Okay:
So, I had me a hot date a little while ago. Fly sister. Educated, intelligent, hard-working...and bi-sexual.
It figures, right? Somebody with all the goods wouldn't want to save it all for one gender. It's the trend here in DC though. I would estimate that roughly 80% of the women I have dated here in Washington have had at least one lesbian experience. The ones who haven't are curious. It's rare that I meet a woman who is just adamantly opposed to being with another woman.
This woman however was proudly, not casually, bisexual.
"I just don't see why men always have to put on this macho front for each other," she said. "They would be so much happier if they just let it go."
"Like, let it go fag?" I asked.
"No, not like let it go fag."
As you all know, I'm no homophobe. I think the lesbos and the punks should be able to get married and all that. But I felt distinctly ignorant talking to this woman. She was articulate, passionate and sincere. All I could come back with was, "I just don't go for no fag shit."
We stayed on the topic for quite some time until she posed one hell of a question. I thought I might share it with you.
If your woman told you she cheated on you with another woman, would it effect you the same as if she told you she cheated on you with another man?
Good one, I know.
My response was yes. Most definitely, I would be pissed either way. I'm sure I'm in a minority here. I can hear all the fellas reading this and shaking their collective heads in disbelief. But I've said it before and I'll say it again: there is nothing sexy about lesbian sex. To me it would be a betrayal of trust. Period.
She was also shocked at my answer. So I flipped it on her. How would you feel if you're man told you he cheated on you with another man?
Another good one, I know.
"That's different," she said. "In order for a man to have gay sex, he has to sacrifice his masculinity. A woman can be feminine and be with another woman."
"Bullshit," I said. "There's a lot of motherfuckers in prison who like to get it in with the fresh fish. I dare you to tell one of them that they're not masculine."
It seems to me that there is a little bit of sexism in the gay community. The lesbians feel like they can traverse back and forth between homosexuality and mainstream society. The fags are stuck in their little well-decorated underworld. It's weird, huh? They're real high and mighty in their uber-liberalism, but they've got their very own de facto hierarchy.
But I digress. The question of the day is: If your significant other told you they cheated on you with someone of the same gender, would it effect you the same as if they told you they cheated on you with someone of the opposite gender?
Talk amongst yourselves.
Post a comment.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com
Innocent Question: Am I the only one who thinks it's unfair that the gays kind of hijacked the rainbow as their fag flag? I like rainbows. They could use something less arbitrary, like a pink bust of Madonna.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Lost Ones
Okay:
We're all adults here, right?
One night something strange happened to me. Something that, to this day, I have never been able to figure out. I was hoping maybe one of you could help me solve the mystery.
I went to her apartment with a couple bottles of liquor and some DVDs. We ate the dinner she made and sat on her chaise lounge together watching a movie. It would be difficult to imagine a more perfect scene. The food was delicious, the movie was hilarious and we had plenty of liquor and cigarettes. I was in negro heaven. The only question racing through my mind was whether or not things were going to get intimate.
I had anticipated this possibility and came prepared. When I went to the 7 Eleven to get juice for mixing I also picked up a pack of condoms.
"Can I get a pack of Trojans, too?" I said to the cashier, an older black man with salt and pepper hair.
"I see we gettin' us some whukintooz," he said, smiling.
"I'm sorry?" I said.
"You know. Whukintooz," he repeated. Then he started singing. "Whukintooz, whukintooz, y'know ya gotta have dem whukintooz."
"Work with Jews?" I asked.
"No," he said. "Whuk-in-tools. You goin' ta whuk ain'cha? So you had to git de proper tools."
"Oh, working tools," I said. "I get it now."
I had no reason to expect the necessity of 'working tools', but when things finally did start getting hot and heavy I was glad I had done so.
"Do you have a condom?" she whispered, half-dressed and panting.
"Why, yes I do," I replied.
Things were going very well for a while, but then it got a little cumbersome and awkward. I don't know if you've ever had sex on a chaise lounge, but if you're exerting any kind of reasonable force you're going to fall off eventually. We knocked all kinds of stuff over, tore some curtains down. I was pretty intense.
But in the midst of it all, I somehow lost track of the condom.
I know, right? I couldn't find it anywhere. "Wait a minute," I said, half-panicked, "I think I lost something."
"What did you lose?" she asked innocently.
"I lost my goddamn working tools."
We looked around on the floor for ten minutes but it was nowhere to be seen. So, seeing as how it was nowhere to be seen, I suggested that she look where it could not be seen.
Unfortunately, it wasn't there either.
"I don't see it," she said from behind the bathroom door. "Oh well. What goes up must come down."
So, the question, of course, is where the hell did it go? A friend of mine told me the same thing happened to her once. She discovered it 'on her person' a week later. But ours, to the best of my knowledge, never turned up.
It's like I lost a sock in the laundry.
Anyways, if it's ever happened to you, and you're not shy, let me know so I won't feel like a complete moron.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT:
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com
Confession: Before I lost my virginity, I used to buy condoms and try them on in the bathroom. Am I the only one?
We're all adults here, right?
One night something strange happened to me. Something that, to this day, I have never been able to figure out. I was hoping maybe one of you could help me solve the mystery.
I went to her apartment with a couple bottles of liquor and some DVDs. We ate the dinner she made and sat on her chaise lounge together watching a movie. It would be difficult to imagine a more perfect scene. The food was delicious, the movie was hilarious and we had plenty of liquor and cigarettes. I was in negro heaven. The only question racing through my mind was whether or not things were going to get intimate.
I had anticipated this possibility and came prepared. When I went to the 7 Eleven to get juice for mixing I also picked up a pack of condoms.
"Can I get a pack of Trojans, too?" I said to the cashier, an older black man with salt and pepper hair.
"I see we gettin' us some whukintooz," he said, smiling.
"I'm sorry?" I said.
"You know. Whukintooz," he repeated. Then he started singing. "Whukintooz, whukintooz, y'know ya gotta have dem whukintooz."
"Work with Jews?" I asked.
"No," he said. "Whuk-in-tools. You goin' ta whuk ain'cha? So you had to git de proper tools."
"Oh, working tools," I said. "I get it now."
I had no reason to expect the necessity of 'working tools', but when things finally did start getting hot and heavy I was glad I had done so.
"Do you have a condom?" she whispered, half-dressed and panting.
"Why, yes I do," I replied.
Things were going very well for a while, but then it got a little cumbersome and awkward. I don't know if you've ever had sex on a chaise lounge, but if you're exerting any kind of reasonable force you're going to fall off eventually. We knocked all kinds of stuff over, tore some curtains down. I was pretty intense.
But in the midst of it all, I somehow lost track of the condom.
I know, right? I couldn't find it anywhere. "Wait a minute," I said, half-panicked, "I think I lost something."
"What did you lose?" she asked innocently.
"I lost my goddamn working tools."
We looked around on the floor for ten minutes but it was nowhere to be seen. So, seeing as how it was nowhere to be seen, I suggested that she look where it could not be seen.
Unfortunately, it wasn't there either.
"I don't see it," she said from behind the bathroom door. "Oh well. What goes up must come down."
So, the question, of course, is where the hell did it go? A friend of mine told me the same thing happened to her once. She discovered it 'on her person' a week later. But ours, to the best of my knowledge, never turned up.
It's like I lost a sock in the laundry.
Anyways, if it's ever happened to you, and you're not shy, let me know so I won't feel like a complete moron.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT:
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com
Confession: Before I lost my virginity, I used to buy condoms and try them on in the bathroom. Am I the only one?
Friday, March 28, 2008
I Figured Women Out
Okay:
Yes, I have figured women out! But first, a trip around the mulberry bush.
