Lost: Swagger. Reward!

Okay:

So, I lost my swagger again.

Damn thing won't stay where I put it.

My Friday night regular came over last night. The same one I wrote about last week. The one I mounted three times in one night. The young lady I sent home skipping in erotic merriment.

Last night there was no such carnal feasting. Last night I rolled over and fell into a coma-like sleep after one twelve minute romp.

I started snoring so loud she had to wake me up because she couldn't hear the television.

She had sent me a few texts this weekend, asking for a repeat appearance. I stood her up twice. No good reason. I just didn't feel like it.

I wouldn't have seen her last night were it not for guilt.

Isn't that a lovely irony?

Captain of the cheerleading team (literally), fifteen years later is screwing the skinny, awkward artist guy (literally). And he's dogging her. You can't make this shit up.

Tragic for her, yes. But interesting reading, nonetheless.

We are talking about a beautiful, voluptuous, desirable, hyper-sexual woman here. Not some mut. She could easily find a man that would worship her pinky toe nails and give of himself freely. Trust me.

I, on the other hand, am willing to give her nothing.

Don't get me wrong. None of this pleases me. But that's precisely the point isn't it?

None of this pleases me.

We have been keeping up this "strictly sexual" relationship for over a year now. I guess we officially crossed the line of casual some time ago. Not that it matters. I was never really in to this woman.

To be honest, I'd rather masturbate.

Isn't that fucked up?

I think I am contemptuous of her because she is the symbol of everything I despised in my teenage years. A snooty, spoiled bitch with everything going for her except real intelligence.

So maybe there is a hint of sadism here. Maybe I am getting back at the establishment in my own way. Maybe I think she has it coming.

I am chickens coming home to roost.

I am karma.

Or...or...

I am very, very, very tired of being single. So tired that I don't even have the energy to entertain a "strictly sexual" relationship. After all, what exactly am I getting out of all this? An orgasm? Whoopty-fucking-do! I've had a million of those.

They're like shoes. Some are nicer than others. New ones are particularly exciting. But after they're good and broken in, they're just shoes. Put 'em in the closet with the rest. I'm over it.

Or...

I am one of those guys who will fall hopelessy in love with some shrew. She'll dog me out and then justice will be served. Voila!! The universe will be righted.

Or...

I am a creep.

Your call.

Thanks for reading.

Tip of the day: Getting (or giving) a blowjob while driving (or riding) may seem like a hot idea, but there are many, many, many possible negative outcomes.

Shameless Plug: I will be performing LIVE Thursday December 6 at Bohemian Caverns (2001 11th St, NW WDC) with Heron Gibran and Dirty Water. No Cover! 21 & Over. Doors open at 8.

Ah, the Humanity!

Okay:

Apparently, I'm a bit of a nihilist. Yes, it is true that I believe human beings are evil by nature. We must put forth a conscious effort to be good. If we refuse to acknowledge that little devil that lives within us, we are doomed to serve that devil. Let me explain.

The person who ignores his sexual urges, represses them, will ultimately become a deviant. (see Catholic priests, Michael Jackson, etc.)

The person who prides himself upon being honest will ultimately find himself engulfed in an immense deception. (see every televangelist ever.)

My personal opinion is that we should all strive to strike a balance between the demons and better angels of our natures.

I'm an artist so I see things in metaphors.

Life is like a diet. You cannot deny the fact that you really want a donut. You must acknowledge it, and choose the carrot anyway. But occasionally, you should treat yourself to something sweet. And as long as you're not being gluttonous, you shouldn't beat yourself up about it.

I was having a philosophical discussion with a coworker the other day. We were talking about religion, politics and sociology. At the end of our conversation she announces, "You're a nihilist! That explains your music!"

I was at a loss. Have a created a body of work that is not uplifting, but rather a misanthropic rant spanning nearly a decade?

I wasn't always like this. I used to think that people were good. I used to think that I was good. A myriad of negative experiences with my fellow man (mainly fellow woman) has shown me something different.

Now I know, for a fact, that we are all nasty and malicious. That we are capable of all kinds of atrocities, if pushed. Man is mischievous, bottom line.

And this has nothing to do with Adam and Eve. I don't believe in any of that either. This has everything to do with the average Joe and Jane.

Jane wants Joe. Joe wants Jill. Jane kills Jill. Jane Gets Joe.

This is humanity. This is Cane and Abel. It's not history. It's a case study spun into a beautiful narrative.

Maybe a little dark for a Friday, but I'm fairly certain this is what life is all about.

What are your thoughts?

Thanks for reading.

Tip of the day: Women, beware of public toilets. Crabs can jump nine feet! Try explaining that to your husband.

Shameless plug: I will be performing live at Bohemian Caverns on Thursday December 6 (11th & U St, NW WDC) 21 and over. No cover. Doors open at 8. Showtime at 9.

I Got My Swagger Back

Okay:

I'm kind of the office joke when it comes to sex. While my music is filled with decadent eroticism and even my casual conversation is peppered with raunchy innuendo and double entendre, my sex life is pretty basic.

If my libido were a car, it would be a Toyota Camry.

Good. Reliable. Nothing fancy. But nothing to complain about either.

There is a recurring happy hour argument. How long should sex last? I have been adamant in my position that it is completely possible for two people to get what they need in less than thirty minutes. Then they can spend the rest of their night doing more productive activities, like sleeping.

This is the part where all the women suck their teeth and shake their heads in pity.

Gill tells me, "You're only 28. Stop acting like an old man!!!"

"Go fuck yourself," I say.

Then Gill says, "You know what? You just haven't been inspired. You meet the right girl, that'll change."

"Go fuck yourself," I say. It's easy to dismiss Gill. He's been with the same woman for 15 years. What does he know? But last night, those seemingly empty words were proven to have great merit.

Sort of.

As you know, I just moved into a new apartment. That's why I haven't written in nine days. Still getting settled, you know. Anyway, I invite my Friday night regular over for some break-in-my-new-apartment sex. When she arrives, I immediately notice that she has done away with her trademark mid-back length weave and fake eyelashes. Yes, I know. Doesn't sound like my type, right? Well, you're right. I didn't realize how right until last night though. I found that seeing her in her natural state was extremely erotic.

I pounced on her like a jungle cat.

Then, an hour and a half later, I did it again.

Let us not underestimate the magnitude of this. I haven't wanted to have sex twice in the same night in years.

As we lay there basking in the after glow she told me, "I'm really glad you're not depressed anymore."

"Depressed?"

"Yeah, you've been depressed for about a year now, but it looks like you're finally coming out of it."

"Hmpf."

Then on the way out of the door, I jumped on her again. Right there by the front door.

My swagger is officially back in the building!!!!

I think it's the new apartment, which is fabulous by the way. You should all come over for wine and cheese.

Thanks for reading.

Tip of the day: Say a prayer for the friends and family of Redskins safety, Sean Taylor. He just passed away an hour ago!

Shameless Plug: I will be performing LIVE @ The Bohemian Caverns on Thursday December 6 with Heron Gibran, Dirty Water, the Sound of the City band and DJ 2 Tone Jones. (11th and U St, NW WDC) 21 and over. No cover. Doors open at 8. Showtime at 9.

It's So Hard To Say Goodbye To Yesterday

Okay:

So tomorrow is the big day. I am officially saying goodbye to my shithole of an apartment and moving to greener pastures. A posh spot in Brookland with a parking lot attendant and free cookies in the rental office. Good cookies. And coffee.

Today I took the day off work to handle some last minute business.

Mainly, had to find a new home for my cat, Samira. I have been privately stressing out about this for about a month. I have had Samira for six years. We were like an old married couple. She destroyed the furniture and coughed up hairballs all over the place. I cleaned up behind her, put out food when she whined. Took her to the vet two or three times a year. But I ignored her mostly. I was infatuated with her when she was a precious little kitten, scared of her own shadow. But once she got big and furry (really furry!) the spell was broken. So, like I said, it was a lot like a marriage.

So then my daughter ended up developing a mild allergy. Then there was the expensive pet deposit and monthly surcharge at the new spot. Then there was the hairballs and the furniture covered in fur and the smelly litter box and the hundred dollars or so in food and litter every month and the hundred dollar trips to the vet and the groomer every few months and I decided it was time for us to part ways.

I put an ad on Craig's List.

I put out a mass email to coworkers, friends and family.

Nobody wanted my six-year-old, ornery American Longhair.

I had to take her to a shelter.

Maybe I could have done more. Maybe I could have been more aggressive or diligent in my search. I did what I could.

