The Post Thug Black Masculine Aesthetic


Sometimes an epiphany can creep up on you in the damndest places, usually when you are doing something as mundane as standing online at a burger joint, in this case Master Burger on Vernon and Western, smack dab in the smoggy heart of South Central. After placing my order for a double chili cheese mad cow disease to go , I was lounging with my head on a swivel and my ears turned way up because it was a shade after dark and shit pops off quick in this part of my city. To my left, seated on a worn out graffiti scarred lunch table are two serious O.G.’S who are about my age. I can tell how old they are because of the gear they rock: dark indigo blue Levi 501’s starched stiff with razor sharp creases, sparkling white leather Nikes laced over and under, 3x white tees pressed neat with wife beaters underneath. Their clean shaven baldies barely conceal the receding hairlines that reassert themselves with silver bristles of new growth.  As we  scan each other on the low in that “lemme size this nigga up just in case” kinda way that is second nature to black men , our eyes meet and we nod a wordless “wassup playa”. As we complete our customary risk assesment, a noisy pack of Black and Mexican skate rats comes clattering up the craggy side walk. They carve the pavement with an effortless, ragged grace as they pass a blunt between themselves. These kids are definitely on their own shit for real:  skinny jeans that sag below their asses, beanies pulled back over their heads like Santa’s elves, dreads, snug fitting band T- shirts emblazoned with the logos of old school punk groups they probably don’t even listen to, and feet covered in shabby slip on vans, chucks, and old school addidas. The scratchy hum of their collective wheels rolling off into the descending night is rudely punctuated by a sudden blast of raspy cackles from just over my left shoulder.

The O.G’S are weighing in on what we have just seen “Cuzz , how the fuck a nigga gon’ be hard riding a goddamn skateboard?” the smaller of the two poses this rhetorical question  to no one in particular as his comrade shakes his bullet shaped dome in righteous disapproval. I take up the question in my own mind and smoke it over my cerebral coals as I scarf down my burger, season salted fries and super sized cup of bubbly, strawberry flavored carcinogen. “I gotta quit eatin’ this shit” I say to myself as I inhale the last sacrilegious bite of my ghetto manna from heaven. Then it hit me like a Marvin Hagler right hook to the jaw…..these youngstas have said “fuck being hard and all the negativity that comes with it”. Damn , now that’s some revolutionary shit to live by in the heart of the Rollin’ 30s, 40’s, 60’s or any other hood in America. “why there was a time when…..” i hush the thought when I realize I sound like the 50 year old veteran of South Central that I am.  Still the back door has been left unlocked and the question arises “How did my generation of black men get caught up in trying to be so damn hard in the first place”?

Coming up as a four eyed, scarecrow skinny, uncoordinated, bookish stepson of an upper echelon coke dealer on the west side of South Central L.A. in the  70’s was no Crip walk through Saint Andrews park. In the post civil rights, post Slausons , post Panther , nascent Super Fly- Mack-Willie Dynamite-Sweetback-Black Cesar-Shaft-Black Belt Jones-Supernigga era an updated paradigm of Black Manhood was being downloaded into our collective afros by two precocious mad scientists of uber thuggery , Stanley “tookie” Williams and Raymond Washington.

tookie Raymond_Lee_Washington_-_mugshot



The deep impact these two hoodlum savants had on every black boy in the city was immediate and visceral. Even if you wasn’t Crippin’ you better have that mindset, otherwise you were going to have problems. And the ice cold nucleus of that mindset was hardness. To us, to be hard meant to never back down, to hold your own, and above all it meant you had to be brave in the presence of danger. You didn’t necessarily have to win, but you damn sure had to fight. Much blue ink has been sprayed across the pages of recent history about the sociopathic progeny of the c-walking Romulus and Remus, Tookie and Raymond, but little has been said by those of us who actually lived alongside these marauding renegades and their rampaging horde of angel dusted feral lost boys.




If you were young, black and male at the dawn of the “me” era, you were not at a loss for larger than life heroes.


Muhammad Ali taught us how to talk shit and back it up




Bruce Lee showed us that you didn’t have to be the biggest to be the baddest




Evel Knievel made us believe that we weren’t really living unless we faced death every once in awhile.




