Excuse the squeamish tongue & cheek book title “Broke Ass Legend” that may cause some of my prospective straitlaced readers to balk at a purchase. I’m certain even that many will not be comfortable fixing their lips to utter the cover, while I pray multitudes will be fixated on reading the book. Only weeks before my books’ completion and release, I made the decision to neither nibble nor bite my tongue, otherwise I’d be sacrificing its authenticity and nullify the core purpose of writing a memoir at all. Mind you, I would have never plastered the book jacket with the F word, the B word or even the N word, yet I still struggled with the A word, hence a G rated level of vulgarity. It is here I admit it was the R & X rated R&B singer R Kelly, who now is that censored and nearly muted artist that inspired my sudden title change. At the 6:20 mark of his nearly twenty-minute song “I admit it”, he writes, “The truth of this message is that I’m a broke ass legend.”

“Lord please, let not this legend die broke and alone.” I pray this universal private prayer daily while at night I worry if I have ever been heard. O to live a respected public life all to enjoy the abundant satisfaction of clean healthy happy living, till death brings it to a halt. Beseeching the grace of producing a fruitful life then dying at a natural ripe old age is my reasonable request while canvassing this garden globe. A human campaign challenged only by the reality that all of us die of and from something. even while many will end their earthly lives without the minimal bonus of having someone lying next to them. For me I trust to only count on the reciprocal seed sown of being right there witnessing each of my children come into the world, expecting to have them all there on sight surrounding my dying bed bidding their Father a loving farewell. Nevertheless, my repeated petition is to also get to share a marriage bed with now an allusive special someone that I’d love to find and share a first kiss with for the last time. You see, I have these two separate reoccurring dreams with one looming as a frightening nightmare; both of which war against one another keeping me wide awake at the same time. The dream was birthed first out of a now unfaded vision seeing myself marrying for a second time. A peculiar ceremony in an unconventional informal format during non-business hours. A scene spotlighted inside and under florescent shop lights that reflect images of my beautiful new bride off the Barber King logoed mirrors. A spectacled event featured and aired LIVE all over every social media platform as we stand before fifty of my favorite friends and family. They and all the world zoom in to witness the ‘new us’ recite nuptials in real time for a second and ‘real’ time. On the contrast I lay awake tormented by voices of divorce demons chanting “Michael you’ll never marry again, divorced and single seven years now… you can forget about it !”.

I marvel at the nerve of me to believe that I’d find such a wonder woman to consent to such a public stunt. I mean why would this shero wed her superman on the biggest and most special day of her life… in a barbershop? This dark knight nightmare grows darker by the day, while the animated “love dream” keep my vision illuminated.

As a businessman and multi-local public figure, I used to think that divorce would blemish my brand and damage my legacy, instead it has become the thing that would define it. Straight out the gate… I loved my wife, but I hate my ex. Oops, did I say that? In fact, I say often that there is no greater dilemma than hating divorce more than hating your ex. An unrepentant sin I pray God will give me a pass on and ‘let me back in’. Back in His good graces, trusting His sovereignty that He knows and understands my institutionalized hardened pain, that is yet to be softened by & beyond the time it took to pen this project. My pen was still moving while time stood still, serving hard time in a penitentiary called heart break island. Pause; please note the writing warning… that I’ve purposed to be brutally honest and abandon all discretion, in order to preserve the integrity of all intended impression.

After all, you only get one shot to write your first book.




This storied saga is a multi-chronicled sequence of events that speaks volumes at times & tones set at decibels so loud… that in my writing I had to turn it down. Salute to all the self-employed super-heroes that wear capes of faith to live and fly by faith.” Just the crazy notion alone to one day ‘up & decide’ that you are going to create and make a living supporting yourself and your family, all based on the intangible hope that other people who have obligations and families of their own will faithfully support you and yours. To believe they will consistently patronize you, all while they stay afloat to support themselves. I am reminded of Dr. Fred K.C. Price’s book of many years ago titled, “Faith Foolishness or Presumption”. While all Self-Employed folk operate in at least one of those realms, we are all most definitely CRAZY. The linear lunacy to stand and proudly raise our hand to be among the risk-taking folks that take the daring leap of faith and fight for the favorable freedom to be…. SELF-EMPLOYED. I used to say all time that I have not had a job in twenty plus years. Acknowledging the contradictory concept that to” work” for yourself is not a job, although far from being faithlessly unemployed.

The entire empire story of Barber King is power packed with drama and cinematic theatre, a driven book to be read and viewed in its own drive-in theatre. Asking you kindly to pull up your vehicle and turn off your engine… cause this is gonna take a lil’ bit.



