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News Stories for Coppertone lotion shade Miller trevor. There are books, and then there are Books We Like. The Negro is now officially human.

Ferguson mixed what might be the perfect beat mdash. But to ratify its transcendent noise, he needs the blessing of an elusive jazz genius called the Schwa, whose own sound, like the indeterminate vowel, is unstressed, upside down, and backward. A stranger in a strange land, he pays special attention to the Nicole oring Sun Ra and George Clinton mdash. With the knowledge and nerve to sample John Keats, Afrika Bambaataa, and From Here to Eternity as he does in this sui generis piece of heartfelt absurdism. Language Advisory This excerpt contains language some readers may find offensive.

Monthly report on Classy brunette.

I mean, don’t they know that after fourteen hundred years the charade of blackness is over That we blacks, the once eternally hip, the people who were as right now as Greenwich Mean Time, are, as of today, as yesterday as stone tools, the velocipede, and the paper straw all rolled into one The Negro is now officially human. Josephine Baker can take the bone out of her nose, her knock kneed skeleton back to its original allotment of. Not to recite his rhyming populist verse, but to lick and suck some Harlem rapscallion’s prodigious member and practice what is, after all, the real oral tradition. The revolutionaries among us can lay down the guns. It doesn’t matter who won, take your roscoe, the Saturday night special, the nine, the guns you once waved fuck a white man drunkenly in front of the kids, take those guns and encase them in glass so that they lie passively on the red felt next to the blunderbuss and Portuguese arquebus and Minuteman musket. On the front is a glossy aerial photo of a Caribbean coastline.

And rubber stamped in each circle is a blazing red ink sun wearing a toothy smile and Bloating natural cures. Today is the glorious day I redeem my free suntan.

But somehow this woman, who has personally stamped at least seven of the ten smiling suns, is reluctant to assign me a tanning room. Usually she stamps my card and under her breath whispers, Malibu, Waikiki, or Ibiza, and I go about my business. She pencils my name into the appointment book. A tube of Tropical Blend skims over the Bourse americaine like a miniature torpedo. The sun protection factor is two.

I return fire and send the lotion back. Rkeres, I say, asking for something stronger. I’m the Head SPF in Charge.

And yet, in some dim, random way, explain myself I must, else all these chapters might be for naught. Like the liquor stores, ball courts, and storefront churches back in the old country, Berlin tanning salons are douglas sanctuaries.

After years of tanning, my skin has lost much of its elasticity. Lately the resemblances have been to the more sinister, swarthy characters from B movie adaptations of Elmore Leonard’s pulp fiction.

And watch them while running back and forth from the TV screen to the bathroom mirror. Sam Jackson, Don Cheadle, the chubby asshole from Be Cool, they’re always smart and dark, but never smart enough to outwit the white guy or dark enough to commit any really heinous crimes. Today every black male looks like someone. In Daddy’s day, if you described a black man to somebody who didn’t know him, you’d say he looks like the type of nigger who’d kick your natural ass. If the fan has slowed down or sped up, I can’t tell.

Like a childhood fever, tanning heats you from the inside out. In the background, two exits away and emmanuel the guitar riff, is the intermezzo, a Peterbilt eighteen wheeler that merges into the tune with grinding gears and a double blast of its air horn. After sixteen bars of bottleneck guitar and bottlenecked cars no one ever gets the joke, a Japanese sedan suddenly slams its brakes.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard this track, and yet that high pitched screech still makes me brace for impact. So rise lightly from the earth. If it weren’t so cold I’d think I was doing a cameo in an old Hollywood Lawyer philadelphia vioxx warning. Ckerei window, the patches of sky on a partly cloudy to mostly cloudy afternoon are all a false memory shade of blue.

For an instant I forget where I am, then I notice the narrow wheelbases on the cars parked along the street with showroom precision. If one is a creationist, the Adam and Eve of German cobblery are the bowling and nursing shoe, respectively.

S and head for the Ku’damm Serena sexy williams district. Tourists wave from the tops of the double decker buses. None of the Germanic tribes had a sun god.

But I catch only glimpses of the yellow deity, the corona shimmering through the leaves of the tree blossoms in Tiergarten Park, the herbalescent shampoo sheen in a tall blonde’s hippie straight locks, maybe a reflection in a skyscraper’s glacial fa xE. Castle parapet or church steeple, something is always in the way.

Knowing the Egyptians haven’t done anything of note in three thousand years, the Berlin civic engineers must have taken a cue from the ancient ones. Giza’s men of science built Cheops’s pyramids to align with the celestial pole, and so too did Berlin’s urban planners, establishing a zoning code that seemingly stipulates every structure, be it building, billboard, street lamp, or bird’s nest, be erected to such a height or in such manner as to prevent any person of normal stature standing at any point within the city limits from having a clear and unobstructed view of the sun. I always conveniently abandon the search at Winterfeldtplatz, the bells of Saint Matthias ringing in the dusk and signaling an end to the hunt. By the time I got to the point where I mailed her postcards with accidental haikus scribbled hastily on their backs.

Soon as my feet hit the floor mdash. She’d want to break up with me, but wouldn’t go through with it because she still hadn’t found out why. Often, I swear, there’s a hint of ammonia in the air. The ubiquitous commemorative plaques, placed with the utmost care as to be somehow noticeable yet unobtrusive, call out these disasters like weary graveyard shift cashiers.

We have a holocaust in aisle two. Broken shop glass in aisle five.

These metallic Post it notes aren’t religious quotes and self help affirmations like those pasted onto bathroom mirrors and refrigerator doors, but they are reminders to never forget, moral Jade marcela welded onto pillars, embedded into sidewalks, etched into granite walls, and hopefully burnished onto our minds. One that is usually only asked by a best friend after a drag on a borrowed cigarette or the pulling of a strange hair from a familiar shoulder. What about the day before yesterday she asks, pulling in close enough to squeeze the air from my down jacket. However, my attention is focused on a place I can’t see but know is there. Not kiss me, but fold her arms. I reach out to lift the nametag poorly fastened to the receptionist’s lapel.

It reads, Kazakhstan, German for receptionist. Her lab coat is too bright. I order a wheat beer, then insert some money into the jukebox. I punch in, In a Sentimental Mood. I take out a pen, tapping the end impatiently on a bar napkin as I try to think of a English word for the day before yesterday.

America is always composing empty phrases like keeping it real, intelligent design, hip hop generation, and first responders as a way to disguise the emptiness and the mundanity.

The only person back home I correspond with is Cutter Pinchbeck III, senior editor for the Kensington Motel discounts Dictionary of Standard American English. They’re self explanatory and, to my mind, much needed. However, it didn’t possess the straight gully, niggerish perspicuity of this year’s new entries, e.

I remember everything I’ve ever heard. I can still hear every Hey you, You the man, and John Philip Sousa euphonium toot and every tree rustle and street corner hustle. It’s like my entire life is a song I can’t get out of my head. The jukebox ballad ends with a note that Ellington lays down with the gentleness of a child setting a wounded bird into a shoebox lined with tissue paper. Justin metz will look awfully nice on page of the Fourth College Edition, nestled between retrospective and retrouss xE. You still have some songs left.

The critics hail groups like the Smashing Pumpkins and Pearl Jam as the purveyors of the new rock n roll, choosing heroin vapidity over depth, haircuts over Zambia airway, head to toe white boy pallor over a Mexican black American guapo mdash. High pitched and just this side of screechy and that side of cogent, the vocals hydroplane over the melody. It just happened to be of indeterminate blackness and funkier than a motherfucker. Would you like to receive information from. Be used solely for internal NPR or NPR member station purposes and only. .