I know I haven’t been around in awhile. I just had a birthday so I’ve been caught up with that. That’s the excuse I’ll use for now anyway. I’ve also been reading, but that’s to be expected, right? Of course these stories and books are worthy of a post, but not this time around.

Did you know that you can download FREE short story podcasts for your iPod? This morning I had the opportunity to listen to an excerpt from Junot Diaz’s book, which convinced me to buy it (soon), and a story from Andrea Lee’s Interesting Women book. I read Lee’s Sarah Phillips last semester in my Black Postmodernism course, even wrote my final paper on it. Ok, but the point is, you can download FREE short story podcasts for your iPod. Check for yourself. If you already knew this, pardon my ignorance, but I’m shocked that you can listen to stories from The New Yorker and even hear interviews with notable authors from other sources. I downloaded a few pieces from Jhumpa Lahiri that I really look forward to hearing, especially since I only ‘know of’ her works (but love The Namesake film).

So, the buzz right now is Sister Souljah’s upcoming sequel to The Coldest Winter Ever. November 4th is the release date if you’re wondering. When I originally posted this announcement not too long ago, the publisher didn’t even have a book cover yet! Finally, here’s an excerpt:

Word to Life

I am not who you think I am. If you love me, you love me for the wrong reasons.

Females tell me they love me because I’m tall. They love when I stand over them and look down. They love when I lay them down and my height and body weight dominates them.

Females tell me they love me because I’m pure black. They say they never seen a black man so masculine, so pretty, so beautiful before.

Females say they love my eyes. They’re jet black too. Women claim they find a passion in them so forceful that they’ll do anything I say.

Females tell me they love my body. They beg me for a hug even when there’s nothing between me and them. They want to be captured in my embrace, and press their breasts against my chest.

Some females ask if they can just touch me. Some tremble when my hands touch them. They say they love the muscles in my arms. They surrender when I lift them up. They whine and moan in rapture. Some cry their pleasure. Some shake. Some pee.

Some of ’em even say they love the way my teeth look in my mouth and how my feet look in my kicks.

Females tell me they love the way I walk, like I’m soon to own the world.

Most females say they love that I’m quiet. Then shiver when I finally talk.

All of the women show me that they love my guns, the fact that I walk with two of them at times. Even the ones who get scared fall in love with their fear of me. Then they come at me even harder.

Some females say I’m too serious, then shield their eyes to hide their feelings from the shine when I finally smile.

I can’t lie, I enjoy the good times that some of these women offer me. But I don’t take them to heart. I know that they don’t really even know me. All the shit that they are in love with is just my style and my looks, all window dressing.

I know that a man is his own beliefs, his own ideas and actions. If you knew me, you would know what I believe. If you knew what I believe, then you would understand how I think. You would understand my ideas and actions. Only then should you decide. Either you believe what I believe, or you admire what I believe and want to get with those beliefs. If not, in the long run, we got nothing in common. I can’t take you seriously. I gotta go. You got nothing that makes me want to stay.

I don’t come from where you come from. I don’t think like you do. My whole situation is different. I come from a country of real men who take real life, real serious.

I wouldn’t trade places with an American-born man for any amount of cash.

Where I’m from, a son has a first name and three last names. The three last names are the names of his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. Any male who cannot identify his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather is already lost.

These three names are what makes a boy who he is. There is no talk of role models and celebrities. A son is raised under his father’s wing, with a grandfather to guide and a great-grandfather as a blueprint, plus an army of uncles nearby.

Where I’m from, a man does not bow to any other man. A man bows down only to Allah. Only Allah created the heavens, the galaxies, the universe, and all of the millions of creatures within.

My father had three wives. Not one wife, one wifey, and a bunch of random bitches on the side.

Where I am from, a man wants to marry a woman and establish a strong family. A man can have more than one wife as long as he can treat them all fairly and provide them with love, separate homes, food, guidance, and presence. (Read more . . . )

Happy reading, ya’ll!