I’m Running For Office

MeekNasaGrowing up, the excitement I gained from public speaking gave me grand visions of the future. My grandmother, Gloria, who immigrated from Panama in 1962, fashioned I would make a good preacher some day. But I liked to debate too much. Especially with my grandfather Alric, a political junkie who challenged me and continues to challenge me on my views. Convinced I had ideas that could change the world and make my grandfather proud, I decided at fourteen I would one day run for office.

Yet, as time went on and political scandals, corruption, and bickering made me question my faith in our leaders, I repeatedly fell in and out of love with politics. I figured I could have a more positive impact on society as a public speaker, business owner, and author. I’d let the politicians politic, while I concentrated my efforts on things I could actually change. I concluded Texas was too much of a big, red state for me to impact politically.

In the past eighteen months, I’ve watched neo-fascism become mainstream. I’ve watched politicians suppress Black and Latino votes. I’ve watched women fight for their voices to be heard. I’ve watched the bullying of the LGBTQ community.

On top of that, I’ve watched one of my best friends narrowly escape the Tax Day flood. Another was airlifted with his wife and kids from the roof of his home during Hurricane Harvey. At Clay Road and Highway 6, many of my favorite businesses and restaurants remain closed.

While these issues seem like products of Washington’s incompetence, each of these problems have local roots. In my district, 138, a district that is 60% Black and Latino, the incumbent state representative proudly boasts of “co-authoring the state’s Voter ID law.”  Since Reconstruction, Voter ID laws have been used to suppress the votes of people of color. After Mayor Annise Parker and the Houston City Council passed the Houston Equal Rights Ordinance, (which banned discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation, gender identity, sex, race, color, ethnicity, national origin, age, religion, disability, pregnancy, genetic information, family, marital, and military status), the incumbent led the charge to repeal the ordinance. Additionally, the incumbent has co-authored legislation that has no scientific merit and only serves to emotionally traumatize women after they’ve made the difficult decision to terminate a pregnancy.

I can no longer sit idly as my district, in the most diverse city in America, is represented by someone who does not share our interests. I will not allow him to skate into office again.

I want to make my district, my city, my state, my country the most unified and progressive place to live in the world. I also want to make it the safest place to live. I want to protect it from catastrophic flooding by legalizing marijuana and using the tax revenue to improve our flood infrastructure. Texas is big on freedom; there’s no reason the federal or state government should prevent citizens from using marijuana medicinally or recreationally. Legalizing marijuana will create businesses, jobs, and much needed revenue. It will also make our neighborhoods safer by taking money out the hands of drug cartels and eliminating drug dealers in our children’s schools.

So……. A lot is at stake on November 6, 2018. I want to be the next District 138 State Representative because I know Texas can do better. I need your support. I need your help in mobilizing the masses. I need your vote. Please join me in this fight!

Demetrius Walker


NFL: Never Fortify Losers


Disgusted by the “outrage” Colin Kaepernick unearthed by kneeling during America’s slave master helmed national anthem, I boycotted the NFL by declining to view, attend games, or purchase merchandise (besides a “replica” Kaepernick jersey from a dubious Chinese source on Ebay). It was apparent then and even more apparent now the NFL does not deserve my patronage. A Black man who publicly opts out the White Supremacist matrix and condemns police brutality is a pariah, while White Supremacists can converge on Charlottesville and be coddled by police.

Yesterday a good friend, a soror, contacted me to ask if I’d participate in a protest of the Charlottesville “Unite The Right” conflict. Beyond choosing where to spend my money, she was surprised to hear me say “Nope.” Giving White Supremacists my time, energy, and money only fortifies their endeavors. This was just one of my several conclusions in I Am A Black Man. We’re talking about people who LOST the Civil War 152 years ago, yet still idolize the symbols of their failed efforts. Our country, the one they claim to love so much, even defeated Hitler and the Nazis in WWII, but somehow they’re elevated as deities. These people are delusional, afflicted with levels of ignorance and cognitive dissonance so astronomically high we can only wait for them to wither away. Their minds will likely never change and wasting my efforts to do so will only leave me tired, frustrated, and broke.

