I know I just posted like three minutes ago, but with the dissapearance of Olivia Newton John’s boyfriend and NOW the missingness of music producer Julian Irwin, I had to speak out.

Didn’t I call it? Back when I made mention of the white man on the boat I told y’all that white men were becoming the new white women, but nobody was trying to hear me. I guess Ms. Figueroa was the only person of color whose whereabouts were unknown, and once the authorities got that mess all over with (funny how they found her killer so quickly once the media deigned to pick up the story…) they could move on to bigger and better things, like missing white guys. I’m really starting to wonder if the American public is really this bad, or if the mainstream media underestimates people. Are (white) folks really that bad that they will work themselves into a frenzy over some “missing” men before they can care about a nonwhite?

I am in no way discounting the loss of anyone; as I’ve said before It’s a terrible situation that I’ve been through myself and it’s awful when someone is missing no matter the gender, race, or age. But honestly, who the hell is snatching up grown-assed white guys? What’s the reason? Are they being sold into man-sex slavery? Organ harvesting? At newstime Olivia Newton John’s boyfriend is looking like he faked his own dissapearance (was getting physical that bad?) and the producer guy sounds like he hit up on a bad acid trip. For all the hubbub and consternation over unbalanced media coverage, the face of the great American concern has changed… but it only grew a beard and a harder jawline.

So I asked my grandparents to bring me my bicycle, but I’m definitely not bringing it to campus for a while. I have to build up my street cred first. Back when I had a measure of crediblity, I couldn’t ride the much celebrated cycle (a Christmas gift freshman year) because my grandfather didn’t want me to slip and die on some ice, and by springtime the bike had been “given” to Marc (like he ever rode it.) So now I can get the thing back, and I’m ready to trick it out with a wicker basket in the front and a little dingy-bell, but I can not—I will not—break out on a new campus riding a damn bicycle. Especially not with a bell. At State, it would have been cool, everybody knows I’m a little different; but one can’t be too different too soon in a new place or you never make it out of the gate.

Give me a good month, because this walking is driving me crazy.