Each one of these men ; a skinny brother from Louisville who learned how to fight after being jacked for his bike, a quiet Chinese dude from San Francisco who spoke with his feet and hands, and a poor white boy from Montana who defied gravity because it was in his way.  Each of them taught us that to be a man meant having what we called “heart”, which we defined as facing whatever or whomever challenged you, no matter the odds, even if you were afraid, and to act in spite of your fear.


Our heroes would inject us with their palpable courage; inspiring backyard boxing matches with tube socks wrapped around young fists, Enter the Dragon reenactments fought with homemade nunchuks crafted from broken broom handles, rusty nails and frayed pieces of jump rope, and side walk stunt shows we put on by jumping our Schwinn Stingrays over improvised ramps made from rickety plywood and milk crates weighted down with bricks. Busted lips, chipped teeth, cranial lacerations, and bruised testicals were the achy medals of valor we often won in pursuit of honor, pride and respect.


Our emulation of these unlikely icons was due in no small part to the absence of our fathers, uncles, and granddads in our daily lives.  We, the sons of the civil rights striver generation were handed a house key and told heat up a T.V. dinner while Mom worked for the city, the county, or the state by day and went to school at night. And Pops either got shown the door by the Family Court system or disappeared in a vapor of recrimination, excessive indulgence of his appetites or shackled deep inside the belly of the American Gulag. Meanwhile, on the other side of the 405 fwy. White boys were going through some of the same shit minus the economic insecurity, crime and police related misery. Of our generation it would be written:


“Boys have had to attempt to develop a masculine identity in the absence of a continuous and ongoing personal relationship with their fathers, uncles, or other male elders….the boy’s major source of instruction about the masculine derives from the cultural images of masculinity promulgated by the masculine mystique….for generations boys and young men faced with father absence have had no alternative but to turn to the mystiques destructive dogma as the primary teacher of what it means to be a man” – (pg. 40,  Masculine Mystique)




Ali, Bruce Lee, and Evel knievel those cats were down as four flat tires underwater, but they did’nt live on our block. You never saw them knocking niggas teeth out with one punch at the skating rink or throwing a football an entire city block , or hitting the three wheel motion while busting a left onto Crenshaw off of Slauson ,clowning for the kids on the bus stop headed to the Fox Hills mall on a Sunday afternoon.




These feats of ‘Hood super heroics were performed by our own street legends. Ghetto Stars with ringing names like Mad Dog, Big Lurch, Monkey Man, Buddah…these brothers forged a cast iron mold  black manchildren have been literally dying to fit into for nearly half a century.




One thing you’ll notice about many of the roughest neighborhoods on the west side of South Central is how clean and quiet they are during the day and most of the night.  Lawns kept neat, fresh coats of pastel stucco on Spanish style houses with bright orange terra cotta tile roofs, and driveways lined with late model car notes testifying to the benefits of getting up early every day the lord sends and going to work.  Behind these beautiful facades lived many boys who lie awake at night listening to the hypnotic sound of police sirens singing in the street backed by the helicopter blades steady beat as the lyrics whisper “……get it fast like those niggas up at the park…..the ones your momma told you to stay away from, but your sister- cousin- aunty and the girls in your class all find so irresistible.”



You  seen him ‘round…..44 inch chest, 28 inch waist, arms like chiseled black steel anacondas. Hair permed and set on blue magnetic rollers. Always seems to have a fat knot of cash money in the pockets of his heavy starched Levi’s that fall crisply across the tops of his spit shined Stacy Adams “bisquits”…. You seen him ‘round



…. He ain’t no buster like the man next door raising two kids with his wife on dual school teacher’s salaries. He ain’t no mark like the black cop who lives up the block and drives a corvette. He ain’t even like your uncle who works at the post office and has that big ass Winnebego that he keeps parked on the side of his house and drives down to Louisiana every summer.




He is flyer than them, cooler than them, he is HARDER than them…..and even more than that, he is who YOU want to be….the men fear him and the women want to fuck him….You seen him ‘round. Gliding thru the hood , skatin’ on triple gold Daytons in the middle of the day, while the tricks are at work, he is at play, free as the breeze, one half a cloven hoof ahead of the pigs…..You seen him ‘round.