Resting in Peace​

Rolling one rainy evening during a family car ride, randomly I gave my five children these instructions. “Hey guys, when daddy dies make sure they bury me in all black.” They were like “ok, and?”. I continued, “black shoes & black slacks, black shirt and in my favorite black barber jacket.” In unison they questioned, “Barber Jacket?!!” I was like yep and not only that, I want you all to insist that the funeral director position my body on my stomach instead of my back, right side face down (my good side), with my arms wrapped around an expensive plush pillow. I explained that to me this is the most comfortable and realistic way for me to appear to be only sleeping and actually “resting in peace”. They giggled looking at each other and mumbled a staggered “Sure Dad”.

Most of my entire adult life I’ve maintained a certain morbid fascination, not of death but of being a fly on the wall, viewing my own viewing and homegoing funeral service.


The Unauthorized Biography of


Now for the biography that I would have written first had I not chosen to be selfish and first write my own (selfish / first/ write my own). To avoid any future anguish for not being the one to seize such a momentous task, with a writer’s valor I volunteered to do a literary treatment on this certain leader’s life. An individual I’m confident at some point is sure to be captured by some other opportunistic writer. Moved and greatly compelled, I was convinced that at this juncture in time there was no other more rightful penman who could write & boast of being one whom at one point in time the subject crowned in his own words, his “Number One Disciple.” Therefore, it was deemed worthy to dedicate an entire chapter to the man that I’ll forever view as a man’s man, a leader’s leader… and my number one mentor: The man, Robbie Davis. This unauthorized biography is purely from the perspective of his protégé, written with the unchallenged authority of “Why not me? More importantly, Why not him? The man who bought me my first tie and taught me to tie that tie, continued to follow suit with a knot tied so tight… that our relationship has not loosened in thirty years. Allow me to share with you why he made the book and shall always be…THE MAN in My Book.

If life would allow and I could escape the ridiculed criticism of being a carbon copied copycat, this is the only cool cat I’d copy. His contagious love & likability and his infectious character causes him to attract trailing shadows without ever casting any dark shade. Stalwart leadership and a standard of steadfast friendship makes his followers want to emulate him, void of poisonous envy…only the flattered honor of imitation.

Albeit abbreviated, this unauthorized bio is still long enough to canvas the landscaped life of Robert Stanley Davis Jr. The genetic God-Seed and only man-child born of Bob and Doris Davis. Reared and raised on the meat of the word to fear God and love people, he was sisterly sandwiched between his endeared elder and younger sisters Alecia & Kishna. The three of them were their parents’ pride and joyful harmony and literally harmonized throughout their childhood household.

Unbeknownst to me, the Davis’ only begotten son would later become my spiritual father. How powerful that a preacher and church pianist would birth a prince of a PK. A junior with a senior call on his life was destined to attentively answer and make his calling and election sure. By the way, speaking of ‘Senior’, still years later I am bitterly sorry that was not in the building on the night of Nov. 11th 2016, for an evening to celebrate Bob Davis Sr. A solemnly sacred occasion, eventfully dubbed a “Night of Honor”, celebrating the Bishop’s life and legacy, full of integrity and impeccable ministry. Although I was not among the people in that packed house that night, I’m still very much among the countless ‘sons of the gospel’ whom my mom and grandmother called “Brother Bob”. Today, now into his elite eighties, he and lady Doris still cover and chief mentor the ministry they birthed in the early seventies. Man, I cannot believe that my 21-year-old youth pastor is now “fifty something”.

The spring of 1989 sprung a new leader to stand head and shoulders among Mid-America’s very first graduating class. A grand ceremony to celebrate the first day of the rest and best of his life. Speaking of the best, less than ninety days later young Robbie Davis would wed an even younger childhood sweetheart Robin Jackson: an upgrade and graduation from Bible College boyfriend to Holy Ghost filled husband. Robin, the only daughter of Deacons Bob and Sandra Jackson was still an education major at HBCU’S Howard University. Along with her focused studies she had already been studying Robert Stanley long enough to make an educated decision to become Robbie’s own valedictorian. In probably still the single most memorable wedding event in the sanctuary’s history; July 29th, will forever be recognized as both an anniversary and practically a heralded holiday. Lavishly the largest wedding party of family friends and saints that most probably will ever eyewitness.

Immediately after a magical wedding and honeymoon, with great passion Rob was ready to perform what would be his signature trick… the ministry magic of YOUTH EXPLOSION. This being the pivotal point where and why this unauthorized biography is even relevant to yours truly. I remember vividly the very Sunday morning that Bishop Bob Davis made the first church announcement about the upcoming Tuesday night which would be the official launch of Youth Explosion. My grinning Grandmother elbow nudged her eleventh-grade grandson saying, “You’ll be there Michael.” Reluctantly I returned the grin even with no known transportation to this inaugural event, that I had been suited & elected to attend.