So, yesterday I ended up over my mother's house for a few hours. She's got DirectTV and consequently this neat little invention called On Demand. I just got basic cable myself when I moved into my new apartment in November. Before then, I hadn't had cable since 1999.
I guess I feel like if I have too many television options, it will cut down on my productivity. I'll turn into some couch potato who always has to get home to watch his favorite program. How pathetic. But they've made some significant progress with cable, and On Demand is proof-positive of this phenomenon. With On Demand, you can watch whatever you want, whenever you want, and you can pause, rewind and fast-forward. It's like having a DVD library in your television.
Predictably, I did not want to see most of the stuff on the menu. That is until I ran across that rare gym of cinematic genius, Last Tango in Paris.
Just a brief history, in case you've never heard of it or seen it:
I know, right? Shit is HOT! I mean, freaky deaky.
Long story short, Brando and this chick meet regularly to screw like monkeys in this dirty little bare apartment in Paris. The condition is that they do not reveal their names or talk about their lives outside of the apartment. Complete anonymity. Unbridled passion.
Predictably, the woman has a difficult time living up to her end of the bargain. Brando constantly has to remind her of the rules of their engagement and she continuously hints at wanting more. She, ostensibly, falls in love with him. He remains obtuse.
Then, the tables are suddenly turned. He approaches her outside of the apartment. He tells her his name and his entire, boring, pathetic life story then professes his love for her. She is repulsed.
I don't want to ruin the movie for you any more than I already have, in case I've sufficiently piqued your interest. But, put it this way, the director is Italian.
My point is this: women are like this young Parisian girl. They want a man to be tough, in control. They want drama, mystery, passion. Pleasure and pain. They want it all. But once you take off the Superman outfit, and reveal yourself...it's a disappointment.
And, of course, it occurs to me that this is more of a people thing than a woman thing. I'll give you that. But I view all things from the penis perspective so you'll have to humor me.
But, like I was saying, this is why relationships don't work out. Unrealistic expectations. Women are looking for Denzel Washington. Men are looking for Heather Hunter with social graces. Sex is the ultimate distraction. When schtuping, and truly enjoying yourself, you are vulnerable to all kinds of self-delusion.
But we're just animals. Highly evolved animals, but animals nonetheless. And perhaps we give ourselves too much credit. Maybe more of what we do is instinctual than we want to believe. Maybe God is happiest with us when we're doing what we do best: fucking. When he looks down and sees us moving, sensually, in cooperation with one another, truly enjoying ourselves, he smiles. He likes it. Simple.
Then, we, because we're so goddamn evolved, add a bunch of other more shit to it and try to make it fancy. We get married, shack up, separate, divorce, have 'open' relationships. It's all dumb. The only thing that's true and real is the penis and the vagina. The rest is just for pretty.
At least that's my theory.
The secret is, women know this. They all know that relationships are bullshit. A dirty little bare apartment. But they love to decorate.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com
Confession: My ass is a whole lot darker than the rest of my body. Yours?
Yes, I have figured women out! But first, a trip around the mulberry bush.
So, yesterday I ended up over my mother's house for a few hours. She's got DirectTV and consequently this neat little invention called On Demand. I just got basic cable myself when I moved into my new apartment in November. Before then, I hadn't had cable since 1999.
I guess I feel like if I have too many television options, it will cut down on my productivity. I'll turn into some couch potato who always has to get home to watch his favorite program. How pathetic. But they've made some significant progress with cable, and On Demand is proof-positive of this phenomenon. With On Demand, you can watch whatever you want, whenever you want, and you can pause, rewind and fast-forward. It's like having a DVD library in your television.
Predictably, I did not want to see most of the stuff on the menu. That is until I ran across that rare gym of cinematic genius, Last Tango in Paris.
Just a brief history, in case you've never heard of it or seen it:
Last Tango in Paris is a 1973 film directed by Italian Bernardo Bertolucci, which tells the story of an American widower who is drawn into a sexual relationship with a young, soon-to-be-married Parisian woman. It stars Marlon Brando, Maria Schneider and Jean-Pierre Léaud. The film was given an X rating by the MPAA upon initial release. After revisions were made to the MPAA ratings code, it was classified as an NC-17, in 1997. MGM released an R-rated cut in 1981.(www.wikipedia.org)
I know, right? Shit is HOT! I mean, freaky deaky.
Long story short, Brando and this chick meet regularly to screw like monkeys in this dirty little bare apartment in Paris. The condition is that they do not reveal their names or talk about their lives outside of the apartment. Complete anonymity. Unbridled passion.
Predictably, the woman has a difficult time living up to her end of the bargain. Brando constantly has to remind her of the rules of their engagement and she continuously hints at wanting more. She, ostensibly, falls in love with him. He remains obtuse.
Then, the tables are suddenly turned. He approaches her outside of the apartment. He tells her his name and his entire, boring, pathetic life story then professes his love for her. She is repulsed.
I don't want to ruin the movie for you any more than I already have, in case I've sufficiently piqued your interest. But, put it this way, the director is Italian.
My point is this: women are like this young Parisian girl. They want a man to be tough, in control. They want drama, mystery, passion. Pleasure and pain. They want it all. But once you take off the Superman outfit, and reveal yourself...it's a disappointment.
And, of course, it occurs to me that this is more of a people thing than a woman thing. I'll give you that. But I view all things from the penis perspective so you'll have to humor me.
But, like I was saying, this is why relationships don't work out. Unrealistic expectations. Women are looking for Denzel Washington. Men are looking for Heather Hunter with social graces. Sex is the ultimate distraction. When schtuping, and truly enjoying yourself, you are vulnerable to all kinds of self-delusion.
But we're just animals. Highly evolved animals, but animals nonetheless. And perhaps we give ourselves too much credit. Maybe more of what we do is instinctual than we want to believe. Maybe God is happiest with us when we're doing what we do best: fucking. When he looks down and sees us moving, sensually, in cooperation with one another, truly enjoying ourselves, he smiles. He likes it. Simple.
Then, we, because we're so goddamn evolved, add a bunch of other more shit to it and try to make it fancy. We get married, shack up, separate, divorce, have 'open' relationships. It's all dumb. The only thing that's true and real is the penis and the vagina. The rest is just for pretty.
At least that's my theory.
The secret is, women know this. They all know that relationships are bullshit. A dirty little bare apartment. But they love to decorate.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com
Confession: My ass is a whole lot darker than the rest of my body. Yours?
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Why I Am Single
Okay:
This is me dating. And why it typically doesn't work.
So I went out last night to hear a friend sing. There were women everywhere. And I do mean, everywhere. I had a little trouble focusing. You ever been to one of those restaurants where they have the dessert display cases? All those cakes, pies and tarts laid out like brand new, shiny cars. It was like that.
The first woman I noticed was this tall, slender, chocolate thang with this ridiculous booty. She had on this summer dress that was clinging to her curves like plastic wrap on a wet plum. I couldn't stop staring at her.
But she was sitting next to a woman who may have been a lesbian and there was a distinct possibility that they may have been together. She was just too fine to be alone. It gave me pause. What do you say in a situation like that?
"Excuse me, do you go for the pickle or the pancake?" or
"Pardon me, is that yo' chick?" or
"L'chaim! You need some kosher sausage to go with these latkas?"
Anyway, she managed to slink out after the show. I never got a chance to really feel things out. I know, right? DAMN.
Then there was this other sister. A cute little chocolate number with a pretty smile. I ran into her almost a year ago at a show. I got her phone number but never called her and, for the life of me, I could not remember her name. We exchanged pleasantries, hugs, and got into some small talk. She asked me how teaching was going and asked what I had planned for the summer. I told her I planned to teach summer school and then she sprung it on me.