When I dropped her off, I took one last look at her through the bars of her carrier. She did not know that it was the last time she would see me. She thought I was leaving her with the groomer or the vet. She's so stupid.

I walked out and cried a little bit on the way to the car. Yes, Cool Cee Brown had a moment.

Later, I went to my mother's house to pick up my daughter. "How's the packing?" she asked.

"I took Samira to a shelter today," I said.

"Are you depressed?"

I shook my head, no.

"I was depressed when your Uncle Beau died," she said. "Then I got over it."

Leave it to my mother.

Well, "Even young Cassius got his ass kicked/The point is when he got laid down/he didn't stay down."

Who said that? I did. Seems I'll have to take my own advice on this one. *sheds solitary tear*

I'll miss you, Samira. You would have liked the new apartment. But you would have fucked up the carpet.

Thanks for reading.

Tip of the day: Beware of drunk-texting. I once texted my mother something containing the words "pussy" and "toss".

Shameless plug: I will be performing LIVE on Thursday December 6 at Bohemian Caverns (11th & U St, NW WDC) with Heron Gibran, Dirty Water, The Sound of the City Band & DJ 2 Tone Jones. NO COVER. 21+. Doors open @ 8. Showtime @9.

Baptized In The Funk

Okay:

There are several reasons why religious people disturb me. No disrespect to any deity or divine prophet, but it's just all so goddamn creepy. This may surprise you, but I was raised Pentecostal and I went to Catholic school for a year. That means I know more about the Bible than the average person. More than I want to know, actually.

Perhaps I should clarify. It's religious people, not religion, to which I have an aversion. And not all religious people, mind you. My homeboy Joe, for example, is a very religious man but you wouldn't know unless you asked him. But those Bible-thumpers who look down their noses at the unsaved masses really burn my butter. My family is like this.

I went to church this past weekend to see my family and hang out with my father. Some poor kid volunteered to get baptised so they started filling up "the pool".

This pool of theirs is a real piece of work. I wouldn't clean my murder weapons in that thing. It looks like a pit for waterboarding suspected communists and terrorists. This poor kid has volunteered to go down there and let someone submerge him in two feet of ice-cold water run in through a long black hose connected to the outdoor spout.

But before he can do so, one of my cousins has to go get one of those green goldfish scoopers to wrangle up the large commune of mosquitoes and other tiny insects flying and swimming around in there. See what I mean? Who knows what kind of infection this kid could get? He might as swell slam his face into a public toilet.

He comes out of the back dressed in the rags they keep in stock for these impromptu baptisms. Another one of my cousins, who is one of the junior deacons, comes out behind him with those big rubber swamp pants on. He looks like he's about to catch some marlin, not perform a Christian rite of passage. But he's got the right idea. I wouldn't go down into that pit with anything less than an inch of rubber separating me from what amounts to a pitridish for growing malaria.

My cousin says the special baptism words and dunks this poor kid backwards into the pool of death. Only the kid is at least six feet tall, so my cousin accidentally drops him! He comes back up, coughing and spitting up toilet water. I almost fell off the pew.

The kid goes into the back and changes into his regular clothes. When he returns he is invited to say some words to the congregation. He claims that he already feels different. And I think to myself, "That's just the West Nile kicking in."

I am also struck with an epiphany of sorts. My family is a cult. These people really believe that this is how you get into "heaven". They believe that God's special orders are for you to repent for your sins, accept Jesus as your personal Lord and Savior and then submerge yourself in water. If you don't do this, you go to hell when you die. Really.

Needless to say, I'll be taking my chances "in the world" and the only time I'm sticking my head underwater is if there is plenty of chlorine and a lifeguard present.

He's handed his baptism certificate and then it's off to Red Lobster for an intellectually stimulating conversation about the abomination of homosexuality and the unrelenting shittiness of the Redskins, over cheese bread and fried scallops.

Thanks for reading.

Tip of the day: Apparently, you should never keep a pair of underwear longer than a year. Over a significant period of time urine and fecal matter build up in the seat and cannot be washed out.

Shameless Plug: The new Dirty Water album "Joe D and Cool Cee Brown are Dirty Water" is now available for download on iTunes. Visit the website http://www.dirtywatermusic.com for more details. IT'S JAMMIN!!!

My Big Sister Kicks Ass!

Okay:

So my sister, the stock broker, was in town this weekend to run in the 32nd Marine Corps Marathon. In case you're one of my non-black readers, it may be worth the time to explain that there are several things most black people find strange. One is sleeping with dogs. Another is running for no reason.

Things I learned about the sport of running that I did not know before:

1. A "marathon" is exactly 26.2 miles.

2. Competitive marathon runners wear diapers so they won't have to stop to pee.

3. Kenyans are the fastest ethnic group on the planet--cheetahs of the race pool.

My mother, my stepfather, my daughter and I went down to Crystal Drive, hoping to catch her at the 18th mile. If you've never stood on the sidelines of a marathon, it is something I recommend highly. There are many laughs to be had.

First, a 60-year-old white woman busted her ass. Poor lady tripped over a cobblestone and landed on both knees. OUCH! Embarrassing, but humorous. Something about old people falling down. Call me sadistic. Don't worry though. She hit the button on her Life Alert bracelet and the MediVac was there within fifteen minutes.

Just joking. She dusted herself off and kept running. What a soldier.

Then there was the white woman in the SuperGirl costume.

I don't have anything else to say about that.

There was a brother with a bowtie.

When he paused for the picture he said, "Come on, brother, I ain't got all day." I thought that was funny.

Some things weren't funny at all, like all the Marines holding American flags with the names of their dead buddies on the backs of their t-shirts. One guy was pushing what can most aptly be described as a wheel barrel containing a man with no bones, just a smiling pile of flesh. Disturbing, yet inspirational.

Then came my sister. She stopped to talk for a moment and asked for some food. She said she spent a half-hour total in the Port-a-Johns. She peed in the bushes once. "I hope I don't get poison oak any place important," she said. Then she was off again.

Then we saw another white woman wearing a set of plastic devil's horns on her head. "Go, Devil!" my mother screamed. I though that was funny.

An hour or so later, we met her at the Iwo Jima Memorial. My sister had finished a marathon. What a fucking stud. She didn't even look that tired. Still had her makeup on. The bar has officially been raised, ladies.

Later that night my daughter asked her why she did it. "To see if I could finish," she said.

"Well," said my daughter matter-of-factly, "you did."

Congrats, Sis.


Thanks for reading.

Tip of the day: Ladies, never touch the dried up towel under your man's bed. Just leave it be.

3 Reasons Black Men Turn to White Women

Okay:

I got into this big discussion with my sister, the stock broker, the other day about interracial dating. Those of my readers who are not black may not realize how galvanizing a subject this still is in the black community.

On the one hand, you have this perception that any black man who dates or marries a white woman (and white woman specifically--there is less of a stigma attached to, say, an Asian or Latina) is suffering from some racial identity issues. At one extreme he would be considered confused, and at the other, a sellout. Kobe Bryant, Montel Williams, Cuba Gooding, Jr., etc. etc.

If you don't believe me, tell a black woman who doesn't follow sports that for the first time in NFL history, the two coaches who went to the Superbowl last year were both black men. She'll smile big and wide and beam with pride. Then tell her that they are both married to white women. Her smile will disappear. She may say something to the effect of "It figures."

According to my sister, black men do this because they attach a certain level of status to white women. A brother who is able to acquire one will be revered by his peers. Like a Porshe.

I believe this is an out-of-date concept. Maybe it was true in the seventies but I think there's more to it now.

3 Main Reasons Black Men Turn to White Women:

1. He was raised in a white a community: He's related to most of the black people he knows. Naturally, he would gravitate toward what he's been exposed to. Nothing conscious or intentional about it.

2. He is ignorant: He thinks that white women are more easy-going or emotionally mature and have more reasonable expectations. I would place most celebrities in this category.

3. He likes her: Wasn't necessarily out hunting for white women. He just met a woman that he got along with and was brave enough to say, fuck it.

Of course, at the end of all this, the question is "Have you ever dated a white woman?"

Nothing to be ashamed of, as if that needs to be said. I'm a proud, progressive black man. The answer is, Yes. One seriously. Several casually. To put this in perspective, because I go through spells of wild promiscuity, the white women I have been with constitute approximately 5 percent of my sexual history. Having said that, allow me to dispel some myths.