Black people must realize depriving White Supremacists of our talent, capital, and attention is the only way to ensure our survival, sanity, and dignity. Let their racist institutions (cough cough NFL) erode into irrelevancy as they attempt to stifle our collective consciousness. Let them worship LOSERS to comfort themselves while we become more educated and empowered. Point and laugh when they squander their resources to erect and protect stupid s**t like this:


Protest by divesting from local businesses and governments that support such foolery… and keep it moving. Concentrate our efforts on opening and sustaining our own enterprises to keep our hard earned dollars out of their hands. Nominate, support, and elect virtuous candidates to keep our tax dollars free from their coffers. Travel the world and connect with the Diaspora on more welcoming terms. Otherwise this will be you:



Racks on Racks

20170807_134218Thanks to Brand Nubian’s Lord Jamar, the #bookphonechallenge is a thing… a very welcomed thing in 2017. While I spent hours committing random facts to memory from World Book Encyclopedia, truth be told, I didn’t read enough books for pleasure growing up. Outside of Outbreak and The Coming Plague, I read The Source and XXL, before transitioning to an assortment of websites to feed my information addiction. Most of the books I read were dry, meaningless, and assigned reading for school. Great Expectations and Wuthering Heights did little to stoke my intellectual curiosity as a young, Black, adolescent growing up in New York City.

As an adult, the critical need to consume books has never been more apparent. I regret not realizing sooner the importance of feeding my brain’s insatiable desire to be challenged by new ideas. Growing is impossible without exposure to alternate perspectives from which to gain insight.

While I still find it difficult to sit down somewhere quiet, nerd out, and thumb through the pages of a book, (unless I’m on a plane trying to justify my need to utilize both armrests), the good news is audiobooks are dope. Let’s be real, after a day of concentrating efforts on income generation and trying to prevent your five-year-old from bungee jumping off the refrigerator, our eyes are tired. Audiobooks remind us we live in the future and other people can read us the information we don’t have time to read at our own convenience. In a city like Houston where every drive you make is a minimum of thirty minutes, there’s plenty of time to feed your grey matter. Admit it, the radio plays the same ish for six months at a time and you’re sick of it anyway… Might as well learn you something instead. The wisdom I’ve accumulated in the past eleven months can mostly be attributed to an assortment of books I’d love to share with you. In order from least to most recent here they go:

WarriorWithinAwakeningYourInnerGeniusBetweenTheWorldAndMe10XRuleAlgorithmsYouCantMakeMeBronxIsBurningRaiseTheBarOurRevolutionVinceLombardiElonMuskTheLifeChangingMagicGoTellItOnTheMountainFreedomIsAConstantAdultChildrenLifesWorkAstrophysicsInAHurryBlackPrivilegeICantMakeThisUpBreakingTheHabitPlugsLawyerChinasSecondI Am A Black Man -1

I Am A Black Man: The Soundtrack

I Am A Black Man The Soundtrack

If you’ve picked up your copy of I Am A Black Man: The Evolution of a Dangerous Negro you’ve probably noticed each chapter begins with a verse from a different artist. All of these songs define a certain era in my life. My ups and downs, as well as periods of confusion, reflection, and self motivation are captured in these selections. I feel they best represent my journey and growth as a human being. Take a listen and get a glimpse of what was floating around in my mind as I wrote every chapter of my memoir…

The Black Male Emotional Awakening

clock444-1It’s 4:44 Am and the snooze button has been broken from being pounded too many times. Eyes open in the darkness, Black men are staring at our ceilings putting the pieces of our hearts together. Maybe Ghostface was the first to get it lit with his introspective, relationship rant records. And then maybe Drake took it a step further with his Drakiness. Maybe This Is Us currently has us in our feelings. Whatever it took, we should be excited about the arrival of “The Black Male Emotional Awakening.”

Without question, sports, media, entertainment, and Hip Hop inform the dominant swag of the Black community. Considering such, recent biographies by Kevin Hart and Charlamagne The God, paired with the admired wokeness of Colin Kaepernick, and wisdom of Hov, indicate a paradigm shift in the emotional alertness of Black men.We’re finally confronting our Dads’ Daddy issues and the trickle down effect they’ve had on us. The infidelities, the emotional voids, the disappointments – they’re finally open for discussion.

In I Can’t Make This Up, Kevin Hart recalls his father’s indiscretions, substance abuse, and inability to accept responsibility for his destructive behavior. Believing our big, swinging sex organs will solve all our problems leads to frequent failures and setbacks. Though the book is hilarious, (I recommend the Audible version for added hysterics), it’s amazing to see how his father’s faults play into Hart’s adult decision making.