BLACK OUT LAWblack outlaw

The Hard nigga archtype incarnated in human form on the day the first black man said “to hell with this shit”, threw down his cotton sack and strolled off the plantation with a slow, deliberate, stagger lee swagger that begged to be fucked with, but seldom was. A rebel stride perfected in a roiling, red hot cauldron of rage, fired by the broken pieces of deferred dreams shattered against an alabaster wall of irrational, implacable, impenetrable blind hatred built long before he was ever born.  With nothing to lose besides a life only worth 3/5ths that of a white man, no one to notice, and even less to care about, he is free from fear and gives no fucks. He parries the blows of time, refutes the lies of history, and greets society’s merciless indifference with two bumpy knuckled, balled up fists ready to bomb first.   Best believe it’s finna’ be some , cuz he gon’ start some…. From the jump….off top….out the gate….coming from the shoulders throwing boulders like a mighty black Hercules.




In every generation he manifests….a spectral presence in the ‘hood. If you were there, you felt him. Bumpy Johnson…Frank Matthews…Tootie Reese…Felix Mitchell…BIg Meech…Like a wise , winged serpent he spits game without uttering a word to ears unfit to hear what is being sold and never told. In the park, on the street, in the back of the club, under the red light at the house party…. his visage shines like a mystic black sun illuminating the shadowy left hand path of back alley shortcuts to a hyper masculine paradise of pistols, money, hoes, clothes and Cadillac doors……and the penitentiary. No question , to come off the porch and run with the wolves you got to buy an overpriced one way ticket to the felonious life….and you bet’ not cry neither cuz the only tears in this life are made out of hollow point lead, shards of broken glass, and warm blood.


Those of us who lived in South Central L.A. east or west of Vermont or further south down into Watts , Compton, Carson and Long Beach , we had to come pass him on our way to finding our identities as men. Some of us stopped, looked and then kept it moving while others jumped in his car and rode off. Either way you were somehow shaped by the experience. Our concept of manhood always rocked up to be about being ready to die fighting to take and defend what is ours be it real, imagined, mental or spiritual. Somewhere in our DNA the hard nigga climbed onto the helix and hid in the cut. Willie Bosket or O.J. Simpson , mega square or super thug , push us hard enough and he will show up, often to someone’s detriment…..usually our own.


And so it went for at least one hundred years or more. Lives lived out in bright, beautiful flames of spectacular crashes or magnificent phoenix risings. Steady pushing against the limitations on who and what we could be , definitions of manhood blindly accepted by wide eyed boys too young to make life choices we would have to pay for as grown ass men. Often you can find us roaming through life with burnt fingers trying to guess where tomorrow’s consequences may be hiding behind today’s decisions.





Then at the dawn of the new millinium a subtle, almost imperceptible shift began. The youngstas began to quietly expand the palette of colors they created their identities from.  The nihilistic spectrum of do or die , life constraining , soul killing options represented by the hard nigga, noble suffer head, humble wage slave and their polar dopplegangers the dancer/ rapper/ athelete/ entertainer was  being expanded, digitized , sampled , remixed, chopped and screwed by some kids wearing big , black framed nerd glasses , riding skate boards and wearing skinny jeans. These kids were quicker to bang on computer keyboards than they were other black boys. Some of them read Japanese Manga, hung out at Comicon, rocked out in Metal bands, played chess at the master level, rode on motorcross teams, started little businesses, and embraced difference in themselves and others. They created new ways of being.



This isn’t to say that the archtype of the hard nigga isn’t still with us wreaking havoc and reaping souls, but he ain’t running shit quite like he used to. He’s got a new hood to hustle in and a legion of televised minions to do his bidding.



You seen him ‘round….spinning fictional tales of endless kilos being slung out of southern trap houses to an infinite stream of fantasy dope fiends still smoking rocks like its 1985…..You seen him ‘round…..

rick ross police

a former prison guard dry snitching over hot tracks under the stolen name of a real hustler, rapping about shit he ain’t never done, coke he never sold, bodies he never dropped, guns he never popped…..



You seen him ‘round….bragging about how many times he’s been shot for talking half a dollar’s worth of shit to supreme gangsters then running to the police when they come for his bitch ass…..



You seen him round …..getting caught buying machine guns with silencers from undercover alphabet boys, each charge carrying 25 years, yet he only does a bullet…down at head quarters going platinum into a tape recorder…..



face book dope man

you seen him ‘round…..on facebook and Worldstar flashing dope, guns and money in the same damn place, at the same damn time! at the same damn time!