1. No, they are not more easy-going: They are just as irrational and unreasonable as any other color woman.

2. No, they are not "easy": They have sex under the same circumstances as everyone else-- because they're drunk, desperate or genuinely horny.

3. No, they do not give better blowjobs: This was the biggest disappointment. They apparently do not, as I was made to believe, go to white girl's blowjob camp at sixteen. They're pretty standard, actually.

I'm interested in your opinion, so please post a comment. Let's get some discussion going here.

I'm also interested in hearing what's behind the double standard about interracial dating in the black community. Why is it perfectly okay for a black woman to date a white man? In contrast to the feelings associated with the inverse, when one sees a black woman with a white man I think people say to themselves, "I bet he's treating her right."

Look at Halle Berry.

Thanks for reading.

Tip of the day: Apparently, you're supposed to shampoo and comb your pubic hair regularly. Who knew?

Shameless plug: Watch our exclusive interview with rapper Noreaga. Very interesting stuff about his relationship with the late Big Pun, www.youtube.com/blackbroadwayrecords

Forgetting Where I Came From

Okay:

I'm moving goddammit. The other day when my daughter and I got home, there were at least a dozen people gathered on the stoop getting high. One of them had a lawn chair. I saw them as I pulled into the parking lot and purposely parked as far away as possible. Only when we got out of the car it smelled like we were the ones smoking reefer.

Don't get me wrong, I used to smoke reefer in people's parking lots when I was a teenager, but now I'm an adult with a six-year-old and it's driving me crazy!

So, I went up the street to a pricier, nicer, more secluded complex and filled out an application. I move next month on the 17th. My new place has brand new carpet, a recently glazed tub, a balcony, a washer and dryer, a fitness room, a picnic area and--most importantly--a parking lot attendant.

I am officially bourgie.

Fuck it. I've been fighting it for years. All the black nationalist literature and hip hop music in the world cannot change the fact that a group of teenagers sitting on your steps smoking reefer is that last thing you want to see when you get home at 6:30pm. I don't give a damn if you're a garbage man, council member or a school teacher. If you work hard to pay your rent, certain shit is just going to burn your butter.

Bill Cosby was on Meet The Press this weekend. He was babbling about how so many black parents are not raising their black children to become productive members of society. Tim Russert did not challenge him like he challenges the white politicians who come on his show. He just let old Bill talk like he was soliciting donations for Save The Children.

Three years ago when he started this stuff, I immediately dismissed him as an old, out-of-touch, self-hating, bourgeoisie old school negro who has no idea what is really going on in the black community. How could he? Does he really still ride the bus? But this weekend, I listened. Bill, of course, has some valid points. And you must admire his candor.

The other day, Michael Eric Dyson was on NPR countering Bill's argument with some equally compelling rhetoric. According to Dyson, Bill is out of touch, and puts too much emphasis on personal responsibility, as opposed to the institutional racism that has given birth to the crisis in the black community.

Having said all that, ask me if I give a shit.

Go ahead. Ask me.

If Black Nationalist was a recognized political party, I would be a proud, card-carrying member. I love my people and I want to see our community grow and prosper. But at 28 I have made a conscious decision to no longer concern myself with the bottom feeders in our neighborhoods who care about nothing and will only bring the rest of us down. I'm talking about the people who let their children run the streets unsupervised. I'm talking about the people who throw trash in the street and vandalize everything. I'm talking about the motherfuckers smoking weed on my steps.

I'm down for the rest of us though. All the way, 100%. But those motherfuckers...those "adults" who haven't figured it out, don't want to figure it out, and never will figure it out...who has the time? Fidel Castro sent his trash to America on a chartered boat. I'm no martyr. I'm a father. And I'm tired.

Now, I shall step down from my soap box and get ready for work.

Thanks for reading.

Tip of the day: If you're not sure, wear two rubbers. It can't hurt.

Shameless Plug: www.blackbroadwayrecords.com

No Longer Young

Okay:

I'll be 28 tomorrow. Time for some serious self-reflection. 30 is right around the corner, no?

I recently had a heart-to-heart with my older sister, the stock broker, last week. She berated me for being fiscally irresponsible, immature, bad father, etc. etc. She's one of those people who feel better after telling someone how they really feel. It's like farting but with words.

She's right to a certain extent, I suppose. I am experiencing a second childhood. I believe I have an aversion to adulthood. It just sounds so boring. Paying your bills on time, keeping a well-stocked refrigerator, monitoring your credit, networking with the 'right' people, etc. etc. *yawn*

This developmental delay was put in perspective for me this weekend. Yesterday was my father's birthday. He just turned 70. Our family threw him a big catered thing at the church. It was nice. At some point two little girls, my cousins I believe, did some sort of spooky bizarre Christian interpretive dance with face paint and white gloves. Other than that, par for the course.

Later that night, however, I attended my 10 year high school class reunion. I went to an art school, and so, appropriately, the event was in Dupont Circle, DC's gay mecca. I was dressed to the nines and ready to see some of my classmates, the formerly cool turned tragically pathetic. I would walk around with a haughty grin, looking quite successful and generally pleased with myself. Maybe reconnect with a honey or two. Hell, maybe get laid.

The reality was a severe disappointment. The whole event was utterly forgetful. Hardly anyone showed. And of the four women that did show, one was an obvious lesbian, and one was Honda hatchback pregnant. The only people I spoke to were people I still communicate with anyway.

How does this give me perspective?

The glory days of my youth are officially over. My high school reunion has come and gone and I am no better for it. An important milestone, casually and predictably underdone. I am forced to move on without my consent.

In 2 years I'll be 30. Why is 30 so significant? Not because you're officially old but because you are officially not young. I will no longer be a young man. My failings will be magnified and all criticisms will invariably be followed by, "For Christ's sake, you're THIRTY."

Not old, mind you. My father is old. I'm not old. I'm just not young anymore.

But there is another way to look at my behavior that my sister and other critics may have overlooked. Perhaps I am not delayed but advanced. We have all heard of the mid-life crisis. Presumably, men reaching middle age will begin to regress socially in an effort to recapture the excitement of youth and escape the boredom of adulthood. Perhaps I am having my mid-life crisis early.

This would explain a lot. My series of meaningless sexual relationships. My aversion to commitment. My fiscal recklessness. My drinking.

If my theory holds up, however, once I'm over all this, I'll have the wisdom and patience of a senior citizen in my forties. So while my friends are buying motorcycles, piercing their ears and sleeping with their secretaries, I'll be nice and settled. All fuckery officially out of my system.

So you see, I am actually ahead of the curve.

Thanks for reading.

Tip of the day: Apparently, it is unhygienic to use the same washcloth on your butt crack that you use for the rest of your body.

Shameless plug: Make sure you visit my website http://www.blackbroadwayrecords.com/ as I have made some major improvements.

Apology: I know I have not posted in almost 2 weeks. This is largely due to the fact that I have been wokring diligently at improving the look and feel of the website. So make sure you check it out. http://www.blackbroadwayrecords.com/

I Wouldn't Trade It For The World

Okay:

My long-time friend, creative and business partner, Joe, had his thirtieth birthday this month. His wife texted me Saturday morning about a surprise party at Mahogany on U Street.

Joe and I went to college together. We were both part of a larger crew of people from the Washington, DC area at this small black university in Durham, North Carolina. We were in a short-lived go-go band together and eventually started a rap group, Dirty Water. We'll be releasing our second long player this fall (shameless plug). Anyway, it' been almost 10 years. Now he's thirty, married, with a house, an SUV and an infant son. The American dream. He's on the board of trustees at his church. They gave him keys.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not jealous. I'm just in awe. Always have been.

I was there before all these things happened. I remember him telling me, "I'm about to get married."

And I remember thinking, "Why would you want to do that?"

I mean, I told my ex that I would marry her, but that was only because she wouldn't drop it. I would have never said such a thing were I not under duress.

The house, the SUV, the son. At each interval I privately scoffed at his undertaking of new responsibilities. I thought he was crazy. Now he has this whole manhood package, and I'm still downloading porn, paying my rent late and eating noodles for dinner.

Again, I'm not jealous. I don't want what he has. It just all happened so fast is what I'm saying.

Anyway, of course I wouldn't miss his party for all the cognac in France. I get to the restaurant and am greeted by a group of his friends that I know only through him. I notice two things almost immediately. One, I am decidedly under dressed (well dressed, mind you, but still under) and, two, I am the only single guy there. All of these people are married. They have their wives with them and they look perplexedly happy. So I order a drink.