"I was just asking," she said, "because my church is having a summer camp and we need some counselors."
"That's nice," I said as I walked away. "You take it easy, sister."
Another Jesus Freak. Where do these women come from? Last thing I need is someone else in my phone book who thinks I should go to hell.
So then, as we were leaving, I found myself walking behind this spunky little caramel hottie with a big smile. I struck up some convo, and was pretty close to sealing the deal when her boyfriend jumped out from behind the bushes or some shit. He came out of nowhere. A little short Latin fucker who swore he knew me from high school. He was all drunk, sweaty and smiling with his arm around me. "Motherfucker, you don't remember me?"
I wanted to punch him in his shit, but I was too busy being amused/shocked that this was his girlfriend. "Is this your girlfriend?" I asked.
"Yes," he said, eyes crossing a bit, leaning on her shoulder.
"Really?" I said. Then I had to walk away because I thought I might throw up in my mouth a little.
So me and the posse made our way down to another spot. There I saw another sexy little chocolate mami with big, dancing eyes. We were talking and laughing and having a good time and I was just about to get her number when people started pouring out of the bar. I was shaking hands and hugging and kissing cheeks. It seemed like I knew everybody who came out of that door. Then an old friend of mine, a free-spirited artist chick, came out and we exchanged numbers. When I looked up though, my little shorty was gone.
The night was a bust. I struck out, like, four times.
If I had it all to do over, I would have approached the lesbo chick with the amazing ass. I woke up this morning thinking about her booty. No shit. When I opened my eyes, the first thought that popped into my brain was those two shrink-wrapped boiled eggs she was working with.
I almost had that last one though. I guess that's why I'm single. Goddamn ADHD.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT
http://blackbroadway-online.com
Innocent Question: Is it rude to ask two women who you think may be lesbos if they're together? I mean just because they're lesbos doesn't mean they're together. But, on the other hand, they may be offended by the question if they're not lesbos. Shit's tricky.
This is me dating. And why it typically doesn't work.
So I went out last night to hear a friend sing. There were women everywhere. And I do mean, everywhere. I had a little trouble focusing. You ever been to one of those restaurants where they have the dessert display cases? All those cakes, pies and tarts laid out like brand new, shiny cars. It was like that.
The first woman I noticed was this tall, slender, chocolate thang with this ridiculous booty. She had on this summer dress that was clinging to her curves like plastic wrap on a wet plum. I couldn't stop staring at her.
But she was sitting next to a woman who may have been a lesbian and there was a distinct possibility that they may have been together. She was just too fine to be alone. It gave me pause. What do you say in a situation like that?
"Excuse me, do you go for the pickle or the pancake?" or
"Pardon me, is that yo' chick?" or
"L'chaim! You need some kosher sausage to go with these latkas?"
Anyway, she managed to slink out after the show. I never got a chance to really feel things out. I know, right? DAMN.
Then there was this other sister. A cute little chocolate number with a pretty smile. I ran into her almost a year ago at a show. I got her phone number but never called her and, for the life of me, I could not remember her name. We exchanged pleasantries, hugs, and got into some small talk. She asked me how teaching was going and asked what I had planned for the summer. I told her I planned to teach summer school and then she sprung it on me.
"I was just asking," she said, "because my church is having a summer camp and we need some counselors."
"That's nice," I said as I walked away. "You take it easy, sister."
Another Jesus Freak. Where do these women come from? Last thing I need is someone else in my phone book who thinks I should go to hell.
So then, as we were leaving, I found myself walking behind this spunky little caramel hottie with a big smile. I struck up some convo, and was pretty close to sealing the deal when her boyfriend jumped out from behind the bushes or some shit. He came out of nowhere. A little short Latin fucker who swore he knew me from high school. He was all drunk, sweaty and smiling with his arm around me. "Motherfucker, you don't remember me?"
I wanted to punch him in his shit, but I was too busy being amused/shocked that this was his girlfriend. "Is this your girlfriend?" I asked.
"Yes," he said, eyes crossing a bit, leaning on her shoulder.
"Really?" I said. Then I had to walk away because I thought I might throw up in my mouth a little.
So me and the posse made our way down to another spot. There I saw another sexy little chocolate mami with big, dancing eyes. We were talking and laughing and having a good time and I was just about to get her number when people started pouring out of the bar. I was shaking hands and hugging and kissing cheeks. It seemed like I knew everybody who came out of that door. Then an old friend of mine, a free-spirited artist chick, came out and we exchanged numbers. When I looked up though, my little shorty was gone.
The night was a bust. I struck out, like, four times.
If I had it all to do over, I would have approached the lesbo chick with the amazing ass. I woke up this morning thinking about her booty. No shit. When I opened my eyes, the first thought that popped into my brain was those two shrink-wrapped boiled eggs she was working with.
I almost had that last one though. I guess that's why I'm single. Goddamn ADHD.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT
http://blackbroadway-online.com
Innocent Question: Is it rude to ask two women who you think may be lesbos if they're together? I mean just because they're lesbos doesn't mean they're together. But, on the other hand, they may be offended by the question if they're not lesbos. Shit's tricky.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
What You Laughin At?
Okay:
So, seeing as how I'm on vacation, I had the opportunity to watch The Jeffersons the other day, as well as two episodes of Sanford & Son. I was, for the first time, simultaneously amused and disturbed. I don't remember being too much of either when I was younger.
That is, I love syndicated seventies sit coms just as much as the next person, but I've never found them laugh-out-loud funny. Just moderately entertaining in a nostalgic sense.
But the other night I found myself guffawing. The first was Sanford & Son. Lamont and Rollo had a few honies at the apartment. They had laid out some chips and dips and bought a bottle of nice French wine. When Lamont offers the ladies some snacks they bark, "Say man! Where the real food at? This the kind of stuff you feed to animals at the zoo."
Then Rollo offers them some of the French wine. They take sips and spit it out immediately, slap-stick style. "What is this?!! Where is the Ripple?!!"
So, the date is pretty much a bust until Fred shows up unannounced with a crock pot of onion stew and a bottle of Ripple in his coat pocket. "Now that's what I'm talkin' about!" they say. "Your daddy sho' knows how to party."
Hilarious! I almost fell off the couch.
Then it was The Jeffersons. George comes home holding his bowling ball bag. He sits it on the dining room table and tells Weezy to put it in the refrigerator. To which she replies, "George, why do you want me to put your bowling ball in the refrigerator?"
"Not the bowling ball," he says, "This." Then he pulls a big green watermelon out of the bag.
"Why did you put a watermelon in your bowling ball bag, George?" she asks.
"Because I didn't want whitey to see me with it," he replies.
At this point I think I may have been lying on my back with tears rolling down the sides of my face.
The kicker was, a minute later, Lionel comes in and starts quoting H.L. Mencken. Which is what prompted me to take a deeper look into what I was watching. Sanford & Son ran from '72 to '77. The Jeffersons were on the air from '75 to '85 (the longest running black sit com in television history).
These shows haven't remained in syndication for all these years because black people love them so much. That's never the case with anything. These shows still have an audience because they've achieved cult-classic status, which means young white people are watching them. But when they watch, what exactly is it that they're laughing at?
Are they laughing because of the brilliant simplicity of the comedy or are they getting their rocks off watching the ignorant buffoons confirm every silly misconception they have about black people? This was Dave Chappelle's dilemma, no?
This disturbs me. I personally like watermelon. And I don't think I should have to feel guilty about it. If I go to a restaurant I think I should be able to order Hennessy if I want, and my date should be able to order a white zinfandel if she wants, without wondering whether or not the waiter is saying quietly to himself, "Wow, no surprises here."