Similarly, with full candor, Charlamagne reveals how he went from being a gifted and talented nerd to sharing a jail cell with his father in Black Privilege: Opportunity Comes To Those Who Create It. Products of the cocaine 80s, many of us can relate to the pitfalls that ensnared us, our fathers, family, and friends. Only now are we analyzing what it took to overcome those obstacles, lead productive lives, and stop hurting the people who love us the most.

We’re finding ourselves.

Historically we’ve dedicated massive amounts of energy to the professional sports that celebrate our physical prowess, yet do little to advance our collective uplift. Colin Kaepernick changed all of that by taking a knee. Suddenly I don’t care about the NFL, which has blackballed Brother Kaepernick for drawing attention to racial injustice. In A Bronx Tale, Sunny tells C, “Mickey Mantle don’t care about you. Why should you care about him? Nobody cares.” Black men are finally starting to realize the NFL and NBA, don’t care about us, no matter how many millions they shower on us to piss away in the breeze of an average sports career. Colin Kaepernick has travelled back to Africa to reconnect with our ancestral roots and find purpose amidst the massive illusion we’ve been sold in America. We’re ready to give up our sports worship to preserve our dignity.

Not only are we sick of being tricked into subservience, we’re sick of tricking off our money too. A decade ago Hov made us stop wearing jerseys in favor of button ups. Today he’s telling us to put the money phones down and invest in assets. And it’s connecting. That’s what happens when people reach emotional maturity. Rational, practical decision making replaces foolishness.

Overcoming emotional immaturity has even allowed us to begin dismantling homophobia. If you would have told me at any point in the last two decades Jay Z would be a gay rights advocate I might have laughed. Yet here we are in 2017 and it only seems logical. On “Smile,” the third track on his latest album, Jay raps:

Mama had four kids, but she’s a lesbian
Had to pretend so long that she’s a thespian
Had to hide in the closet, so she medicate
Society shame and the pain was too much to take
Cried tears of joy when you fell in love
Don’t matter to me if it’s a him or her

I just wanna see you smile through all the hate

One of the most notable characteristics of emotional immaturity is the inability to accept other peoples’ differences. For far too long Hip Hop embraced toxic masculinity, which celebrated misogyny and championed homophobic rhetoric. I’m guilty one hundred times over. Soul searching brings us into agreement with Jay who highlights his own flawed thinking on women and gay people. Our families and lives are incomplete without them; it’s about time we see them as equal human beings worthy of our full respect, support, and admiration.

I know what Sistas are thinking right now: “We’ve been telling you this for years!” Yes, you have and your patience is appreciated. We can’t thank you enough for making us take A Seat At The Table to drink Lemonade. Black women have been reading books, gaining insight, and finding ways to heal and improve, while us Negroes have been debating top ten emcee lists into our mid-thirties. You’ve been traveling the world, collecting hella stamps on your passports without us. Sistas got book clubs, and running groups, and fitness bootcamps to heal mind, body, and spirit. You’ve been going to college and graduate school at much higher rates, making guap, starting businesses, and holdin’ us down. Meanwhile we’ve been stuck in a box of emotional immaturity grappling with our daddy issues, making bad decisions, and breaking your hearts.

But we’re coming out of the fog.

We’re talking, rapping, and writing about our emotional growth. Certainly that was my motivation for putting out I Am A Black Man: The Evolution Of A Dangerous Negro. Having our third eye open isn’t enough. Opening our hearts to get on one accord, heal the Black community, and liberate ourselves from economic oppression is essential. Only then will we be able to neutralize White Supremacy. So Black man, continue to get those feelings off your chest so we can turn our attention to being productive. It’s now 4:45 and we can’t afford to go back to sleep.






All Eyez On Meek

Amazon currently ranks I Am A Black Man #23 in their Biographies>Rap subheading. Not bad considering the book was just released a few days ago! Before a new album drops rappers usually tease their projects by disclosing their tracklist. I Am A Black Man the audiobook is coming soon, so I figured why not go ahead and drop mine?