The night progresses. I am trying hard to mind my manners and not slip into full Cool Cee Brown-mode. After all, this is not my night. This is Joe's night. Plus, there are people's wives here. I have to consciously remind myself to not say stuff like "bitch" or "pussy". I also have to remind myself to take small bites and chew slowly with my mouth closed. And sit up straight. And watch my volume. And try not to guffaw when I laugh, as I am prone to do.

A few drinks later, most of that stuff goes out of the window. I have said both "bitch" and "pussy", I have finished my entree in five minutes, I am slouched so deep in my seat that the back of my neck is resting on the back of the chair and my hands are in my pants.

At some point, I look around the table and realize that I am to a certain degree envious, but I am also incredulous. How do you do it? How do you spend every waking moment with another person like that? How do you shoulder the amount of responsibility equivalent to being a small village chieftain and "wouldn't trade it for the world"?

Never having been the kind to suffer burning curiosity, I ask the table, "How do you do it? How do you get married?" The answers varied.

"We didn't have anything else better to do."

"It was time."

"I didn't want her to leave me."

"The tax break is vicious."

I was surprised to hear how unabashedly un-romantic they all were about it. It was more of a practical decision, like splitting a cab.

Well, I was officially drunk by then and it was time to start chasing women. We had left the restaurant and made our way over to a Mexican spot down the street, Aleros. The hostess had these big, creamy Beyonce thighs. But I was cock-blocked by some bald-head Malik Yoba look-alike. My other attempts at love were also unsuccessful. I went home alone, fell asleep alone and woke up alone. And I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Happy Birthday, Joe

Thanks for reading.

Tip of the day: Try to be mindful of the fact that if you are drunk, your breath probably smells like ass to sober people.

Shameless Plug: Gill interviewed Illa Ghee and Team Demo on 89.3fm and got the real scoop on the Mobb Deep/Saigon brawl. Check out the podcast on The Black Broadway Show.

My Ugly Reflection

Okay:

So, I have been conducting some serious soul searching lately, trying to figure out why I seem to be attracting what I and the people in my inner circle would consider to be less than desirable women. By less-than-desirable I do not mean ugly or fat, not necessarily. I mean women who no intelligent, ambitious, emotionally mature man would ever take seriously. The most obvious answer would be that I display some of these undesirable qualities myself, and thusly I attract, and am attracted to, these women. I have been trying desperately for the past few months to discover some alternative explanation, but recently I had an experience that validated this dismal assessment.

The other day I ran into a woman I took out to dinner once. My mother would have called her a hoochie, not that she could have payed me to introduce her to my mother. I thought she was interesting though. I had never dated a woman with a tattoo on her neck before. I typically do not date women who wear cheap, greasy weaves, but I made an exception in her case.

Long story short, she had a really fat ass.

To call it a fat ass does not do it justice, however. Usually a woman with a rump this plump would also be plump in other areas, namely her middle. This is usually a concession I am willing to accept in exchange for an ample backside. As I am aging, however, I am finding this trade-off less acceptable. I would rather deal with a flat-out heavy woman than someone is who is still trying to pass for skinny. This weight-denial phenomenon often results in what my homies and I call the muffin-top effect. Not a good-look.

I digress.

Her donkey was special because it was big, round, and juicy but her waist was small and her stomach was flat as a board. You don't see that everyday. At least not it DC. The date was a disaster though. I didn't come close to getting any. At the restaurant she invited herself to order two entrees! A porterhouse steak and a salmon fillet! She ate them both right in front of me! I had to drink three scotches to stop myself from sneaking out on her while she was in the bathroom. And she was dumb as mop bucket and twice as shallow. I deleted her number as soon as she closed my car door.

So I ran into her the other day. Ass still fat. Waist still skinny. Stomach still flat as a board. We talked for a while. She asked about my daughter. I asked about her two kids. The conversation went (practically verbatim) as follows.

HER: I ain't having no more kids.
ME: Bullshit. You're young yet.
HER: Nuh uh. I'm not pushing nothing else out this coochie. Whoever get up in here next needs to know that.
ME: I see.
HER: He probably wouldn't be able to bust a good one cuz every five minutes we'd have to stop and see if the rubber's still on.
ME: I see.
HER: No siree, Bob! These here legs is staying closed!
ME: Well, if it's pregnancy you're primarily worried about there are pills and shots and implants from what I understand.
HER: I ain't trying to gain all that weight! You see this fat ass and this itty bitty waist. I ain't trying to fuck this money up.

I shit you not, ladies and gentleman. This woman is a real person and we had this conversation on a public street within earshot of passersby while the sun was still up.

How is this all relevant? I realized after this conversation was over that she is no more crass and common than I am. Were I the appropriate male counterpart for the kind of woman I want, I probably wouldn't even know this girl. Not that she's a bad person, but COME ON!

And it's not that I think I'm better than her. Quite the contrary. I think she is a reflection of me. A reflection I am hoping to change.

Thanks for reading.

Tip of the day: If you're going to have company of the romantic persuasion, check your toilet bowl before they get there. Nothing spoils a mood like a full john.

Shameless Plug:

Me and my boy Heron took over Washington DC's favorite hip hop radio show Decipher on WPFW 89.3 fm. Check out The Black Broadway Show Podcast. Subscribe. We'll be posting stuff regularly.

If you're in town...COOL CEE BROWN will be performing at The Guerrilla Lounge on Friday, September 28 at RFD (Regional Food and Drink) 810 7th Street NW, Washington, DC 20001 Doors open @ 9pm, $10, Ages 21 & over.

My Daughter's Wisdom Reigns Supreme

Okay:

My daughter is a lot smarter than I am. This is a frightening actualization. It's sort of like that movie with Sean Penn, Michelle Pfeiffer and Dakota Fanning, I Am Sam. Penn plays a mentally retarded man who gets stuck with a baby. There's this sequence where his daughter ages about 5 years in 2 minutes. She asks probing age appropriate questions like "Why is the sky blue?" etc. As she ages the questions become progressively more complex. He struggles to answer. She benevolently humors him.

My daughter and I are like this. I am retarded. She knows it, but she's too nice to mention it.

Once I was walking her to school in the morning. She had just started the first grade. I was in a peculiar mood. Not feeling too good about myself. I looked down at her. So naturally happy, easy to please. I was jealous.

"Honey," I asked her, "Do you think I'm a good daddy?"

Without hesitation she answered, "I think you're whatever kind of daddy you want to be."

All of a sudden I felt more like a bodyguard than a parent. She was born to give light to the world, like The Golden Child, and I'm like Eddie Murphy. I just have to make sure nothing bad happens to her in the interim.


Just a few hours ago we had finished breakfast and were trying to figure out what movie we wanted to watch. She went digging though the DVDs and found Aqua Teen Hunger Force: Season One.

"Daddy," she asked me, "How come they made it a cartoon but kids can't watch it?"

"I'm not sure, honey, but it's definitely for adults."

"But you let me watch it before."

"I know. I shouldn't have," I said, feeling parentally inadequate.

"You're the crazy one," she said, "not me."


Another time I was tucking her into bed. It had been a rough day, and, again, I wasn't feeling too good about myself. Something had happened at work or something...I don't really remember. I was just feeling shitty for some reason.

"Daddy," she said as I nestled her teddy bear in next to her, "you don't look so hot."

"I'm alright, honey," I said.

"You know," she said, with the utmost sincerity, "you're a really nice guy."

Well. I tried not to let on, but I immediately felt better. Who needs therapy?


As my regular readers know, I broke up with the woman I thought I was going to marry a little less than a year ago. I am still recovering. For some reason, a month or so ago, m daughter asked about her.

"Where's __________?" she asked.

"___________ and daddy don't hang out anymore, honey."

"Why?"

"We stopped getting along."

"I thought you two were going to get married."

"We were."

"So what happened?"

"Well, ____________ wanted to get married right away and daddy didn't want to rush things."

"Daddy," she said, as if it were exhausting her, "It's not when you get married. It's who you marry."


So. I just thought I would share that with you. Now I have to go. I promised her we could play a game of Trouble as soon as I finished. I'd love to hear about your kids if you care to post a comment.

Thanks for reading.

Tip of the day: While the idea of having sex on the beach is proverbially romantic, the logistic reality of having sex on sand is a lot less appealing and potentially dangerous.

A Long and Funny Night with Gill

Okay:

So, Gill and I decided that we should go paint the town on Friday night. I didn't have much money on me, but I was dead-set on having a good time. It had been a long week. We went to Adam's Morgan, a strip of eccelectic bars in Northwest DC. Funny things happened.