I enjoy being black. Even when I know it's painfully stereotypical. I just don't think we should have to worry about how we're being perceived or whether or not we're being exploited ALL THE TIME.
When I get off vacation, I'm gonna go up to my boss's office. He's a real white guy, who keeps privately telling everyone that he's voting for Obama. "Listen, white boy," I'm going to say, "I like fried chicken and watermelon. And if it's cooked properly, I bet you do too. I also like malt liquor and Newports. I'm not married to my daughter's mother. I don't own a home and I drive a car I can't afford. I listen to gangsta rap and I have almost thirty pairs of sneakers. Now you know," I'll continue, "so you don't have to wonder."
Tell a white person how you feel today. Let's start something.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH MY VIDEOS
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com
Factoid: The Jeffersons had a short-lived spin-off called Checking In starring Florence, the maid. It lasted only four-episodes before it was cancelled without any notice from the studio. Sherman Hemsley apparently read about the cancellation in the newspaper.
So, seeing as how I'm on vacation, I had the opportunity to watch The Jeffersons the other day, as well as two episodes of Sanford & Son. I was, for the first time, simultaneously amused and disturbed. I don't remember being too much of either when I was younger.
That is, I love syndicated seventies sit coms just as much as the next person, but I've never found them laugh-out-loud funny. Just moderately entertaining in a nostalgic sense.
But the other night I found myself guffawing. The first was Sanford & Son. Lamont and Rollo had a few honies at the apartment. They had laid out some chips and dips and bought a bottle of nice French wine. When Lamont offers the ladies some snacks they bark, "Say man! Where the real food at? This the kind of stuff you feed to animals at the zoo."
Then Rollo offers them some of the French wine. They take sips and spit it out immediately, slap-stick style. "What is this?!! Where is the Ripple?!!"
So, the date is pretty much a bust until Fred shows up unannounced with a crock pot of onion stew and a bottle of Ripple in his coat pocket. "Now that's what I'm talkin' about!" they say. "Your daddy sho' knows how to party."
Hilarious! I almost fell off the couch.
Then it was The Jeffersons. George comes home holding his bowling ball bag. He sits it on the dining room table and tells Weezy to put it in the refrigerator. To which she replies, "George, why do you want me to put your bowling ball in the refrigerator?"
"Not the bowling ball," he says, "This." Then he pulls a big green watermelon out of the bag.
"Why did you put a watermelon in your bowling ball bag, George?" she asks.
"Because I didn't want whitey to see me with it," he replies.
At this point I think I may have been lying on my back with tears rolling down the sides of my face.
The kicker was, a minute later, Lionel comes in and starts quoting H.L. Mencken. Which is what prompted me to take a deeper look into what I was watching. Sanford & Son ran from '72 to '77. The Jeffersons were on the air from '75 to '85 (the longest running black sit com in television history).
These shows haven't remained in syndication for all these years because black people love them so much. That's never the case with anything. These shows still have an audience because they've achieved cult-classic status, which means young white people are watching them. But when they watch, what exactly is it that they're laughing at?
Are they laughing because of the brilliant simplicity of the comedy or are they getting their rocks off watching the ignorant buffoons confirm every silly misconception they have about black people? This was Dave Chappelle's dilemma, no?
This disturbs me. I personally like watermelon. And I don't think I should have to feel guilty about it. If I go to a restaurant I think I should be able to order Hennessy if I want, and my date should be able to order a white zinfandel if she wants, without wondering whether or not the waiter is saying quietly to himself, "Wow, no surprises here."
I enjoy being black. Even when I know it's painfully stereotypical. I just don't think we should have to worry about how we're being perceived or whether or not we're being exploited ALL THE TIME.
When I get off vacation, I'm gonna go up to my boss's office. He's a real white guy, who keeps privately telling everyone that he's voting for Obama. "Listen, white boy," I'm going to say, "I like fried chicken and watermelon. And if it's cooked properly, I bet you do too. I also like malt liquor and Newports. I'm not married to my daughter's mother. I don't own a home and I drive a car I can't afford. I listen to gangsta rap and I have almost thirty pairs of sneakers. Now you know," I'll continue, "so you don't have to wonder."
Tell a white person how you feel today. Let's start something.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH MY VIDEOS
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com
Factoid: The Jeffersons had a short-lived spin-off called Checking In starring Florence, the maid. It lasted only four-episodes before it was cancelled without any notice from the studio. Sherman Hemsley apparently read about the cancellation in the newspaper.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
The Wonderful World of Up-And-Coming Narcotics
Okay:
Still on vacation and still loving it, y'all. Today I rolled out of bed around 9:00. Now it's 10:00 and I'm sitting in front of my computer in my underwear. I'm scratching my left butt cheek. Later, I'm thinking about working on the right one. Jealous?
One of the good things about being on vacation is I get to watch daytime television. Yesterday I watched Divorce Court. I forgot they got rid of Mabeline. This new chick is not doing it for me. I thought Mabeline was kind of sexy with her little colorful collars and whatnot, a real MILF. I don't get that vibe from this new lady. And now everybody on the show is a crackhead, and they're all obviously lying.
It's stupid.
In fact, all black people on daytime television are crackheads now. It's like they passed a resolution or something. The hosts are complicit race-traitors. Luckily, white people are finding and inventing even more potent narcotics. To keep things interesting, you know.
This time we have to be really diligent about recording history accurately. When you think crack, you think black, right? We forget that it was developed in drug chemist laboratories by people who were neither poor nor black. We did the same thing with rock n' roll.
Now they say crystal meth, which for the past fifteen years has been running rampant through trailer park America, is creeping it's way into urban cities. Translation: it was a white thing, now it's becoming a black thing. Apparently, crystal meth is like crack times twenty. It will fuck you up and fuck you up quick. And it's cheap.
I guess what with all the movies and jokes about crackheads, it's hard to get new customers. What teenager is seriously considering trying crack these days? You've got Pookie from New Jack City and Tyrone from The Chappelle Show. Nobody wants to end up like that. When you think about crack, you imagine losing any concept of personal hygiene and possibly landing in a dark alley somewhere selling VCRs and prostituting yourself. Crack, I guess you could say, has a really bad reputation.
Heroine is different though. All your favorite musicians were on heroine. Miles Davis, Kurt Cobain, Ray Charles, etc. The list is endless. Cocaine is still pretty chic, too. All your favorite actors are on coke now.
Crystal meth though. It hasn't been glamorized yet, but it also hasn't been lampooned. Therefore, it would be extremely appealing to teenagers. Since they're over the whole ecstasy thing and always looking for something new. A close friend of mine told me she tried meth once. She said it was cool, but nothing to write home about. The next day, however, she found herself wanting more and thought she might take another hit before going to class. She couldn't find the stash though. She looked and looked and looked, but couldn't find it. She imagined she had been searching for thirty minutes or so but when she saw the clock she realized it had been three hours!!! That was the last time she took crystal meth.
Then there's this new thing, Salvia. Apparently it's a Mexican sage plant with strong hallucinogenic properties. And it's legal! Now there's something I would've been interested in 10 years ago. Only, you might go crazy and kill yourself.
I shudder to think of my students, who are already crazy, getting hooked up with stuff like crystal meth and salvia. It's hard enough to deal with the weed and the alcohol. Then there's the PCP, which has had a resurgence in popularity here in DC. It's all the rave. The kids are dipping their cigarettes in the stuff. They call them 'dippers'. They are also cheap and potent. They get high on these dippers then go do all kinds of crazy stuff.
One of the funny side effects is the stripping.
The stuff makes you hot. You start sweating like a slave and sometimes people take their clothes off. But that's about the only thing that's funny about it.