Yeah, the hard nigga is still around but he seems to exist mainly in music videos and on computer screens. He’s still calling the unknowing to meet their destiny in the graveyard or the penitentiary, but not like before. Though some still struggle to resist his tragic , magnetic pull as they pass his way on the road to manhood, more and more simply slide by on a skateboard wearing  sagging skinny jeans with a kick…..push……kick…..push…..and that’s a good thing…… a real good thing.mister-terrific-11

Bojangles Hobama: The Fascist Minstrel

hatch_dees“The exaltation of big business at the expense of the citizen was a central characteristic of government policy in Germany and Italy in the years before those countries were chewed to bits and spat out by fascism. Fascist dictatorships were borne to power in each of these countries by big business, and they served the interests of big business with remarkable ferocity. These facts have been lost to the popular consciousness in North America. Fascism could therefore return to us, and we will not even recognize it” – Paul Biogini

 “I vaguely remember hearing psychologists say there was a preponderance of psychopaths at the top – in the corporate and political worlds – a clinical absence of empathy being a benefit in those environments” – Pg. 11 the psychopath test

“Maybe you are someone who craves money and power, and though you have no vestige of conscience, you do have a magnificent I.Q. You have the driving nature and the intellectual capacity to pursue tremendous wealth and influence, and you are in no way moved by the nagging voice of conscience that prevents other people from doing everything and anything they have to do to succeed. You choose business, politics, the law, banking, or international development, or any of a broad array of other power professions, and you pursue your career with a cold passion that tolerates none of the usual moral or legal incumbrances. When expedient, you doctor the accounting and shred the evidence, you stab your employees and your clients (or your constituency) in the back, marry for money, tell lethal premeditated lies to people who trust you, attempt to ruin colleagues who are powerful or eloquent, and simply steamroll over groups who are dependent and voiceless. And all of this you do with the exquisite freedom that results from having no conscience whatsoever.” – Pg. 2 The Sociopath Next Door


It’s the morning of November 7th and the last bit of confetti has fallen into a half empty glass of stale champagne. The powerless awaken to the telegenic chatter of the punditocracy and vicariously bask in the pyrrhic victory of their paper champion, Bojangles Hobama. High above the valley below, unseen hands prepare to make the next move on the grand chessboard. Somewhere in Grifter heaven C.W. Barnum chomps a Cuban stogie and crows “ there’s a sucker is born every minute”. The American electorate has once again placed losing bets on a rigged wrestling match. “Vince McMahon presents Hustlemania 2012! In the blue corner we have Twit Romney, bearer of the white man’s burden and in the red corner we have your World Champion Duplicitor in chief Bojangles Hobama, The fascist minstrel. Choose your side ladies and gentleman… Honorary Krakkas and Default Niggas… get your popcorn cause this one’s gonna be a real slobber knocker! Don’t touch that dial! BOFF! BOP!! BING! BONK! ZOOM! Whoa nelly! Sports fans what a white-knuckle ride! With a one , two , three your winner Bojangles Hobama”… the crowd roars as the sign blinks “applause”. But who’s the real loser? Me and you…your cousin and your grandmaw too…

Bojangles first dazzled us at the 2004 democratic convention. His verbal footwork mesmerized one and all in a scintillating display of masterful oration upholding the hallowed tradition of righteous men capable of speaking truth to power for the voiceless. Black America beamed with maternal pride as the unseen hand patted us on the back and hissed “fine boy you have there”. From the ethers Nat Turner and John Brown whisper “that boy bears watchin” without nary a smile on their faces…

2007 the trap door opens and America is in free fall. The economic bubble machine runs out of steam and the great vampire squid slithers up from the red ink sea, wraps itself around our heads, sinks its fangs into our necks and begins to syphon lifeblood with ravenous glee. Endless wars, mortgage scams, felonious bankers, tax free elites and jobs waving to us from china combine to usher in a new depression. We need a hero.

Lo and behold! Who’s that moon walking in walking from stage left right on cue?! Why it’s Bojangles Hobama! My, my, my, mmm…mmm…mmm…. look at that boy dance, gliding from side to side, jumping up, spinning around and landing right in the middle of the road. Not too fast, not too slow, look at that boy go! And sing?! Whatchu’ say?! Listen to him croon those populist notes… “Health care for all”…. “End the wars” …“restore our civil liberties” …“close Guantanamo”…. “Tax the rich”…. “green jobs” .You gotta love him, just dark enough to be magical, But not black enough to be scary…Shiver-Shiver somebody just tip toed over Malcolm, Huey, and Martin’s graves. Noble Drew Ali pulls Fard Muhammed’s coat and says, “that boy bears watching” without the slightest hint of pride in his voice.