Tuesday at 6pm came before I knew it, and without a doorbell so did a rhythmic drummer’s knock on the door. I opened it to a 6 foot 3ish polo shirt wearing, slim built brother in blue jeans and white all K-Swiss. The jovial smiling gentlemen denied my handshake to extend his opened arms, along with the words “Let’s Roll Soldier!” Feeling lottery lucky to ride shotgun, I was the first pick and passenger on this first round night of pickups. On the road and on our way to the fellowship hall, the rookie youth pastor christened my ears by introducing me to an unfamiliar contemporary gospel group called, “Commissioned”. I was hooked. That white and blue church van filled quickly as everyone boarded singing along to ‘commissioned songs’ they already knew all the words to. Big Shot and the band were already in a jam session, just shy of 7pm. The pre-hyped crowd socialized and shuffled their way through an unassigned seating arrangement. Bashfully I laid low on the back row until Pastor Robbie blew my cover instructing everyone to find someone they didn’t know and introduce themselves. Suddenly somehow by the osmosis of multiple hugs and smiles, I wound up on the front row. ‘Praise and Worship’ was underway, and I was overwhelmed. Consumed and caught up in the cadenced clapping on the down beat while side stepping & foot tapping to the upbeat. Trust me when I tell ya that the Y.E. Band was bad….and I mean BAAD! The screen projector assisted me with unfamiliar songs, but I remember wishing I had a tape recorder to be able to to rehearse at home and blast on repeat. Rob preached and taught a powerful first message that challenged the room full of hyped high schoolers. He schooled us on the wisdom of walking on school grounds unashamed of the gospel, as well as with filtering through some of the distasteful secular music that did not feed our faith. I was won over and no doubt divinely duped by his sound teaching, candid humor, and relatable love.

Still riding shotgun doing drop offs, Rob veered off route and out of his way, making me his final drop. Perhaps this signified not only the birth of a mentor protege’ connection, but a relationship with Christ that would go and grow to another level…. mentored by the man Robbie Davis.



In case she writes her own movie

Six weeks before her exit the sex stopped – a red flag at an invisible red light. There was no traffic and no “bumper to bumper”. Wait a minute, six weeks before her exit the sex stopped, no bumper to bumper” #Barz. I remember specifically because it was the day after her birthday that we last celebrated together, June 8th…she left me July 24th 2014.

I am full aware that unhappy women/wives ‘check out’ long before their physical exit, yet still I’m not clear or sure of exactly how long my wife contemplated her plotted exit strategy. I’m only positive it wasn’t following any particular pivotal incident or some nasty long night of domestic violence of sorts. Nevertheless, in all literary righteousness I’ve resolved that my written memoir would be not be genuinely received and grossly incomplete without a chapter or so given to some finger pointing to certain self-fault finding facts of my own. In fact, I smile because this being the very chapter or the only chapter that I’m certain that “She” would be inclined to read first. Her voiced reluctance to even read a single page would be limited to only a mere peak at what I would have to say, regarding any explanation of her marital exit. I can almost audibly hear her thoughts thinking out loud saying, “What bold lies has he fabricated and what truth has he withheld”.

Truth is, more than the innocent inquiry of “How’d you guys meet?, “What’s your love story?”.
the facts people are generally much more inclined to have a greater interest in… is a couple’s ‘Break Up’ Throughout this entire painful ordeal of separation and divorce, it’s been the overwhelming voiced and unvoiced questions to answers that ‘inquiring minds wanna know’. “Mike, what in the world did you do?” What has caused such a wonderful ‘Woman of God’ to run off and stay away from what appeared to be such a perfectly “normal” marriage? I sit now under the spotlight and on the hot seat, as all of my social media connects, barbershop comrades and corralling clients have bombarded me with this ‘microphoned question’.

Allow me now to back myself into a corner, to divulge a summation of ‘Why I believe my beloved wife left me.” I now truthfully take the stand, raising and writing with my right hand to testify to this justified interrogation. What is it about me that has made or pushed “My Wife” to move away and stay far away and to not to look back or come back. At this juncture of the book, I’ve considered also that any future potential companion & new spouse of mine, might also be inclined to lean in and listen a little closer.
So let’s go for a swim and dive a lil’ deeper, as I tread dangerous water exploring why my whimsical wife left me for dead to drown in open water. Life sharks surround me as they see and smell fear with my red blood in the water. Could it perhaps be that the non-public private man was secretly a male dominating verbally and physically abusive tyrant. A wife beater that would come home sloppy drunk after a hard day’s work, already irritable walking in the house yelling and shoving the kids, kicking the dog and slapping his wife because dinner wasn’t hot and ready. Or maybe she was just tired of forgiving me for being a adulterer… a repeat offender of multiple extra marital affairs ? Hell No ! Absolutely NONE OF THE ABOVE. I was and did NONE OF THAT. Trust, she would testify also that none of that was ME. “Not I, said the cat who swallowed the fly.”

In her defense, I’m convinced she left me for far greater reasons other than – because of me; but let me tell you what I did do and who I was, as to Why I believe SHE LEFT ME.
This may take a while.