I personally, will be sticking to my scotch. The worst that could happen is I end up having wild, passionate sex with some floozy. I can deal with that.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH MY VIDEOS:
http://blackbroadway-online.com
Factoid: MILF, in case you were wondering, means Mother I'd Like to Fuck. Nasty, I know. That's why I use the acronym. It's nicer, no?
Still on vacation and still loving it, y'all. Today I rolled out of bed around 9:00. Now it's 10:00 and I'm sitting in front of my computer in my underwear. I'm scratching my left butt cheek. Later, I'm thinking about working on the right one. Jealous?
One of the good things about being on vacation is I get to watch daytime television. Yesterday I watched Divorce Court. I forgot they got rid of Mabeline. This new chick is not doing it for me. I thought Mabeline was kind of sexy with her little colorful collars and whatnot, a real MILF. I don't get that vibe from this new lady. And now everybody on the show is a crackhead, and they're all obviously lying.
It's stupid.
In fact, all black people on daytime television are crackheads now. It's like they passed a resolution or something. The hosts are complicit race-traitors. Luckily, white people are finding and inventing even more potent narcotics. To keep things interesting, you know.
This time we have to be really diligent about recording history accurately. When you think crack, you think black, right? We forget that it was developed in drug chemist laboratories by people who were neither poor nor black. We did the same thing with rock n' roll.
Now they say crystal meth, which for the past fifteen years has been running rampant through trailer park America, is creeping it's way into urban cities. Translation: it was a white thing, now it's becoming a black thing. Apparently, crystal meth is like crack times twenty. It will fuck you up and fuck you up quick. And it's cheap.
I guess what with all the movies and jokes about crackheads, it's hard to get new customers. What teenager is seriously considering trying crack these days? You've got Pookie from New Jack City and Tyrone from The Chappelle Show. Nobody wants to end up like that. When you think about crack, you imagine losing any concept of personal hygiene and possibly landing in a dark alley somewhere selling VCRs and prostituting yourself. Crack, I guess you could say, has a really bad reputation.
Heroine is different though. All your favorite musicians were on heroine. Miles Davis, Kurt Cobain, Ray Charles, etc. The list is endless. Cocaine is still pretty chic, too. All your favorite actors are on coke now.
Crystal meth though. It hasn't been glamorized yet, but it also hasn't been lampooned. Therefore, it would be extremely appealing to teenagers. Since they're over the whole ecstasy thing and always looking for something new. A close friend of mine told me she tried meth once. She said it was cool, but nothing to write home about. The next day, however, she found herself wanting more and thought she might take another hit before going to class. She couldn't find the stash though. She looked and looked and looked, but couldn't find it. She imagined she had been searching for thirty minutes or so but when she saw the clock she realized it had been three hours!!! That was the last time she took crystal meth.
Then there's this new thing, Salvia. Apparently it's a Mexican sage plant with strong hallucinogenic properties. And it's legal! Now there's something I would've been interested in 10 years ago. Only, you might go crazy and kill yourself.
I shudder to think of my students, who are already crazy, getting hooked up with stuff like crystal meth and salvia. It's hard enough to deal with the weed and the alcohol. Then there's the PCP, which has had a resurgence in popularity here in DC. It's all the rave. The kids are dipping their cigarettes in the stuff. They call them 'dippers'. They are also cheap and potent. They get high on these dippers then go do all kinds of crazy stuff.
One of the funny side effects is the stripping.
The stuff makes you hot. You start sweating like a slave and sometimes people take their clothes off. But that's about the only thing that's funny about it.
I personally, will be sticking to my scotch. The worst that could happen is I end up having wild, passionate sex with some floozy. I can deal with that.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH MY VIDEOS:
http://blackbroadway-online.com
Factoid: MILF, in case you were wondering, means Mother I'd Like to Fuck. Nasty, I know. That's why I use the acronym. It's nicer, no?
Monday, March 24, 2008
The Takeover
Okay:
I'm on vacation this week so I may be posting a little later than usual. Hope you don't mind, but sleeping in is one of my favorite past times.
Anywho. Bill Richardson just endorsed my man Barack, which should deliver a lot of Hispanic votes. Apparently, Barack is pretty weak with the Hispanics. Which brings me to the topic of this blog.
Hispanics.
I saw a cute little Latina at the mall the other day wearing a t-shirt that said HIS-PANIC! You get it?
Certainly one of the biggest stories in the news as of late has been the surge of immigrants from our southern border. You can hear the white trash collectively screaming, "They're takin' all the jobs and they don't even speak American."
Black people, however, seem to be primarily concerned with losing their position as the largest minority group in the country. "They're takin' over," we say. Apparently, it's something like if your parents have a new baby and stop paying attention to you.
The only people who aren't worried about immigration are wealthy white people. For them, it works out just fine. A cheap labor force, more tax dollars, more votes. What's to complain about? And since they control everything, expect border policies and immigration laws to become even more lax.
And, if you're smart, learn Spanish.
My father used to balk at the thought of learning a new language. When we would cross paths with Latinos in malls or grocery stores, he seemed annoyed when they spoke Spanish in public. "You can't understand what they're saying," he'd say. "It's rude."
"But they're not talking to you, Dad. What difference does it make?"
"I don't think they're saying anything at all. It's just a bunch of gibberish. Listen to how fast they talk. They ain't sayin' nothin'. Can't nobody understand that. They're messing with us."
I personally don't see anything wrong with it. A lot of these people come from the kind of impoverished conditions you and I have only seen in movies. America is a beacon of hope to them. If they plan to be hard-working, tax-paying, law-abiding citizens, why should they be denied entrance?
Of course, you can't argue that point of view without acknowledging that America does seem to have an aversion to darker-skinned immigrants. Within a few generations, like the Irish and the Germans, these Latinos will be barely distinguishable from the white majority. Haitians, for example, would have a harder time blending in.
But as objective as I try to be, I must cop to my own prejudices. Just the other night I was at the grocery store buying some wine. Or trying to buy some wine. I was in line behind a Latin family. There were two men, one woman and two babies. They had at least a dozen WIC vouchers and what looked like sixty dollars worth of baby food: formula, juice, cereal, etc.
From what I could tell, none of the three spoke any English. And none of them understood exactly how WIC works. They kept having to call the manager and run back to the aisle for different products. All-told, they held up the line for thirty minutes.
I found myself thinking, "Learn to speak English, why don't you. I bet you're not even citizens. You shouldn't even have those vouchers. Matter of fact, you probably hustled those off somebody and now I'm missing my goddamn Law & Order marathon. And why are you all smiling so hard? And why do you all have gold caps? And why are you all exactly 5'4" tall?"
Of course, I didn't say any of those things. I just thought them, then immediately felt guilty. Then I began wondering, "What kind of racist thoughts does the average tolerant American have when in stressful situations such as these?"
Do you have racist thoughts sometimes?
Share them with me. I promise I won't tell anyone.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT:
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com
Factoid: Did you know that in LA the Latin gangs outnumber the black gangs? Apparently they're having an all out street/race war.
I'm on vacation this week so I may be posting a little later than usual. Hope you don't mind, but sleeping in is one of my favorite past times.
Anywho. Bill Richardson just endorsed my man Barack, which should deliver a lot of Hispanic votes. Apparently, Barack is pretty weak with the Hispanics. Which brings me to the topic of this blog.
Hispanics.
I saw a cute little Latina at the mall the other day wearing a t-shirt that said HIS-PANIC! You get it?
Certainly one of the biggest stories in the news as of late has been the surge of immigrants from our southern border. You can hear the white trash collectively screaming, "They're takin' all the jobs and they don't even speak American."