Bojangles’ fascist minstrel show began in earnest when he donned ideological burnt cork, Opened his Newport blackened lips and praised Ronald Reagan, the greatest dope slanging kingpin of all time and Freeway Rick’s sho’ shot connection for that work. Our boy asserted that good ol’ Ronnie

“Changed the trajectory of America…he put us on a fundamentally different path because the country was ready for it…..I think they felt like with all the excesses of the 1960’s and 1970’s and government had just grown and grown but there wasn’t much sense of accountability in terms of how it was operating. I think people, he just tapped into what people were already feeling, which was we want clarity we want optimism, we want a return to dynamism and entrepreneurship that had been missing”.  Upon queefing this noxious blasphemy our bushy tailed coon was let off the plantation and blissfully eased on down the oil slicked road with a hand written pass from the unseen hand that read “Keep this nigger running” (Stoller, 2008)

The gate keepers winked, nodded and opened doors at every stop on the way…newspapers, television, talk radio, blogs, magazines, synagogues, barbershops, and country clubs buzzed with excitement and anticipation of a new brighter day heralded by the earnest negro from Chicago. A brisk whirlwind propelled Bojangles towards his manufactured destiny and before we knew it he stood before us, chin jutted triumphantly forward…. eyes focused on the distant horizon…ladies and gentlemen the President of the United States.

While the stupefied lumpen grinned and guzzled the $1.99 wine of hope and spare change, a one percenter in the VIP section yelled “take your hand outta my pocket man” the incensed Hobamites turned and began to shout the bemused heckler down as the wily Bojangles quietly exited stage right, wiped the painted smile from his face as the unseen hand passed him a fully loaded A.k 47. The lights went dim on the national stage as a murderous rat –a – tat- tat replaced the musical tap tap of Bojangles dancing feet.

The neo liberal kalashnikov barked death into the muzzle flash illumined faces of the betrayed audience of Blacks, Latinos, Asians, liberal whites, Po’ folks of all races, college kids and any body who ever pressed their nose up against the toy store window. The carnage was Old Testament biblical. While Al Sharpton and Michael Eric Dyson tip toe’d out the back door, Bojangles took aim and let the hammer smoke. Blacks seated down front were the first to catch the angry molten slugs as they tore through the faithful:

  • Refuses to grant a post humous pardon to Marcus Garvey (Walker, 2011)
  • Black American median household wealth falls under Obama when compared to Whites when he tool office it was 11 to 1. By June of 2012 it was 20 to 1 (Dixon, 2012)
  • Approved the use of drones and cruse missiles to kill Black and Brown civilians including children in Yemen, Somalia, and Pakistan (Dixon, 2012)
  • “Authorized the US military to take part in the invasion and overthrow of Libya, an African nation. This set the stage for the assassination of Quadaffi, one of the main funders if the South African ANC. Qadaffi had also been a backer of the African Union and was in the process of creating a gold backed joint African currency that would  have freed African Nations from being dominated by the US Dollar (Dixon, 2012)

Bojangles kept his cold, bony trigger finger pulled as his chopper mowed its way through the disbelieving throng:

  • Jailed and departed immigrants in record numbers – deported 1 million in his first term with no due process and after being housed for many months in privatized immigration prisons (Dixon, 2012)
  • Enacted laws to allow the kidnap and detention of US citizens or of any nation on earth from any place on the planet for torture indefinite imprisonment without trial or murder them and neighboring family or bystanders at will (Dixon, 2012)
  • Continues to fund indefinite Afghan war and keeps the Iraq war on and cracking through the use of Black water style mercenaries (Dixon, 2012)
  • Covertly sent unknown numbers of US special forces into nobody knows how many countries of central Africa (Ford, 2012)

A pungent cloud of gun smoke covered the macabre tableau like a death shroud. Many of the wounded bled out among the corpses of those fortunate enough to have met death quickly. The sound of well-heeled wingtips sloshing in puddles of 47% entrails was pierced by the laughter of Watt St. ghouls rifling  through the pockets of the fallen. An ill wind lifted the sulfuric veil revealing the horrific bounty.