9:30. Gill wants to stop at this variety shop to pick up a pack of clove cigarettes. I tell him I have to piss and take a walk towards the alley. The alley is no good though, there are too many people. There is a hot dog stand called M'Dawg next to the variety shop. For some reason the door is open and the lights are on, but the are no patrons and no one standing behind the counter. I dash in, use the facilities and try to make a quick exit. A short Arab man in an apron comes barrelling out of the kitchen, waving his towel and screaming at me in Pharsi. For some reason this does not alarm me, so I don't respond. I simply leave and go look for Gill.

9:40. I find Gill and ask if he got the cloves. He gives me a despondent, "No." He seems troubled.

"There's a man," he continues, "in there buying a whole bunch of porn. They've been bagging it up for the past ten minutes. I got tired of waiting in there."

For some reason I assume he's exaggerating. "Stop exaggerating," I tell him.

"You'll see," he says.

9:45. A six-foot, 300-pound, sweaty pink man in a cheap grey suit emerges from the variety shop carrying a half-dozen trash bags of porn. He steps to the curb and hails a cab. Gill and I are the only people out there who know what's going on.

"I think he's got some dildos and fake pussies in there too," says Gill.

"Why do you think he needs all that porn?" I ask.

"Whatever you do, don't laugh," says Gill.

"Why is he buying off the rack?" I ask. "Wholesale would be cheaper."

"Those DVDs are, like, $50 a pop," says Gill. "Those pussies probably aren't cheap either."

"What in the world is he gonna do with all that porn?"

9:46. A cab pulls up to the curb. The sweaty pink man pulls a handkerchief from pocket and wipes his forhead. He opens up the backseat door like he were opening it for a woman.

"He's opening the door for the porn," I say.

He places each bag in the backseat, one at a time, gentle-like, as if they were filled with explosive materials. It takes him a while. Then he climbs in behind the bags, head first so that the last things we see before the door closes is his wide ass.

9:50. I see Steve, the Sudanese refugee, from I Heart Huckabees. He looks just like he looks in the movie. Seven-feet-tall, skinny, bald head, blue-black, big white smile.

"Hey," I say. "You're that dude from I Heart Huckabees. I love that movie."

"Yes," he says, in a ridiculously thick African accent. "It is me."

10:00. We get a couple drinks and have a seat on the patio of Grand Central. We have a bird's eye view of everything.

"This is the best," says Gill. He'll repeat this several times before the night is over.

10:00-12:00. Drinking. Cat-calling. Noticing that white women, on the whole, are becoming more shapely in that way only black men can appreciate.

"They're back in style," Gill tells me. "Everything from the eighties is back in style. Especially white women."

12:05. I get a call from a woman I used to date. I wrote about her once in a blog entitled "The Greatest BJ of All Time."

"Meet us in Adam's Morgan," I say.

12:40. She arrives. She looks like she's gained a few since I saw her last.

1:00. I realize that I am officially drunk and very tired all of a sudden. As soon as I realize this, club security says it is time to remove the patio furniture. We're welcome to stay but we can no longer sit. I have trouble standing and want desparately to find a new place to sit. I suggest we go next door to The Diner for something to eat, which, luckily, sounds like a good idea to everyone.

1:30. We are eating and I have coffee. Things have improved dramatically. I am rubbing on her thighs. They are big and soft. I am looking forward to later on.

2:00. After I return from the rest room, I realize that she and Gill are having an in-depth coversation about anal sex. According to her it makes your butt bigger. I am getting really excited about later on.

"She always has a place to sit with us as far as I'm concerned," announces Gill.

2:30. I'm dropping Gill off.

2:35. "Do you want me to take you home?" I ask her.

"Yes," she says.

*sound of balloon deflating*

As I'm driving her home in relative silence she says, "You know, I called you a few weeks ago."

"I noticed that," I say.

"I wanted to take a trip down memory lane," she says.

"Sounds like fun," I say.

"But I just found out I'm pregnant," she says. "Otherwise, I'd go home with you."

I immediately start doing math in my head and quickly, thankfully, realize that there is no possible way I'm the culprit. We haven't slept together in over a year. We talk about this new development for the remainder of the ride home. She seems indifferent. I find this depressing.

3:00. I curl up in my bed and fall fast asleep. "This will make a good blog," I say to myself.

No Happy Ending Here

Okay:

I went on a date yesterday. Nice girl. We've been on several dates before. I once took her to a hookah bar in Adam's Morgan. Each time we've gone out though, it's been at night.

When I was in junior high school, my favorite rap group was Black Sheep. They had a hot little ditty, "Strobelight Honey." It was all about this dude trying to get with this girl at a club. But when she's steps into the light, the spell is broken. He spends the rest of the night running from her. The chorus went: "I gotta go, I gotta go, I gotta go."

So, it was a beautiful day. The sun was shining and there was a cool, autumn breeze blowing. Perfect. I picked her up from her apartment. I waited for her in the courtyard of her building, surrounded by a beautifully manicured lawn, flanked by towering elms. Birds were chirping. She came out of the lobby's glass door, smiling. She have me a hug and a light kiss on the cheek, and I almost immediately noticed, well...stubble.

Then I took a big gander at her in the light of the September sun. This woman and I have the same facial hair growth pattern!

I am not a hairy man. It's a condition. My father had a full beard by the time he was my age. The men on my mother's side all have hairy faces. I, on the other hand, have a sparse spattering of nappy tufts. I've got about thirty hairs on each cheek, scattered about like crabgrass. I've got a hundred or so on my chin and, thankfully, a decent mustache. I've also got a renegade colony in the crease of my neck. But now that I'm on the darkside of my twenties, I'm figuring I'll never get that goatee I always wanted.

I stared at her shadows and razor bumps all afternoon. I was more fascinated than anything else. I thought she might make a great candidate for that laser hair removal surgery. Then my thoughts went, as they often do, to "darker" places. If she's got all this hair on her face, where else might the little prickly bastards be bedding? Her chest? Her back? Places further south?

We went to a nice waterfront seafood restaurant in Georgetown. She had a salad, and I had stuffed shrimp. It was obscenely expensive, but you could not have imagined a better scene. We sat on the patio, a few yards away from the water. Every few minutes we'd be interrupted by someone cranking up their jet boat. The patrons were as diverse as a UN summit. It felt like we were in another country. But my eyes kept traveling back to that bumpy chin of hers; a kind of fleshy sandpaper it was.

We got juiced and went back to her apartment after sundown. By then, I couldn't see the stubble. Out of sight, out of mind. We drank wine, watched a movie (Power--starring Richard Gere, Gene Hackman and Denzel Washington, directed by Sidney Lumet--a must-see). We were in negotiations but stopped short of a merger.

This chick was crazy. She waffled back and forth more than a Democratic presidential candidate. "Give it to me!...No, we can't...Touch me...Get off me...I want you...This can't happen!" And then finally, "You have to leave."

I went home disappointed, thinking, "That was a long ass expensive date for her hairy ass to not give me no pussy."

Apology: I must apologize to my subscribers for the inconsistent posting. The beginning of the school year is always rough. I will be posting more regularly soon.

Tip of the Day: Do not fry chicken naked. Bad things will happen.

Shameless Plug: Check out this video footage of me at DC9 a year or so ago.

http://myspacetv.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=3046199

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I gotta go, I gotta go, I gotta go

Bring Your Own Chicken

Okay:

So, I work at a level 5 special education school. The student body is one hundred percent black and brown. The staff is a bit more diverse, but not much. One of my white co-workers--a coffee-guzzling, marathon-running, cute little blond from Ohio--invited the entire staff to her birthday party on Friday.

The water cooler was all a-buzz: who's going to the white girl's party?

My homeboy Gill and I, adventurous progressive black men that we are, were among the first to RSVP. For the most part, we were looking for free beer and a good laugh. We got heavy doses of both.

Having worked in restaurants for five years, I had been to many a white party and felt confident that I knew what to expect. Gill, on the other hand, had had limited contact with white people up until this point and was curious to see how the other side lived. I appointed myself his unofficial tour guide and translator of all things white.

"They don't party like us," I warned. "You'll see."

The party was at her house in Arlington, minutes away from the Pentagon. She shares the house with two roommates. None of them are over thirty, but the place is clean and maturely furnished as if a real family lives there. Upon entering her living room I remember thinking to myself, "Wow, my apartment is a real shithole."

