On an early October weekend in 2005, I went to Los Angeles to appear on that most hallowed of game shows, JEOPARDY!. I got my picture taken with Alex Trebek. (That’s it above.) I was threatened by Kenneth Starr’s niece. And somewhere in there, I won. Twice! It was, at least based on the winning, quite the time. Based on the threatened-by-Kenneth-Starr’s-niece part, it was still quite the time, though a bit more perplexing.
My appearance was the realization of my girlfriend’s years-long exhortation that I try out for the show. Whenever we watched the show, she would say something. …
Let’s get one thing out of the way — I love em dashes. For instance, that last sentence should’ve used a colon. Let’s get one thing out of the way: I love em dashes. Nope! You’re outta here, colon. Go find a serial list to preface.
Loving the em dash treads a fine and dangerous line, though. It’s one of the most flexible pieces of punctuation at a writer’s disposal, but that flexibility can lead to pitfalls from overuse to straight-up misuse. In other words, you should probably learn to be judicious in deploying it, lest your work start to look like a second-rate impression of Emily Dickinson. Or a 17th-century pamphleteer. …
I don’t remember the first rapper I ever interviewed — a 20-plus-year career in journalism will do that — but I definitely remember the first rapper I thanked: Common, aka Lon-chikka-Lonnie Lynn. This was back in the Like Water For Chocolate era; as we sat there in a New York hotel room talking about everything and nothing at the same time, I realized that this dude had already made three albums that had hit me at different points in my young life. The hyperactive yawping on his debut, Can I Borrow a Dollar?, slid perfectly into my adolescent, Das EFX-loving ears. A couple of years later, Resurrection matched up with me being out of my folks’ house and learning how to think for myself. And with its first Soulquarian stirrings, One Day It’ll All Make Sense found me fresh out of college, navigating grown-man B.I. and wondering what my next step would be. …
Big Blue was her name. An ’81 Impala, stock save for the Pioneer tape deck Norm had thrown in the dash. That tape deck held just about the entirety of the early ’90s while we drove through the Indiana night doing nothing. MC Breed, Cube, Tribe, Pac, Redman, X-Clan. Sometimes nothing would turn into something — wood-tip Swishers stuffed with what passed for weed back then, off-campus parties that didn’t mind a couple of high school kids — but always, ultimately, the night would end the same way it began. Big Blue idling outside my house, or my shitty Prelude idling outside Norm’s. …
Welcome to LEVEL. We’re new! (For now, at least.) It’s important to know what we’re trying to do here, the kinds of stories we want to run, and how to maximize your chances of writing those stories.
It’s simple: We aim to fundamentally change what you think of when you hear the phrase “men’s publication,” and to do so through and for the worldview of Black and Brown men. To unpack that a bit:
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