  • “Although he oversaw the biggest back bailout in US history Barack Obama has long rejected any bailout of homeowners…  in the first two years of his presidency it was Obama, not the minority republicans who stood in the way of a bailout of homeowners, even as his administration and the federal reserve funneled trillions of dollars to Wall St…the Obama administration refused to spend hundreds of billions allocated by Congress for housing relief, until the program expired in 2010. The money was just sitting there, unspent – no republicans were blocking it – while five million families lost their homes (Stoller, 2012)
  • “Obama … officially enshrined rights for the elite in our constitutional order and removed rights from everyone else…The bailouts and associated Federal Reserve Actions were not primarily shifts of funds to bankers: they were a guarantee that property rights for a certain class of creditors were immune from challenge or market forces…property rights for debtors simply increasingly exist solely at the pleasure of the powerful. The lack of prosecution of Wall St. executives, the ability of banks to borrow at 0 percent from the federal reserve while most of us face credit card rates of 15 – 30 percent, and the bailouts are all part of the re creation of the American system of law around Obama’s oligarchy” (Stoller, 2012)
  • “Under Bush, economic inequality was bad, as 65 cents of every dollar of income growth went to the top 1 percent. Under Obama, however, that number is 93 cents out of every dollar. That’s right under Barack Obama there is more economic inequality than under George Bush… most of this shift happened in 2009 – 2010, when democrats controlled congress” (Stoller, 2012)

Four years of deception, broken promises, half- truths, and out right lies have left the American electorate dazed and on the dark end of the street asking Ray Charles for directions. Eyes swoll wide shut and rationalizing their misplaced faith and dashed hopes like a battered wife of a mean drunk blaming the alcohol for the continual beating she suffers. Once again the people have made the hobbsian choice between the Republican marionettes and Democratic ventriloquist dummies paraded before them as their only viable options, yet the unseen hand continues to pull the strings on the left and the right while serving up plenty of tumescent , veiny, rock hard Koch at the tea party. The next four years will be cruelly ironic for America as its first Black president oversees the final massive transfer of wealth from the majority white middle class to the nearly all white elite class while he simultaneously introduces them to their new status as freshly captured wage slaves. Welcome to Ayn Rand land. Low paying subsistence level jobs, Darwinian social mobility, systematic repression, police brutality, food insecurity, marginalization, mass incarceration, dumbed down education, titular civil liberties and wide spread poverty. Meanwhile up in the big house Bojangles dances for his supper while the rest of us queue at the back door for table scraps from the Wall St. feast. In our shiny new corporate fascist post racial America we are all niggers. Pass the hot sauce.

Take the RED PILL –



Bigioni, Paul. “The Real Threat of Fascism.” Home | Common Dreams. N.p., 30 Sept. 2005. Web. 03 Jan. 2013.

Dixon, Bruce A. “Top Ten Things That Have and Have Not Changed in the Era of Obama.” N.p., 20 June 2012. Web. 03 Jan. 2013.

Dixon, Bruce A. “Doing Us Proud: Black America Has Loss Its Moral Compass.” Black Agenda Report | News, Analysis and Commentary from the Black Left. N.p., 07 Nov. 2012. Web. 03 Jan. 2013.

Dixon, Bruce A. “Closer Than You Think: Top 15 Things Romney and Obama Agree.” Black Agenda Report | News, Analysis and Commentary from the Black Left. N.p., 29 Aug. 2012. Web. 03 Jan. 2013

Ford, Glen. “Why Did Obama Hold Back Hundreds of Billions in Housing Aid?” Black Agenda Report | News, Analysis and Commentary from the Black Left. N.p., 12 Sept. 2012. Web. 03 Jan. 2013.

Stoller, Matt. “The Progressive Case Against Obama.” N.p., 27 Oct. 2012. Web. 04 Jan. 2013.

Stoller, Matt. “Obama’s Admiration of Ronald Reagan.” Open Left. N.p., 16 Jan. 2008. Web. 04 Jan. 2013.

Walker, Karyl. “No Pardon for Garvey.” Jamaica Observer News. N.p., 21 Aug. 2011. Web. 03 Jan. 2013.