Of course there were dogs. One boxer and one Labrador. They both had beds in front of the television. "This," I whispered to Gill, "is definitely a white thing. We make our dogs sleep outside or in the basement."

Then we were led outside to the backyard, a spacious open field complete with tiki torches, a hammock, a swing and a stone fireplace. There was a table with an assortment of chips and dip, but no hot food. I remember being slightly annoyed by this. "What? No chicken?!" I thought, but was glad I hadn't said it out loud.

I wanted to though. For "some reason" I was famished.

There was a drinking game going on at another table. It combined beer shooters with some sort of physical challenge involving plastic cups. Even after our host explained the rules twice, the second time very slowly, for "some reason" I still did not understand and declined to participate. It just seemed like a very complicated way to get drunk. "Where is the keg?" I asked.

Gill and I found the keg and a private corner of the party from which to sit and observe. It was noted that we were the only black people there and that the white people there all looked healthy and happy. No one was overweight or belligerent. Everyone was getting along famously. If someone had been grossly obese, missing a limb or shouting obscenities, I think we would have felt a lot more at ease. But this group was so goddamned homogeneous and friendly. It was like an Abercrombie & Fitch photo shoot. Although there was a lot of shouting going on at the drinking game table, which we enjoyed.

Eventually some people people from work showed, but they were white too so they just kind of blended in.

"Hello, have we met?" I asked.

"We've been working together for two years."

"Oh," I said. "You look different without your glasses."

"I don't wear glasses."

"Yeah, well I'm kinda fucked up and there are just so many of you here."

There were some other interesting moments. At some point they played "Pour Some Sugar On Me" which I guess is to be expected. The police came responding to a report of loud music. There was a twenty minute conversation about eighties hair bands in which I learned that the drummer from Def Leopard lost his arm in a tour bus accident but continued to play with the band until they broke up. Other things happened, but, you know, the beer was free.

We made it back to Washington safely and the next morning the host sent me a text message thanking me. It said simply, "Thanks for coming" but I read in the subtext "Thanks for being the only black people at the job brave enough to come to my party."

I texted her back: "If u wnt mre blk ppl 2 cme nxt tme hav chkn."

Thanks for reading.

Tip of the day: Do not wear condoms made in China. Apparently, they have been using lead-based spermicidal lubricant.

Shameless Plug:

Check out the Dirty Water classic

"Eat My Breakfast Alone"

(note: All of my "love" songs, except for one, were inspired by the same woman.

This is the first song she inspired me to write.)

Download it for FREE!

5000.

The Modern Dating Scene's Dirty Little Secret

Okay:

So, those of us who are single are fairly familiar with this phenomenon. Those of us who are not may shake our heads in collective dismay at this startling reality.

Herpes is really, really, really common.

Why am I writing about this? I was with a friend of mine yesterday. This friend of mine is an adult film enthusiast. According to him, one of his favorite starlets announced recently that not only does she have a scorching case of herpes, but that ninety-some-odd percent of the adult film industry is infected.

He was expecting my jaw to drop. He was expecting me to be in shock. Instead I shrugged my shoulders and offered an apathetic, "hmpf."

In disbelief he barked, "Did you hear what I said?"

"Yeah," I said. "And?"

"Are you serious?"

"Are you serious? These people have unprotected sex for a living. It stands to reason that they probably also have a lot of unprotected sex off-camera. Do you have any idea how common herpes is?"

In spite of all of those Valtrex commercials with happy people on swings in grassy meadows, giving testimonials with their uninfected lovers, he still was unaware of the epidemic that is a reality for single people. See, he has been dating the same woman for 15 years. The subject, luckily, has never come up. I have been single for most of my adult life and have come to accept the fact that lots of innocent, clean-looking people have The Bumps. I have been lucky enough to remain bump-free, but some of my friends have not been so lucky.

I learned this valuable lesson in college. I once dated a woman for a few weeks who, to her credit, told me about her condition before we slept together. Subsequently, we never slept together, but she is to commended for her forthrightness. Which brings up another interesting point.

The people I know who are infected, for the most part, continue to have casual (and sometimes unprotected) sex without letting their partners in on their little secret. Unless you're prepared to hang up your spurs on account of what amounts to a minor, rarely seen, and eventually forgettable inconvenience, what are you supposed to do? Tell every casual acquaintance about your condition? You might as well put an ad in the paper.

The flipside of that is slightly curiouser. The one friend I have who has all but quit the casual scene is always faced with the anxiety of when to tell that special someone, and how that special someone will react after being told. Surprisingly, never has anyone (and I do mean anyone) said, "It was nice getting to know you, but I don't think I can handle that."

This, I imagine, is how it spreads. But, really, what are these people to do? Join a convent or a herpes anonymous group and mate with other bumpers and make super bumps that are resilient to to the various pills, salves and ointments on the market? That might make my friend feel safe, but the reality of being single and "hooking up" in today's post-sexual revolution society is a bit darker than that.

So, for the record, I do not have The Bumps. Not that anything is wrong with that. It would be a disservice to those friends of mine to make it seem dirty when that simply isn't the case. But I guess it's like defending gay rights initiatives. The curious and simple-minded will always pose the question. These are the same people who read InTouch Weekly and watch reality television.
My friend, on the other hand, is distraught and is contemplating cleaning out his hard drive. I tried to explain to him that herpes is not that contagious, but, like I said, he's distraught.

Thanks for reading.

Correction: In my last blog, I mistakenly and ignorantly listed Jalal Talabani as the president of Iraq when I was in fact referring to Nouri al Maliki, the current prime minister. I was trying to be high-brow and made a boo-boo. I am humbled.

Tip of the day: Don't pick your nose while you're driving. You never know who might pull up next to you.

Shameless Plug:

Check out my Hurricane Katrina Second Anniversary Commemorative Single

"When The Well Runs Dry"

by Cool Cee Brown

(feat. Heron Gibran, prod. by Du)

Download it for FREE!

Adios.

Perspective is the Cure for Self Pity

Okay:

Tomorrow will be the last day of a very, very, very long first week of school. This weekend my mother is coming back from a two-week trip to Africa and hopefully she'll be willing to take my daughter for a few days after she recovers from jet lag. Monday is a holiday. I need a break desperately. I've been ripping and running all summer. No vacation.

Who else has had a rough few months?

Paris Hilton, Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan: I always assumed that the best thing to be in America is a young, thin, wealthy, good-looking white woman. Following the trials and tribulations of each of these women, however, has shown me that things aren't always what they seem. While many of us may look at them and see spoiled little rich girls with too much time on their hands, I see tortured souls who yearn for some sense of normalcy. How would you feel if every time you went to the bathroom to vomit your lunch, you had to check the stall next to you for paparazzi? I know when I vomit my lunch (or decide not to wear underwear), I take pleasure in knowing that it is a private moment between me and the toilet bowl.

Michael Vick: Now if professional football players have to be subject to the same senseless rules and regulations as the rest of us, I'm not sure if I still want to play for the NFL. It's been a lifelong dream of mine, but now I'm having second thoughts. I mean, what's the point of being a professional athlete if you're not above the law? I know, I know. What about the millions of dollars in salaries, signing bonuses and endorsement deals? But those are just the basics. What about the perks? I get perks at my job. Free coffee and bottled water. Discount parking. Sometimes there are donuts. Football players deserve something comparable: groupies, diplomatic immunity, etc, etc.

Alberto Gonzales: I've made it a general rule of mine to never feel sorry for Republicans, regardless of the circumstances. It just doesn't make sense somehow.

John McCain: I've made a special exception for this guy, and him only. I like him and he's a P.O.W., so he gets a pass. His presidential campaign has been a horrible train wreck though. It's like watching a cat cough up a fur ball. It looks so painful, but you can't turn away. You have to see how it ends. You just have to see what comes out of this. I think, sad as it is, that he's just too ugly to be president. He looks like a burn victim with a really good plastic surgeon. Nobody wants to have to see that mug on the news everyday for the next four years.

China: What? China's been manufacturing sub-standard goods with cheap (and sometimes toxic) materials to cut back on production costs? GET OUT! Are you serious? Well, if we can't trust the Chinese then who can we trust? I mean the sweatshops, slavery, prostitution, child labor and general governmental tyranny is one thing, but lead paint in toys? Those commie sons-of-bitches! I guess we'll have to get all our produce from Iraq now.

Jalal Talabani: The quintessential whipping boy. He should come to the Capitol, bend over and pull his pants down on the House Floor and let the Democrats take turns kicking him in the ass and calling him names. Of course, they would foot the medical bill because the benevolent Dems believe getting sick or hurt (or falling into crack cocaine addiction and having children out of wedlock) should be free.