Black people, however, seem to be primarily concerned with losing their position as the largest minority group in the country. "They're takin' over," we say. Apparently, it's something like if your parents have a new baby and stop paying attention to you.
The only people who aren't worried about immigration are wealthy white people. For them, it works out just fine. A cheap labor force, more tax dollars, more votes. What's to complain about? And since they control everything, expect border policies and immigration laws to become even more lax.
And, if you're smart, learn Spanish.
My father used to balk at the thought of learning a new language. When we would cross paths with Latinos in malls or grocery stores, he seemed annoyed when they spoke Spanish in public. "You can't understand what they're saying," he'd say. "It's rude."
"But they're not talking to you, Dad. What difference does it make?"
"I don't think they're saying anything at all. It's just a bunch of gibberish. Listen to how fast they talk. They ain't sayin' nothin'. Can't nobody understand that. They're messing with us."
I personally don't see anything wrong with it. A lot of these people come from the kind of impoverished conditions you and I have only seen in movies. America is a beacon of hope to them. If they plan to be hard-working, tax-paying, law-abiding citizens, why should they be denied entrance?
Of course, you can't argue that point of view without acknowledging that America does seem to have an aversion to darker-skinned immigrants. Within a few generations, like the Irish and the Germans, these Latinos will be barely distinguishable from the white majority. Haitians, for example, would have a harder time blending in.
But as objective as I try to be, I must cop to my own prejudices. Just the other night I was at the grocery store buying some wine. Or trying to buy some wine. I was in line behind a Latin family. There were two men, one woman and two babies. They had at least a dozen WIC vouchers and what looked like sixty dollars worth of baby food: formula, juice, cereal, etc.
From what I could tell, none of the three spoke any English. And none of them understood exactly how WIC works. They kept having to call the manager and run back to the aisle for different products. All-told, they held up the line for thirty minutes.
I found myself thinking, "Learn to speak English, why don't you. I bet you're not even citizens. You shouldn't even have those vouchers. Matter of fact, you probably hustled those off somebody and now I'm missing my goddamn Law & Order marathon. And why are you all smiling so hard? And why do you all have gold caps? And why are you all exactly 5'4" tall?"
Of course, I didn't say any of those things. I just thought them, then immediately felt guilty. Then I began wondering, "What kind of racist thoughts does the average tolerant American have when in stressful situations such as these?"
Do you have racist thoughts sometimes?
Share them with me. I promise I won't tell anyone.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT:
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com
Factoid: Did you know that in LA the Latin gangs outnumber the black gangs? Apparently they're having an all out street/race war.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
The Biggest Peanut In The Gallery
Okay:
I remember one time I was in math class with this buddy of mine I had known since elementary school. We had ironically ended up at the same high school and in the same Algebra class with this Nigerian woman whose name I cannot remember. Anyways, she was apparently mentoring a young white woman studying to be a teacher. I think her name was Ms. Brown.
Ms. Brown was a tall, skinny blond who didn't talk much and seemed to be scared to death of us. Also, she was at least seven months pregnant and unmarried, which we all thought was pretty strange for an educated, thin, not-wholly-unattractive white woman. On top of all that, she was a smoker. We would all congregate on the front steps of the building and smoke cigarettes before, during and after school. Sometimes she would come out there and smoke alone off in some corner. We all kind of looked at her with disgust. We might have been delinquents but we all knew it was bad to smoke when you looked like you could give birth any day. It said so right on the side of the damn box: "Smoking Can Cause Birth Defects."
Anyway, one day our Nigerian teacher decided to let Ms. Brown have at us and administer an uninterrupted lesson on some Algebraic business. She went to the chalkboard and started drawing her letters and numbers and what have you. I was sitting next to my buddy at the time. I don't think we were high, but we might have been. Then, as she was walking across the front of the room, her legs flew out from under her and she landed squarely on her ass with a resounding thud. The Nigerian and a handful of concerned students flew to her aide. You could hear the collective gasp and numerous whispers of, "Are you all right?" and "Should we call someone?"
The silence was broken by loud and hysterical laughter coming from...you guessed it, me.
It was the funniest thing I had ever seen. I had never seen anyone fall like that before without having been pushed or having slipped on ice or motor oil or something. It was almost cartoonish, like something out of a Naked Gun movie. I didn't think people just fell like that in real life. I mean, this woman legs flew up in the air. She was literally airborne for half a second. And then WHAM! right on her ass. And to be honest, the fact that she was pregnant made it even funnier.
I looked over at my buddy. He was also laughing, but at least he had the common decency to hold it in. Tears were rolling down his eyes and his face was bright pink, but he didn't make a sound. I on the other hand had fallen out of my chair and was holding my stomach. Finally, he gave in and we both were in hysterics.
"The both of you, get out of here!" screamed the Nigerian.
If we weren't already high, I think we went to go get high after that. Incidentally, she was fine and as far as I know, so was her unborn baby. If anything was wrong with him, it probably had more to do with her smoking than her little fall.
Another time, this same friend and I were at a Burger King on K Street after school. It's one of those two-story restaurants with a window that looks down onto the busy thoroughfare. This time, I remember distinctly being very high. That was the reason we had come to Burger King in the first place. While we were demolishing our Whoppers we noticed an old lady slowly, painstakingly, making her way into the restaurant with a walker. We giggled then returned our attention to our sandwiches or whatever random conversation we were having.
Minutes later we saw that ambulances had arrived and EMTs were rushing into the building. Having finished our sandwiches, for I doubt we would have moved if we hadn't, we darted to the stairs to see what was going on.
There at the bottom of stairs lay the old lady next to her toppled walker, moaning.
Well, I'm ashamed to tell you, but if we had stayed there any longer someone probably would've had to pry us off the floor. We collapsed in a fit of wild laughter. This was now, above the capsizing of Ms. Brown, the absolute funniest thing either of us had ever seen.
My buddy looked at me with tears in his eyes and said, "Who in the fuck told that old lady she could make it up these steps?"
Another time I was by myself at the Potomac Avenue metro station waiting for my girlfriend to come pick me up. I called her from a pay phone to see what was taking her so long. (Remember pay phones?) On the phone next to me was a thirty-something white woman with long blond hair. She was visibly upset.
When I saw the tears in her eyes I told my girlfriend to hold on, I wanted to hear what this woman was saying.
"You have to come get me!" she exclaimed. "I'm serious. This is not a joke. You have to come get me!"
"Oh my God," I said into the phone. "This lady is trippin'."
"They are trying to kill me. Unless you want this to be the last time you hear from me, you need to come and get me right now."
Then I noticed that she had a suitcase sitting close by. She wiped tears from her eyes. "I am going to get on this fucking bus, you motherfucker, and I hope you're satisfied. I'm a dead woman."
By this time I could not contain myself. The only reason I didn't laugh out loud was that I thought in her state she might actually try to hit me. But I sure was giggling my ass of. "This bitch is crazy," I whispered to my girlfriend.
"Fine. I'm getting on the fucking bus!" She slammed the phone down. Then she looked me in the eye and said, "Fuck you."
Then she wiped her face, picked up her suitcase and got on the bus.
A few times I've thought about that woman and wondered whether or not someone was really after her or if she was mentally ill and that's why the person on the other end of the phone was in no rush to come to her aid. Either way, it was some really funny shit to me then. It's still kind of funny, actually. Except these days I would probably not laugh in the woman's face. Hell, I might even offer to help her with her suitcase.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
TO LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS GO TO
www.blackbroadway-online.com
Confession: I once drove all the way to DC from North Carolina to spend the weekend with a lady friend. Before I left Durham, I stopped at the Burger King for 2 Whoppers. By the time I pulled up to her apartment complex, I could barely kiss her on the cheek before I sprinted to her bathroom where I stayed for forty-five minutes. To her credit, the evening went on as planned after that. Now that's love!
