesting within you, lick, by insatiable lick.

Go deeper, you command. I obey, setting your body aflame. Your limbs trembling with a feeling unknown to man, no one told you I would devour you channel. No one told you it would be like this.

Enfolding you in loving arms of desires as we descend to the bed, you see ardent fires burning through soulful eyes. Yes, honey, I've anticipated this moment for an eternity. Mouths and tongues clashing first affectionately, then aggressively, I move to ample mounds of pleasure. Moaning with satisfaction as one nipple, then the other are grazed by my tongue, the fantasies once whispered in my ears and revealed aloud in a whimpering plea. Make me cum, Daddy, you beg. I want your juices inside, then all over me, you pant. A tremendous wave of emotion flows through my veins as I respond; not by words, my queen, but with action.

I just wanna kiss you, suck you, taste you, ride you, feel you, make you cum too... Janet's purr encompassed the mood as our anatomies connect. I plunge into your dampened treasure. Savoring the warmth of your core, your heated welcome of my manhood excites me as I kiss you slowly, tenderly and lovingly. Increasing the depths of my exploration, I long to see the throes of passion flicker across your face. Daddy will sweat a river trying to please you. Feeling your body quiver, I increase the tempo as we begin moving as one.

Just Like That, Daddy.... Go Deeper...,you moan as the juices from you soak my rigid stiffness. Piling and plunging deeper into you, the hardness of my masculine strength causes you to squirm and spasm and a food flows from something sensational, sopping and syrupy: Your Pussy.

Clutching to each other aggressively causes me drive into you faster and faster, demanding your release, compelling your to peak.

Same Time baby, Same Time. . Feed Mommy..., you scream. OOOHHHH, HONEY... I LOVE YOU!!!

Hearing those words sends an explosion screaming down my nerve endings and into you, jolting us so forcefully that we fail to hear the song end as we collapse in love.

Spent.

SO MUCH TO GIVE... (Inspired by 'I've Got So Much To Give' by BARRY WHITE)

SO MUCH TO GIVE... (Inspired by Barry White’s "I’ve Got So Much to Give...) by William Fredrick Cooper - Written December 12, 2000

Gosh, Barry White’s on, doin’ it to me with again...

I got so much to give is on this night. Yet my home is barren, in need of the right companion. And my heart remains lonely.

My soul aches sometimes, hoping my queen surfaces for even a night, so that she can feel the strength of me holding on tight. Yes, I got so much to give on this night. But my home is barren, in need of the right companion.

I long for you, my dear, to appear from the ashes and save my tomorrow from eternal desolation, unwanted seclusion, continuous isolation. I yearn for someone to share dreams our ancestors dreamed, visions of strong, solid black love. The only love. I need the infectious spirit of you, so I can grow to the very king you desire and seek. It’s gonna take a lifetime, gonna take years. Yes, Barry, I got so much to give. But my home is barren, in need of the right companion.

Let Love Flow. Don’t Be Afraid, Barry says. I won't be, my love, for you provide power I never knew existed. Passion as well, as just a slight graze of your softness arouses me. God, don’t kiss me bye for work. The taste of your soft petals lingers through the long day, the perfect incentive to hurry home to the moist, tasty warmness you provide at night. Both tongues miss you, baby; the hypnotic object between passionate lips, as well as the aroused, swollen one below. Yes, the pleasures of amour transcend the cerebral and emotional, for harmony there brings us to the ultimate, the physical.

Yes Barry, I got so, so much to give. But my home is barren, in need of a suitable companion.

The Maestro says once you find the real thing, somehow you’ll know. I believe this with all my heart, as something awaits me that’ll be timeless, priceless, worth more than all ransoms. It’ll make me holler, shout, sing; declare boldly the joy running through once dormant veins. But for now, loneliness and fear have my heart captive, fighting through many years of pain.

Tomorrow, my Nubian soul mate may surface and we’ll share dreams of queens and kings. She’ll have everything right here, adoration and affection in store, eternal devotion for sure.

Yes Barry, I got so much to give. But for now, my home remains barren, hoping, praying for the right companion.

Entering The Garden Of Love...by Ronn Midnight

Dated November 17th, 2000

You wanna know my feelings right now? They are of lust, of hunger, of fire. My lady unearthed passions hibernated in a soul longing to display affections, both mental and carnal. Now brought to fore, a question surfaces: Can I share them???

Entering my garden, desire runs through you while strolling. Passing by handcuffs, intuition tells you I’m not in possessive mode; you wouldn’t have passed them if this was such. You wanna lose control while breezing by bronze statues simulating us making love, however restraint prevails over fantasy for the moment; You haven’t found me yet. Fountains of me aching while uncovering a pearl between moist, tasty thighs with my tongue causes you to pant heavily while continuing your passionate game of hide-and-seek.

"Where is he?", you ask yourself while strolling onto an open grass field. Feeling a sudden tap, you turn and fall into welcome arms.