SECTION 5   37





dangerousNEGRO 193








Copyright © 2017 Capitalize The B Publishing

Birth Of Agnation


Let me start off by thanking everyone for their patience over the last eighteen months. Writing a book while trying to be an engaged parent has to be the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. My text messages have been short, phone calls rare, and Facebook posts infrequent. Many nights, I skipped sleep to reword sentences, restructure paragraphs, and question whether I was skilled enough to complete this task.

My need to get this book out of my system was overwhelming. It picked at my brain, haunted, taunted, and distracted me from focusing my attention elsewhere. I’ll never know what it feels like to be nine months pregnant, but I think I have a good idea. This baby grew to take up massive amounts of internal real estate, slowing my free motion, while kicking me in the gut from the inside. Any media I consumed reminded me I was eating for two: my personal growth and the health of this book. One audiobook and one documentary a week have comprised my diet. I boycotted the NBA, stayed off Yahoo News (as much as I could), and skipped television. Still, sacrificing those things wasn’t as painful as not dedicating my full attention to music. I’m a DJ… I needed to get this baby out of my belly!

I’m happy to announce I Am A Black Man: The Evolution of a Dangerous Negro is finally here. Well, sort of. Pre-orders begin today, with shipping beginning the first week of July. For those that pre-order the book, I will autograph your copy before it is mailed out. Maybe, just maybe, my sloppy signature will add value to your purchase someday 🙂

Though I’m just one Black man, I hope this book will give people new insight on what it’s like to dance with America’s upper and lower crust. More importantly, I hope it will help people to heal, as I have found healing in completing this project. Thank you in advance for your support. I can’t wait to hear your feedback.

I Love You All,


PS – You can pre-order ORDER your copy of the book by clicking HERE!

Prince Was Everything

PrinceBatmanLiterally. Prince was the complete human experience in one package.  He was yin and yang, fire and ice, gin and juice, diamonds and pearls.  Had he lived longer to see us contact alien civilizations, I would have voted for The Purple One to be sent into space as our global ambassador.  In the history of the world who else has seamlessly embodied mankind’s greatest traits, contradictions, and emotions?

Before scriptures were translated into other languages, God, or Elohim, was genderless. Now go get your Old Testament and swap out Elohim for  Prince logo.svg and tell me you don’t gain a greater respect for The Artist.  The closest thing we have in the English language to help us wrap our head around this concept is the word androgynous; and it would be just that, a word, had Prince not given us the prototypical living example. On the real, Prince transcended gender identity; Prince was hyper masculine and uber feminine at the same damn time.  He had the dopest facial hair and hairdos simultaneously. His voice was baritone, yet he sang soprano like a champ.  He was hairier than Chewbacca yet, he wore eyeliner.  And it worked.  Prince was the only dude that could pair a butt out pantsuit with high heel shoes and still have women (and some men) fawning over him left and right.  Nobody will ever be able to pull that off again!

But this isn’t just about Prince exhibiting the best of both genders. It’s much more than that. Like I said, Prince was EVERYTHING. Go revisit the 1989 Batman soundtrack.  Prince was Bruce Wayne and the Joker for a whole album. In fact, on that album and all his other albums, you can’t even put a genre on the projects.  Prince was Rock, Funk, Blues, Jazz, Hip Hop, R&B… man, even EDM before EDM was known as EDM.  Prince played damn near every instrument; he transcended genres!

In fact, Prince transcended music altogether. While the world knew Prince, the entertainer, we’re just starting to learn about Prince, the humanitarian.  I watched Van Jones break down while describing how Prince funded grassroots movements and disaster relief through his concerts.   That just goes to show that despite how famous he was, Prince was in large part unknown. With perpetual pressure to be what society expects us to be – prudent, straight, and predictable, Prince was eccentric, eclectic, and nonconforming.  More than anything, Prince was himself.  Thus, the biggest lesson to be learned from his existence is: do you.  And that right there is the key to EVERYTHING.

Weathering The Storm

DominoeYesterday evening, as I watched Hunter beam with excitement while racking up tickets at Chuck E. Cheese, I couldn’t help but to feel concern for the mental state of my pet, Dominoe.  The video game music and kid commotion weren’t loud enough to obscure the powerful thunder rattling the arcade’s windows around 8PM.  From having to repair my fence fiftyleven times, it was clear this was the type of weather capable of spooking Dominoe into charging through double sided cedar to escape the backyard.  I was in no mood to return to Home Depot yet again as a consequence of my dog’s seemingly irrational fear of storms. So once Hunter finally settled on a slinky for his hard earned tickets, it was out into the elements to try to ward off Dominoe’s inevitable El Chapo caper.