I remember one time I was in math class with this buddy of mine I had known since elementary school. We had ironically ended up at the same high school and in the same Algebra class with this Nigerian woman whose name I cannot remember. Anyways, she was apparently mentoring a young white woman studying to be a teacher. I think her name was Ms. Brown.
Ms. Brown was a tall, skinny blond who didn't talk much and seemed to be scared to death of us. Also, she was at least seven months pregnant and unmarried, which we all thought was pretty strange for an educated, thin, not-wholly-unattractive white woman. On top of all that, she was a smoker. We would all congregate on the front steps of the building and smoke cigarettes before, during and after school. Sometimes she would come out there and smoke alone off in some corner. We all kind of looked at her with disgust. We might have been delinquents but we all knew it was bad to smoke when you looked like you could give birth any day. It said so right on the side of the damn box: "Smoking Can Cause Birth Defects."
Anyway, one day our Nigerian teacher decided to let Ms. Brown have at us and administer an uninterrupted lesson on some Algebraic business. She went to the chalkboard and started drawing her letters and numbers and what have you. I was sitting next to my buddy at the time. I don't think we were high, but we might have been. Then, as she was walking across the front of the room, her legs flew out from under her and she landed squarely on her ass with a resounding thud. The Nigerian and a handful of concerned students flew to her aide. You could hear the collective gasp and numerous whispers of, "Are you all right?" and "Should we call someone?"
The silence was broken by loud and hysterical laughter coming from...you guessed it, me.
It was the funniest thing I had ever seen. I had never seen anyone fall like that before without having been pushed or having slipped on ice or motor oil or something. It was almost cartoonish, like something out of a Naked Gun movie. I didn't think people just fell like that in real life. I mean, this woman legs flew up in the air. She was literally airborne for half a second. And then WHAM! right on her ass. And to be honest, the fact that she was pregnant made it even funnier.
I looked over at my buddy. He was also laughing, but at least he had the common decency to hold it in. Tears were rolling down his eyes and his face was bright pink, but he didn't make a sound. I on the other hand had fallen out of my chair and was holding my stomach. Finally, he gave in and we both were in hysterics.
"The both of you, get out of here!" screamed the Nigerian.
If we weren't already high, I think we went to go get high after that. Incidentally, she was fine and as far as I know, so was her unborn baby. If anything was wrong with him, it probably had more to do with her smoking than her little fall.
Another time, this same friend and I were at a Burger King on K Street after school. It's one of those two-story restaurants with a window that looks down onto the busy thoroughfare. This time, I remember distinctly being very high. That was the reason we had come to Burger King in the first place. While we were demolishing our Whoppers we noticed an old lady slowly, painstakingly, making her way into the restaurant with a walker. We giggled then returned our attention to our sandwiches or whatever random conversation we were having.
Minutes later we saw that ambulances had arrived and EMTs were rushing into the building. Having finished our sandwiches, for I doubt we would have moved if we hadn't, we darted to the stairs to see what was going on.
There at the bottom of stairs lay the old lady next to her toppled walker, moaning.
Well, I'm ashamed to tell you, but if we had stayed there any longer someone probably would've had to pry us off the floor. We collapsed in a fit of wild laughter. This was now, above the capsizing of Ms. Brown, the absolute funniest thing either of us had ever seen.
My buddy looked at me with tears in his eyes and said, "Who in the fuck told that old lady she could make it up these steps?"
Another time I was by myself at the Potomac Avenue metro station waiting for my girlfriend to come pick me up. I called her from a pay phone to see what was taking her so long. (Remember pay phones?) On the phone next to me was a thirty-something white woman with long blond hair. She was visibly upset.
When I saw the tears in her eyes I told my girlfriend to hold on, I wanted to hear what this woman was saying.
"You have to come get me!" she exclaimed. "I'm serious. This is not a joke. You have to come get me!"
"Oh my God," I said into the phone. "This lady is trippin'."
"They are trying to kill me. Unless you want this to be the last time you hear from me, you need to come and get me right now."
Then I noticed that she had a suitcase sitting close by. She wiped tears from her eyes. "I am going to get on this fucking bus, you motherfucker, and I hope you're satisfied. I'm a dead woman."
By this time I could not contain myself. The only reason I didn't laugh out loud was that I thought in her state she might actually try to hit me. But I sure was giggling my ass of. "This bitch is crazy," I whispered to my girlfriend.
"Fine. I'm getting on the fucking bus!" She slammed the phone down. Then she looked me in the eye and said, "Fuck you."
Then she wiped her face, picked up her suitcase and got on the bus.
A few times I've thought about that woman and wondered whether or not someone was really after her or if she was mentally ill and that's why the person on the other end of the phone was in no rush to come to her aid. Either way, it was some really funny shit to me then. It's still kind of funny, actually. Except these days I would probably not laugh in the woman's face. Hell, I might even offer to help her with her suitcase.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
TO LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS GO TO
www.blackbroadway-online.com
Confession: I once drove all the way to DC from North Carolina to spend the weekend with a lady friend. Before I left Durham, I stopped at the Burger King for 2 Whoppers. By the time I pulled up to her apartment complex, I could barely kiss her on the cheek before I sprinted to her bathroom where I stayed for forty-five minutes. To her credit, the evening went on as planned after that. Now that's love!
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
The Cheap Shall Inherit The Earth
Okay:
The toy store today is everything I remember it to be. Sensory overload. Colorful and awe-inspiring. Looking at small children sauntering in holding a parent's hand, you can almost see their pupils dilate as they slip into an opium-induced stupor.
They kind of wander about aimlessly for a while, pulling mom or dad like big docile dogs on a leash until they happen upon something they simply cannot do without. Most parents take some pleasure in being able to temporarily satisfy the fruit of their loins with plastic and vinyl. They gladly pull out their wallets and dig into their purses, hand credit cards to acne-ridden cashiers with a melodramatic sigh. They might even say something clever like, "What are you gonna do? It's easier just to give in, isn't it?"
Unless, of course, you are my father.
I can recall, with great clarity, shopping trips with the old man. As a child there were only three things I was interested in: comic books, movies and music. Action figures were too static and required more than a reasonable amount of imagination. Video games proved awkwardly difficult for me. And sports were an alien concept, as my father was not an athletic man.
Luckily for me, my father also liked comic books, movies and music. He never complained about any of those things. But our first trip to Foot Locker in the late eighties was a major turning point. I wanted a pair of black Diadoras. I didn't know much about them. I didn't even think they were particularly attractive shoes. I just knew that they were all the rave, and any kid with a pair of Diadoras could avoid the scalding criticism of his peers for months. I had to have them.
They were the first articles of clothing I ever had to have. Before then I would've worn a burlap sack to school and not complained.
When I tried them on the old man smiled and said, "Those are some smart looking sneakers." It had never occurred to me that he might get some enjoyment out of the experience, but him liking the shoes made it that much more enjoyable for me. "Sir," he said to the sales clerk, "How much are these?"
"One hundred dollars, sir."
"WHAT?!" he screamed. I was only nine or ten years old, and even I knew that sounded a bit excessive. One hundred dollars was a fortune to me. Still, I kept those thoughts on the inside. Even at that age, something in me knew that it was bad form to let the world know you couldn't afford something. But this old man of mine had no such modesty or reserve. "ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS?!! ARE YOU CRAZY?"
"That's the price, sir."
"I want to talk to a manager, young man."
The manager, only slightly older than the clerk, appeared within seconds. "Yes, sir. What seems to be the problem?"