Craving for the heat emanating from your erotic awakening, I part the rim of your face with a probing tongue. Starving to reciprocate, with reckless abandon you latch on, giving no quarter while soft, gentle hands begin stroking the rising nature between my legs. Descending onto the spacious meadow, I want to explore, so my fingers tickle the furnace between your sculpted stems of beauty. Excited from eager reception, your soft mewling indicates a need for something entrancing and enchanting; teasing and pleasing. Wanting, needing to quench a certain thirst with the dew that flows from your honey, I press my mouth to your secret place. The staccato fluttering of my oral creature causes you to wither and whimper with pleasure, sending ripples of ecstasy through a trembling frame boiled over.

Baby, just seeing you search for me in this garden raised my temperature as I unleashed erotic demons laying in bondage for so long. Now as my tongue glides in and out of a succulent treasure of passion, you stiffen, shudder, then experience the satisfaction of an intimate apex. Meeting your face with a loving peck once more, a soft index finger pressed against your lips indicates more is in store.

Rising from a lawn singed from the heat generated by our union, we embrace, then fall into a heated kiss. Stroking the hair from your face tenderly then commencing with anatomical exploring, seductive pecks across swollen, sensitive nipples send desires cascading through you as I feel the tremors and throes of a woman aroused.

Sudden aggression engulfs you as we return to the warm pasture. Snapping your fingers, you capture the magic that inhabits my garden as a thin, gold waist bracelet adorns your foreplay dampened body. "Anything goes in your garden," you announce while straddling my protrusion. Rockin’ and ridin’ to a dance all your own, you sink deeper onto my manhood. Mmm, your love cave feels too good. As the sun captures the beauty of salty, crystal droplets upon the frame of a Queen at work, a swift decision has been reached on my behalf.

"You’ve done enough, Baby," I say.

Groaning softly as I turn you over, you bring your legs to my shoulders as we reprise our exclusive garden dance. Plunging deeper and deeper into your soaked womanhood, I change the tempo fluidly, causing shrieks, shrills and squeals of delight. Sweat falling from my mass to the exotic green lawn, you climax once more, this time causing the grass underneath to shimmer and sigh in comprehension of your gratification.


Feeling the grumbling of contentment from a fully comforted woman initiates the release of a King eager to please. Even through the protective instrument, you feel warm, electric spurts from a body tensed with pleasure. Finally conceding our humanity, we collapse and cuddle lovingly, enjoying the rapture of fantasy as we sleep in each others arms.

FOR YOUR LOVE... (Inspired by ‘For Your Love’, by Tevin Campbell) by Ronn Midnight
Written May 28, 2000

Gee, it’s hot in here. Alone again, after hours, as another hard day at work reaching it’s conclusion. Wishing, hoping, to come home to anything but an empty home and heart, needing to share lust more than being rational at this moment, bone-to-bone grinding is in order here.

I’m so horny for someone I want to love it’s scary.

Turning on my CD player, Tevin’s song fills the air. FOR YOUR LOVE, I would do most anything. He sings the tune with such maturity.

FOR YOUR LOVE, the sweetest melody I’d sing. Damn. Those words, embody what I feel right for you now; whoever you are. Just the thought of your touch sends me grabbing for sheets as sexual sensations run free through me. Then our bodies meet, causing an even warmer invasion to my soul, causing affection flowing through my veins.

Locking the bedroom door, you turn to me and notice a demeanor change, the insecure sometimes bashful person transformed into a hungry panther, ready to pounce and devour. Approaching you in bed, the doe-shaped eyes you possess become glassy and slit-like, in anticipation of an enormous outpouring of lust. Not resisting potential ecstasy, you’re in a trance, high off the thought of passion with a certain, special part of me.

I am hungry, famished for affection, so I take the initiative this evening and capture your lips with a moist kiss - not to your actual petals, but somewhere else, much lower, thicker and wetter. My affectionate tongue flicking in the depth of you, causes you, my queen, to wiggle, then tremor and thrash. Painting a beautiful canvas within your core, juices from your fountain flow freely, letting me know you’ve enjoyed phase one of our harmony.

As I mount, then enter you, I wonder if I’ll satisfy you. Sudden contempt sets in and upon entry it is revealed that my queen, though seasoned, has never encountered to combination of raw uninhibited lust and love; never simultaneously. How do I know, you ask? The answer is in her reactions. Shivers and shakes, quivers and quakes, surrendering and submitting to sexual sounds of satisfaction. You know the drill.

Locking eyes as well as soul and bodies, I dance slowly. You follow. As my tempo increases and primitive strokes become faster, then deeper with urgency, the nails of my queen rake, then pound the small of my back. Not believing my performance exceeds prior advertising and boasts, the ripples of pleasure ravage you, causing tremor and you to speak in voices unfamiliar.
Minutes turn to hours and still we dance. My goodness, my queen brings the best from me, as well as other things that are sticky when spurting from me. Finally succumbing to intimate mortality, we collapse into waiting arms, but not before sharing these three words: I LOVE YOU.

For Your Love, my unknown soul mate, I would do most anything.

Are you sure you’re ready ?