Luckily, I made it home before the worst of the flooding that sunk Northwest Harris County.  After whistling from my backdoor, I was relieved to see Dominoe, Paris, and Cud Kitty all emerge from the larger of the two dog houses in my yard.  I kissed all their noses and fetched a towel to dry them off.  As Paris and Cud Kitty plopped down on the living room floor, Dominoe continued to pace the house looking for a safe place to hide from Mother Nature’s threatening demeanor.  He finally settled right next to me on the couch and dropped his head in my lap.  At eighty pounds, Dominoe is well aware he is no longer a lap dog; however, he puppy eyed me into submission.  He then nudged my right arm with his snout to encourage me to comfort him.  I noticed he was trembling with anxiety.

Now, this is the very same dog who puts the fear of God into any living thing that unsuspectingly approaches my fence.  Yet, for the last ten years I’ve struggled to understand why Dominoe is so perplexingly frightened by something as common as thunder and lightening.  I felt his ancient ancestors would be ashamed to see how far their canine descendent had fallen from his natural place in the wild.  I’m guilty of pup shaming him: “C’mon Dominoe, you can’t be scared of the weather, you’re a dog!”

But last night, as I ran my fingernails through his coat, I played a game with myself – how would I view the universe from Dominoe’s perspective?  I’ve known Dominoe since he was in his mother, Cheecago’s, womb.  I authorized Cheecago’s life saving cesarian when Dominoe’s colossal head clogged up her birth canal.  When he finally opened his eyes after two weeks of suckling, I was the first human he saw.  If anyone was qualified to psychoanalyze Dominoe, it was me.  So I walked through his formative years in my mind to see if I could find a moment that could explain his wimpy storm behavior.

And then it finally dawned on me; there was a critical night back when Dominoe was a year old that I was absent.  My clothing line, dangerousNEGRO, was just getting off the ground, so my partners and I decided to rent a booth at the Indianapolis Black Expo.  At the time, I was dating a TSU girl with roots in Dayton, Ohio, just a ninety minute drive from Nap.  She mentioned her grandmother would love to have the dogs frolic in her backyard while I was in Indianapolis slangin’ t-shirts.  Seizing the convenience of free dog care, I dropped Cheecago and her puppy Dominoe off at Grandma Linda’s before heading to Indy (I had originally given Paris to one of my fraternity brothers in Chattanooga, so she was not present).

Sixteen hours later, I received a frantic call from Grandma Linda explaining that she had called the dogs to come inside after hearing thunder from an approaching storm. Dominoe answered her call, but surprisingly, Cheecago was nowhere to be found.  This was highly unusual because 1) Cheecago and Dominoe were practically inseparable, never going beyond eyesight of each other 2) Cheecago never showed interest in running away and 3) there were no visible holes in the chain linked fence from which Cheecago, a stubby, overweight, brindle pit could escape.  I hightailed it back to Ohio, and while en route, I received a call from the Trotwood Police Department.  Cheecago had been found… dead… two miles from Grandma Linda’s house. I showed up to the scene with my girlfriend’s father and Dominoe.  Cheecago lay on the sidewalk, mortally wounded. It was unclear how Cheecago had met her demise; her chest was blown open from what appeared to be a shotgun wound.  The police said there were no reports of a driver hitting her and there was no blood trail in the street to indicate that was the case.  I called my mom to break the news and she thought it would be best for Dominoe to see Cheecago one last time for closure.  (Yes, that may sound crazy to non dog owners, however, from previous experience we knew how difficult it was to have a dog grieve over a loved one that mysteriously never came home after “taking a ride to the vet”).  I let Dominoe out of the car to show him that his mother was deceased.  He wimpered and howled in despair… loudly.

Psychology Today recently published an article titled “Unconscious Memories Hide in the Brain But Can Be Retrieved.”  In the article, researchers revealed that “inadvertent or unexpected stimuli linked to the state-dependent memory can trigger acute flashbacks that are often the hallmark of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).” This is the case for people as well as animals.  Traumatic events create neurological pathways and synaptic bridges that affect the decision making of rats, humans, and everything in between.  So it is not far fetched to conclude that Dominoe associates thunder with the frightening moment that precipitated his mother’s death.  It was the worst night of his life.