Larry Craig: Am I the only who is just not shocked by this sort of thing anymore? At this point, I think it's fairly safe to assume that all conservative Republicans are closet (or airport bathroom stall) homosexuals.

Owen Wilson: Is he cool enough to commit suicide? Don't you kind of have to be in vogue like Kurt Cobain or Chris Benoit?

Juanita Bynum: Why didn't Jesus tell her to duck?

All things considered, I guess I shouldn't feel sorry for myself what with all this pain in the world. I could be a lot worse off.

Thanks for reading.

Tip of the day: Men, never handle jalapenos then use the bathroom without washing your hands first. Bad things will happen. Sayonara!

Listen to "Dapperapperiginator"

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Broke

Okay:

I just checked my account balance this morning and...let's just say I woke up in a better mood than this. Funny part is, I made more money this year than I ever have in my life. Significantly more. I'm in a whole 'nother tax bracket. Just goes to show you: the more you make, the more you spend.

I now understand how people like MC Hammer and Mike Tyson can end up broke at the end of the day. Hell, I hear Michael Jackson is house shopping in Mitchelleville and hanging out with Marion Barry. That's a long way from Neverland and Emmanuel Lewis.

I've got a couple of vices that have driven me into the kind of debt I couldn't have imagined three years ago.

1. Drinking: I wouldn't call myself an alcoholic. True, I may have anywhere between five and ten alcoholic drinks in a week, but I usually take them all in one sitting. My solution is to buy all my liquor in bulk from now on and drink at home. A gallon of Johnny Walker can't be anymore than seventy bucks. I could drop that much in one happy hour if I have sushi. Sure, drinking alone is kind of pathetic, but this would also eliminate the issue of finding a ride home.

2. Eating Out: Since I quit smoking cigarettes, I now eat when I'm bored. As a result, I have gained thirty pounds in three years. I'm huge. Things jiggle. If I'm not engaged in some sort of activity I will invariably seek out food. I've managed to cut back on the General Tso's Chicken and the greasy subs since I noticed the Chinese man at the Hunan Delight around the corner finishing my sentences for me when I called in orders.

Chinese man: "Hey, buddy."

Me: "Is this Hunan Delight?"

Chinese man: "General Tso's Chicken, Crab Rangoons?"

Me: "Yeah...to 123--"

Chinese man: "1234 Main Street. See you soon, buddy."

Me: "O--kay."

Chinese man: "I just come knock on your patio door."

3. Shopping: I've really gotten into fashion during the past few years. I used to be into it when I was younger, then I stopped caring, and now I'm into it all over again. I shop when I am bored and/or depressed. I'm no label whore though. With $200 I can buy a pair of shoes, three pairs of pants and two shirts. And it will all be fly. It's really quite impressive. I have a talent for it. Ask someone who knows me. Maybe a solution could be for me to budget shop for other people. Instead of spending $300 on those jeans, call me. I'll take $50 for my services and make you look like you're on your way to the VMAs. I call it Econo-Chic.

At the end of the day though, my vices are putting me in the poor house. It's time to make a change. If I died tomorrow, the burden would be on my mother to settle my affairs. It would clean her out! It's better to leave something behind, no?

I've got a plan though.

1. I'm getting rid of my debit card. That thing is of the devil and it must be destroyed. You shouldn't have split-second access to all of your money 24 hours a day like that. It's a goddamn sham. Those bastards at Suntrust charge you thirty dollars every day you're in overdraft, yet continue to clear purchases and checks. I haven't bounced a check since 1999!!!

2. I'm going to close all of my auto-pay accounts. This service, while it is convenient, is for people who have a solid grip on their finances. I clearly ain't one of those people. I've got six or seven of those things dipping into my account every month. I can't keep track of it all. They don't even send me an email to warn me or anything. They just come and take what they want without saying thank you. A kiss or a reach-around would be nice every once in a while.

3. I'm cancelling all of my credit cards except for one. I'll keep one open for emergencies, but the rest of them have to go. The interest alone is killing me. One of them is like 26% or something crazy like that. That's mafia shit. Capital One is gangstas.

4. I'm giving myself a weekly cash allowance. I'm going to commit myself to spending X amount of dollars per week on miscellaneous expenses. No more Red Bull, no more Vitamin Water, no more $10 lunches, no more $50 happy hours, no more Starbucks in the morning, etc, etc, etc. Life is not a black romantic comedy starring Sanaa Lathan and/or Taye Diggs where everyone is inexplicably wealthy and never talks about work.

It's a four-parter. If executed properly and consistently it should be very effective. As a probable #5, I am considering consolidating my debt. This lady named Susan, who I apparently know because she always calls me by my first name, has been leaving messages on my voice mail for years. I'm gonna call her back and see what this is all about. If it sounds good, I may go for it.

Thanks for reading. Tip of the day: Don't do back door/front door without a thorough cleaning first. Bad things will happen. Chao!

Listen to "Dapperapperiginator"

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Brand New Day

Okay:

Tomorrow school starts up again. For teachers, tonight will be like New Year's Eve, except more depressing. Not that we don't love our jobs, but you know, it's "challenging."

In light of this, I've created a Priorities List. This is different from a New Year's resolution. This is a well thought out action plan. In no particular order:

1. Money/Credit: I'm dead broke and I've got really bad credit. This morning I was at the Gap in the Bowie Towne Center. The cashier offered me 15% off my purchase to apply for a Gap card. I had to tell him, my head bowed in shame, "No thanks. I've got really bad credit." See, these people keep sending me these letters telling me I'm pre-approved for up to $10,000 of credit. Then I apply and get rejected. Which makes me ask, what exactly do they mean by pre-approved? This is not unlike the seventh grade when Harold Lewis told me Tamara Austin had a crush on me and I should ask her for a kiss, only to find out that it was all a cruel joke and the two of them were in cahoots, taking pleasure and finding humor in my social ineptitude.

2. Weight/Health: I've blogged about this before. Two years ago I went to the doctor for a checkup. He told me I was overweight and that my cholesterol was dangerously high. He threatened to put me on medication. A few months ago, I bought some boxer briefs to see if I could sexy things up a bit. I looked at myself in the mirror and was shocked to see how much I didn't look like the guy on the box. I tried wearing them for a while, but I shot out the elastic. Now they just look like really nice boxers.

3. Education/Credentials: I've been fighting the whole graduate school thing for years, but last fall I finally gave in and enrolled at Trinity University. This time next year I should be about six credits away from a master's degree. If I've still got some sand left in me, I'll go on and get a doctorate. See, I can feel myself getting dumber by the moment, and before my brain turns to cauliflower, I'm gonna need a sheet of paper that says once upon a time I knew something about something.

4. Spirituality: I'm an adamant agnostic. But it hasn't been working too well for me. All the Jesus freaks seem to be having most of the luck. So I figure I'll find myself a church or something and kind of fake it til I make it. I'm starting off slow. This summer I watched Joel Osteen practically every weekend and I went to church like four times. Worst case scenario, maybe I'll get some good fortune rub off on me. Blessings by association.

5. Music Career: My music career has been dead in the water for the past 3 years or so. I've put out a handful of albums, but at the end of the day, it's a money pit, really. This year, I'm going to start thinking smart and figuring out ways to invest less money and make more profits. Look out for my guest verse on the "Crank Dat Souljah Boy" remix!

6. Love Life: I've been doing some serious self-evaluation to figure out why I have such bad luck with the ladies. I figured out that I have been projecting qualities that have been attracting the wrong kind of women. For example, apparently pulling out your penis at happy hour will not only attract drunk whores, but it will also turn off intelligent, progressive women. It has a bizarre two-pronged effect, see. So, this year I'm going to try to keep my Mr. Hyde at bay and drink the majority of my scotch in private.

7. Fatherhood: I do okay, but I could do a lot better. This year I'm going to concentrate on supplementing her education with mentally stimulating activities in the evening and on weekends. We will no longer be listening to UGK in the morning or watching Goodfellas before bedtime.

So, I hope you all are engaging in similar self-reflection, cutting back on the Trans fat and wearing rubbers and what have you. Thanks for reading.

Listen to my latest single "Dapperapperiginator"

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NC 17: Adult's Only!

Okay:

So, I haven't written about this subject in a long time. I've been trying to broaden my horizons, so to speak, but we're all grown here, right?