A FANTASY SUITE... by RONN MIDNIGHT

A FANTASY SUITE...by RONN MIDNIGHT (the alter ego of William Fredrick Cooper) (Written May, 21, 1999)

Have you ever been alone late at night; wanting to be inside someone, yearning to let the warm juices of lust leave you to run free inside of a special someone? Have you ever craved the content sigh of a sexually satisfied soul mate? The feelings, so strong for so long, need a healthy release. Wanting to touch and kiss and screw has me lusting as I taste the sweetness of my unknown queen’s nectar in my mind.

My mind, now running game, wants to get some; so here’s what I would say: Sometimes the thought of being inside you, sharing every ounce of my undying torrent of love for you gives me such a horny rush that control leaves me in public places. Shivers of pleasure scale my spine when I envision you imploring me to tease you, please you and appease you. Yeah, I become the lover you wants, the you she seeks, but only to you, my unknown princess, for you have the potential to bring me to heights I could never experience with another.

The desire reaches a zenith of sorts in the bedroom. Something flows through me once you close the door, an uncontrollable transformation comes to surface. That nice guy with so much emotion wants to fuck, with a woman in love of course. Seeing my magical metamorphosis from man to sexual predator, it arouses you, leaves you breathless, whoever you are. Just my touch sends tingles. I know. I can feel your excitement.

I’m sorry, Honey - Can I call you that? Does my cunny taste like that? My apologies for not giving you advance notification, but your body now belongs to me, as I am determined to make your love come down in terrific torrents of orgasmic bliss. So the pussy’s mine tonight.

I live to be the most exhilarating lover you’ve ever experienced. You’ve confessed fantasies; let’s turn them to realities. I yearn for the collision of two dripping, passionate masses. With you, I’ll master the art of making love, because of the amour, my dear. You want it tender? I’ll give you that. Swing from the chandeliers in a swift fury? Yes, we good guys do that shit very well when hungry. . In circles, changing speeds and positions? My hips are loose, my pet. Doggie-style, S&M, Playful abduction?? No problem. Because of my love for you, my soul mate, these things come to the fore.

So it’s unhealthy to take a drink from your honey pot, huh? But my dear, the rivers of bliss from the cunny increases my motivation for your gratification. I don’t want you to stop enjoying yourself, for I won’t enjoy myself. The mere thought of my queen pounding my arms because of lack of control reveals things her mouth won’t say.

So, can I taste it? Hmm, you taste so good. You have me munching on those walls. Damn, I’m enjoying you, my precious. Haven’t you ever encountered a man who’ll completely dominate you completely; physically, yet tenderly, with sensitivity, simultaneously? One that will tease, lick every crevice of your canyon with a loving tongue, then insert a dick craving only your sweetness? One that’ll do any and everything to please you? Love, my queen that’s what it’s all about.

But we’re not in that mode, sugar, for this is one of passion, lust and desire. The musky aroma of your nest arouses me this particular evening, so I feel compelled to sample a special treat, first lubricating it with some of me, then teasing your flaming gouge with my tongue; as per your request of course. I want it sugar, the liquid that muffles my utterance. I need it, darling. I need you to squirt that orgasm out, so I can drink it… Come on, Baby, clamp your thighs around my face so a familiar beverage fills my nostrils. Here it comes, I can feel your instant, orgasmic arousal. Mmm, sugar, Daddy sure loves to make you cum.

What? You thought we were done, huh? Silly Rabbit.

Stop rubbin’ your clit. Allow me... No, not with my mouth this time. With something else harder and bigger...Do you like that, baby?? Do you like the way my love feels inside of you? Damn, I hope so. Mmm, you feel so good... I enjoy a woman with a deep cave.

As we both glide into pleasures that before our introductions we never knew existed, the ride that commenced slow and savory has become swift and hard; again as per your request. The sensations now unbearable, we approach a plateau, a point of absolute satisfaction, when all else becomes moot.

We’re there, baby... C’mon... C’mon...That’s my girl... I’m there baby, I’m there...

The rush that encompasses me as the simultaneous paroxysm of delight and ecstasy is engulfing, causing me to scream as our bodies tremble and become limp, in awe of this heavenly union of love.

Love, I see it’s found it’s way back into this flow. Yeah I do love you, my queen. Wherever you are.

A WRITER’S SOUL: The Blog Page Of William Fredrick Cooper -

One of the blessings I have experienced in this literary journey is how some of my posts have been received by many individuals. Whether erotic, opinionated or poignant, that many of you have taken time out of your busy schedules and lives to read a composition of mine means more to me than you can ever imagine. Thanking God daily for my ability to create, I never realized how many thoughts I’ve shared over the years until I recently decided to create a blog page.

Sifting through E-mails and documents created, I must admit, there've been many, many thoughts from my soul. Ranging from political views to poetry, musical tributes to those departed to after-hour moments that heated up the page, I have compiled and placed in chronological order many of these thoughts. Some are somber, serious, powerful in its prose, others light with levity and delightful in their diversity, should you take the time to go through the journey of musings on my blog page and are inspired by anything you have read, then I am humbled in advance.

I am just grateful that God has given me a gift; a gift that I feel honored to share. Please, come take a peek, and feel free to comment on any of them.

Enjoy

William Fredrick Cooper

December 2nd, 2008