Now consider your own traumatic memories. Whether you realize it or not, they play a role in your current decision making. Dominoe has a max IQ of 8; traumatic memories manifest in much more complex ways in humans. Take that into consideration before shaming yourself and others for actions that seem unreasonable.  Don’t be afraid to see a professional or encourage others to do so.  I tried it simply as a formality for a lawsuit I considered filing against HPD (they negligently fired a bullet into my kitchen eight years ago… trying to shoot a dog).  Surprisingly, I discovered more about myself than I ever would have imagined.  I came away from the experience feeling like I could conquer the world.  So, keep it real with yourself; mental health is as critical as physical health.  Please don’t be afraid to weather your storm.



Why I Voted For Bernie Sanders

20160301_144003Today is Super Tuesday – the day voters in Alabama, Arkansas, Colorado, Georgia, Massachusetts, Minnesota, Oklahoma, Tennessee, Texas, Vermont and Virginia (whew!) decide between primary candidates. While writing, I’ve let my TV play in the background, halfway listening in disbelief, as people struggle with who to select as the next leader of the free world.  I can’t front, I haven’t been this entertained by foolery since 80s WWF and 90s Jerry Springer.  In my home state of Texas, I’ve shaken my head more than a few times at the Cruz and Carson bumper stickers that exclusively pop up at Rudy’s BBQ and Walmart.  Trump is obviously a Democratic plant, because there’s no way a candidate ventures that far into the land of irrationality without trying to sabotage his party.  Rubio sounds intelligent when the notes on his hand don’t wash away, but our ideological differences prevent me from taking him seriously.  Unfortunately, Deez Nuts failed to make the national ballot despite a valiant effort.  So the only remaining candidates with the potential to receive my vote were Hillary Clinton and Bernie Sanders.

My mom voted for Hillary.  I’m still not exactly sure of her rationale, but I suspect it has something to do with name recognition, 90s Clinton nostalgia, and wanting to see a woman have the rightful opportunity to lead a country that has continuously told women they are less than equal.  Perhaps she felt Hillary was deserving because of her willingness to serve as Secretary of State under Obama after the Black community turned its back on her in 2008.  Maybe she was influenced by all the Black endorsements Hillary seemingly pulled out of her pocket for primary season. Or maybe, just maybe, she genuinely felt HRC was the most qualified person for the job.  Whatever the reason(s), she refused to disclose them to me after seeing how my face tensed up upon learning of her decision.

I woke up this morning knowing there was only one candidate deserving of my effort to put on real clothes, de-stank my breath, and stand in line at my local elementary school for thirty minutes – Bernie Sanders.  I have a strong feeling my mom was just unaware of Bernie’s track record as a fighter for human and civil rights.  She obviously had no idea Bernie was jailed during the riots of the 60s for standing up for equality.  There’s no way my mom could have seen the image of Bernie chained to the leg of a fellow Black female protester, or the pics of him protesting Chicago’s racial segregation laws in 1962.  Around the same time, Hillary Clinton was a young Republican campaigning for Barry Goldwater, who promised to overturn the Civil Rights Act.

Bernie_Sanders_Arrested_1963_Chicago_TribuneHillary wasn’t there…Bernie ChainOr there…Bernie1962Or there…

That was all fifty years ago, so it’s easy to see how it may be irrelevant to folks today.  But what about more recent displays of character?  Bernie has stayed consistent throughout his twenty-five years as a Congressman and Senator.  While Hillary has flip-flopped on Iraq, mass incarceration, gay marriage, her relationship with Wall Street, and countless other issues, Bernie has been the same since day one. He has always been an advocate for equality. He has always fought against Wall Street and the wealthy exploiting the underprivileged.  He has never been a war monger, no matter what propaganda was used to rile up the country. Consistency is why Bernie Sanders earned my vote.  I couldn’t drink the Hillary Kool Aid in 2008 and it still doesn’t taste right in 2016.  Bernie ain’t new to this, he’s true to this. His Youtube footage is better than a Steph Curry highlight reel.  Don’t believe me just watch:

So to anyone still undecided out there, I ask you to vote Bernie Sanders.  We have a real opportunity to start a political revolution with him in the White House.  I’m off my soapbox now… Feel The Bern!