I've been single for almost a year now, but for the past few months I've been spending my evenings with the same woman. She's nice enough, significantly older. Our arrangement is unencumbered by expectations or labels. Very cosmopolitan. She visits me once or twice a week, sometimes she brings Hennessy, and we have "fun" together.

A month or so ago, mid-session, she asked me to do something that I normally don't do. Let's call it going the wrong way down a one way street. I'm young, but I'm no spring chicken. I've done it before. But to me, and chime in here if you have an opinion, it seemed like a lot of preparation with very little pay-off. I mean, it's more than a notion. If you're going to do it, there are precautions and procedures. I personally enjoy a less contrived, more organic, natural experience. Who needs all the bells and whistles?

So she asked me, mid-session, and I ignored her request. Later she texted me inquiring as to why I was non-compliant. I responded that I was making significant progress where I was stationed and that it seemed strategically unwise to switch gears, so I decided to stay the course.

I thought the issue was dead.

The other night, however, I had just finished a week of rigorous physical training in Therapeutic Aggression Control Techniques. I was bruised all over. She came to visit, but I was too pooped to be much entertainment. I did, however, want to relieve some of the week's stress. We began our session unceremoniously, with little fanfare or prep work. I immediately noticed that things were a bit tense and coarse. I assigned it to the skipping of the anticipatory set.

For a while I considered starting over with a new course of action, but, again, I was pooped. So I pressed forward. I figured eventually things would work themselves out. And eventually they did. The coarseness was gone, but the tension never left. I was puzzled. Then, towards the end of the session she informed me in some decidedly unladylike language that I had entered through the exit door.

Well.

I was shocked to say the least. I had a few things running through my mind, but the number one thing was whether or not I would be able to withdraw my troop without making a mess of things. I had heard horror stories, and I knew I was entirely too tired and sober to manage a massive clean up.

Fortunately, things were surprisingly normal. Off-putingly normal.

I'm not saying that I've been converted into a fan. In fact, I still fell pretty much the same way I felt a few months ago. But I've lost some of my silly fears after working with an experienced partner. Let's say I've modified my position (no pun intended).

Here's a metaphor: You've got a two car garage. On one side you have a 745 BMW. On the other side, you have a hatchback Honda. Sure it's nice to drive the Honda once and a while to let it know that it is not a non-entity. But, it may leak oil. The engine may lock up on you. All things considered, why would you want to drive the Honda when there's a beautiful, spacious and clean luxury automobile parked right next to it? Get me?

So that's how I feel about butt sex.

Certified and Dangerous

Okay:

I am now a certified trainer in all components of Dr. Steve Parese's Therapeutic Aggression Control Techniques (or TACT-2). I've got my brand new pretty license sitting right here with my name written in calligraphy on it. That means if your kid was my student and came at me with a pair of scissors, I could, ideally, take him down with causing injury to him or myself and keep him in a therapeutic hold for up to twenty minutes.

The operative word here is "ideally". (No discredit to Parese, who is well aware of the program's limitations). For example, I'm a 5'6" 180lb. high school teacher. That means most of my male students are significantly bigger than me. The operative word in that sentence was "significantly". Basically, despite my extensive, intensive training in these techniques, if a 6 foot, 250 lb 12th grader comes at me with a pair of scissors, I should probably initiate a special technique called Running. I am also certified in Running at High Speeds from Immediate Danger, but I seem to have misplaced my license.

Seriously though. I learned to escape from front and rear chokeholds and side and rear headlocks. I learned bear hug and double arm bar restraints. Had I learned these techniques before breaking up with my ex-girlfriend, I probably wouldn't have a dictionary propping up one end of my favorite wicker chair.

When a drunk 5'2" 160 lb. woman comes charging at you, red-faced with arms flailing violently, I, like most men, would initiate a firm double shoulder grab and shove. This technique is not endorsed by Dr. Parese and his Therapeutic Aggression Control Techniques program. However, it is endorsed by Ike Turner, Billy Dee Williams and the good people at Hennessy (with the understanding, of course, that they can and will not be held responsible for any broken furniture).

At any rate, I spent a whole week with Parese and thirty other trainees in a hotel in Linthicum, a small airport town right outside of Baltimore. The group was fairly evenly divided between black men and white women. Black women and white men were the clear minorities. The stereotypes played out as follows.

The black men, myself excluded, were, for the most part, large. I would put the average height at 5'10". They could've started a basketball team, and if we had more time, I imagine someone would have suggested it.

The white women were of average height and surprisingly athletic. Eventually it was discovered that they had all played field hockey or soccer in high school and all of their names began with the letter J.

The white men were all short and stocky. By short I mean shorter than me. By stocky I mean none of them were under 200 lbs. None of them seemed to like wearing shoes and it was eventually discovered that they were all wrestlers.

The black women were the fewest in number and, by far, the most diverse minority group. They were fat, tall, short, skinny, imposing and timid. It was eventually discovered that they were all program directors and, in all likelihood, would never have to implement the techniques in real life situations. Despite their knowledge of the physical demands of the training, they all came everyday with their makeup and hair done.

The racial makeup of the group was almost a perfect inverse of what I've seen in schools. I'm still not sure what that means, but I think it's significant somehow.

Anyway, I'll be sure to let you all know when and if I have to do a restraint on a student and how it plays out. Thanks for reading.

A Day of Reckoning

Okay:

Sometimes things come together like an impressionistic painting. You've got to stand back and squint to see it all. Scotch may help with the squinting.

Eight months ago, almost to the day, I broke up with my girlfriend of five years. It was an ugly, traumatic experience from which I was able to draw inspiration for three songs on my most recent album, Magnificent Bastard (shameless plug!). The breakup itself lasted eight hours and involved a fifth of Hennessy, a pack of Newports, a lot of crying, and a broken wicker chair. When life gives you shit, make music.

One of the more likable ditties, "Because", is a diatribe against the love-starved, and subsequently impossible, women I seem to attract for some unknown reason (read: sarcasm). The dozen or so people who visit my MySpace page every week seem to like the song okay, so Gill (my oldest friend and business partner) and I decided to shoot a music video for it to keep up with the e-Joneses and the new ubiquitous YouTube craze.

We went to shoot at a night club on U Street called Bar Nun that hosts a weekly Monday night open mic. Gill brought his gorgeous, extremely nice, cool and intelligent girlfriend of 11 years with him to operate a second camera.

Sidebar: Before I could get my first drink order in, a bald woman in full African garb did libations on the stage with a bottle of Dasani. I usually like to have a good buzz going when I see stuff like that. Helps me keep a straight face. These poetry reading types take this kind of thing seriously.

After the host, Jabari (another old friend), informed us that we could not shoot because it would infringe upon intellectual property issues with the live band, we went upstairs to see if we could steal a few shots at the One Luv discussion on The Art of Kissing.

I ended up sitting next to this little vibrant cutie, and with a glass of scotch in one hand, I turned into Blair Underwood on Ecstasy. You all don't know me that well but I'm quite the charmer when I'm dead sober to tipsy. Any point past tipsy is a crap shoot. Things could get ugly. Gill saw me siding up to honey and did some guerrilla shooting from across the room (sans release).

I was laying it down flat if I may say so. Come to find out, shorty is a writer and wants to be a teacher. I thought I had me a good one and, totally engulfed in conversation, kind of forgot about the whole video thing. Two scotches later I'm splitting my attention between her and the group discussion on kissing. At one point I grabbed the microphone and said, "Kissing gives me a chubby!" Sometime later I announced, "Making out is for punks, you sucka-for-love ass trick!"

Then, for some reason, when I finally redirected my attention back to honey, she told me she had a boyfriend. Why would she waste my time like that? (read: extended sarcasm). There were plenty of women in there I could have been working on all night. The bald woman in the full-length orange dashiki was giving me the eye.

We left some time later. While walking back to the car I started wondering why Gill, who is perhaps more reserved than I am but philosophically no different, has been able to make it work and I ended up single, playing the dating game in a city with the AIDS rate of a Brazilian shanty. The pitifulness of it all was evidenced by my fifty dollar bar tab and the lack of new contacts in my cell phone.

Do Gill and his girl have problems? Yes. Do they work them out and keep moving? Yes.

Did this all make me miss my ex? Yes. Am I going to call her? Hell no. Why? Because I don't have that kind of patience or energy. I'm just not up for it.

But standing back, and squinting, mostly because I was drunk, it seemed like somebody somewhere was trying to tell me something yesterday. I don't know what that thing is yet, but I'm listening intently for something that will help me make sense of all this.