"The problem is these shoes cost one hundred dollars," continued the old man. "This little boy is in the fifth grade. What does he need with a pair of one hundred dollar shoes?"
The manager explained to my father that he was not the person who decided how much the shoes should cost and pointed to several pairs of less-attractive, more reasonably priced sneakers.
I hung my head in self-pity, quietly resigning to the inevitable. I was not going to get my Diadoras.
My father thanked the manager. Then he put his hands on his hips and paced angrily back and forth across the sales floor. He looked at me in disgust, as if to say, "You set me up, you little shit."
Then, finally, he said to the manager, "Ring me up."
I was shocked. "Thanks, Dad," I said. But there wasn't much joy in it. For all of that he could've just bought me a pair of Stadias and I probably would've felt about the same. When we went to the cash register he stared at the cashier as if he were about to hit the poor man.
It was then that I realized something I hadn't realized before. My father was poor.
That hundred dollars was going to hurt.
From then on I became very price conscious. For the most part I didn't even bother asking for things that seemed too expensive. Not because I didn't want my father to embarrass me, but because I did not want to embarrass him. Sure there were times after that where we had similar episodes, but those Diadoras were the last pair of designer sneakers I ever wore. To this day, I won't pay more than one hundred dollars for a pair of shoes. I mean that literally. I'm looking at all of my shoes right now, and not one single pair cost me more than one hundred dollars. In fact, I won't pay more than one hundred dollars for any article of clothing unless it's a nice coat or a suit, and I only do that every other year or so.
A few years ago, as you know, they brought Diadoras back to the major retailers. I bought a pair of army green low-tops for fifty dollars. I called my father to share the good news, but he had no clue what I was talking about. I told him the story I have just told you, hoping to refresh his memory, and he replied, "Well, it seems like I taught you something valuable after all."
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT:
www.blackbroadway-online.com
Factoid: I started writing rhymes when I was in the third grade. My father was the only person I would let read them for a while. He was generally both appalled and impressed. He once said, "This is great, but aren't you a little young to be cussin' so much?"
The toy store today is everything I remember it to be. Sensory overload. Colorful and awe-inspiring. Looking at small children sauntering in holding a parent's hand, you can almost see their pupils dilate as they slip into an opium-induced stupor.
They kind of wander about aimlessly for a while, pulling mom or dad like big docile dogs on a leash until they happen upon something they simply cannot do without. Most parents take some pleasure in being able to temporarily satisfy the fruit of their loins with plastic and vinyl. They gladly pull out their wallets and dig into their purses, hand credit cards to acne-ridden cashiers with a melodramatic sigh. They might even say something clever like, "What are you gonna do? It's easier just to give in, isn't it?"
Unless, of course, you are my father.
I can recall, with great clarity, shopping trips with the old man. As a child there were only three things I was interested in: comic books, movies and music. Action figures were too static and required more than a reasonable amount of imagination. Video games proved awkwardly difficult for me. And sports were an alien concept, as my father was not an athletic man.
Luckily for me, my father also liked comic books, movies and music. He never complained about any of those things. But our first trip to Foot Locker in the late eighties was a major turning point. I wanted a pair of black Diadoras. I didn't know much about them. I didn't even think they were particularly attractive shoes. I just knew that they were all the rave, and any kid with a pair of Diadoras could avoid the scalding criticism of his peers for months. I had to have them.
They were the first articles of clothing I ever had to have. Before then I would've worn a burlap sack to school and not complained.
When I tried them on the old man smiled and said, "Those are some smart looking sneakers." It had never occurred to me that he might get some enjoyment out of the experience, but him liking the shoes made it that much more enjoyable for me. "Sir," he said to the sales clerk, "How much are these?"
"One hundred dollars, sir."
"WHAT?!" he screamed. I was only nine or ten years old, and even I knew that sounded a bit excessive. One hundred dollars was a fortune to me. Still, I kept those thoughts on the inside. Even at that age, something in me knew that it was bad form to let the world know you couldn't afford something. But this old man of mine had no such modesty or reserve. "ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS?!! ARE YOU CRAZY?"
"That's the price, sir."
"I want to talk to a manager, young man."
The manager, only slightly older than the clerk, appeared within seconds. "Yes, sir. What seems to be the problem?"
"The problem is these shoes cost one hundred dollars," continued the old man. "This little boy is in the fifth grade. What does he need with a pair of one hundred dollar shoes?"
The manager explained to my father that he was not the person who decided how much the shoes should cost and pointed to several pairs of less-attractive, more reasonably priced sneakers.
I hung my head in self-pity, quietly resigning to the inevitable. I was not going to get my Diadoras.
My father thanked the manager. Then he put his hands on his hips and paced angrily back and forth across the sales floor. He looked at me in disgust, as if to say, "You set me up, you little shit."
Then, finally, he said to the manager, "Ring me up."
I was shocked. "Thanks, Dad," I said. But there wasn't much joy in it. For all of that he could've just bought me a pair of Stadias and I probably would've felt about the same. When we went to the cash register he stared at the cashier as if he were about to hit the poor man.
It was then that I realized something I hadn't realized before. My father was poor.
That hundred dollars was going to hurt.
From then on I became very price conscious. For the most part I didn't even bother asking for things that seemed too expensive. Not because I didn't want my father to embarrass me, but because I did not want to embarrass him. Sure there were times after that where we had similar episodes, but those Diadoras were the last pair of designer sneakers I ever wore. To this day, I won't pay more than one hundred dollars for a pair of shoes. I mean that literally. I'm looking at all of my shoes right now, and not one single pair cost me more than one hundred dollars. In fact, I won't pay more than one hundred dollars for any article of clothing unless it's a nice coat or a suit, and I only do that every other year or so.
A few years ago, as you know, they brought Diadoras back to the major retailers. I bought a pair of army green low-tops for fifty dollars. I called my father to share the good news, but he had no clue what I was talking about. I told him the story I have just told you, hoping to refresh his memory, and he replied, "Well, it seems like I taught you something valuable after all."
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT:
www.blackbroadway-online.com
Factoid: I started writing rhymes when I was in the third grade. My father was the only person I would let read them for a while. He was generally both appalled and impressed. He once said, "This is great, but aren't you a little young to be cussin' so much?"
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Helping A Friend In Need
Okay:
Just the other day I ran into this guy I know whom I've long suspected to be gay. There's just something about him. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm no homophobe. I just don't really have a lot of respect for closet fags.
It's not like it's the fifties or something. And this is a super-liberal town. If he came out of the closet, no one would so much as bat an eye. I think it's kind of immature to hide your gayness. You don't have to start wearing makeup and taking hormone pills, but don't try to hide what's obvious. It insults everyone's intelligence.
We're both big Erykah Badu fans so we were discussing the sheer genius of her latest release New Amerykah. Then he adds that she debuted at number two on the R&B charts, second to Janet Jackson.
"Is she still making records?" I asked. "I thought she'd given up after that last fiasco."
"Hold on," he said rather seriously. "Don't you be talking about Janet. I love me some Janet."
Well, if I wasn't sure before, he certainly cleared it up right then. I went to art school, so I know that there are three highly revered women in the black gay community. Saying something against any one of these women will immediately ruffle the feathers of any brown peter-puffer.
Janet Jackson. Madonna. Mariah Carey.
I might as well have told a Catholic that Virgin Mary was a whore.
So I decided to have some fun with him. "Oh, I love Janet Jackson, too."
"She's bad, man," he said, smiling.
"And she got that fat booty, right?"
"Yeah," he said, looking slightly uncomfortable.
"She be doing all them freaky dance moves and singing about all that freaky shit and it make you just wanna bend her over and bang that shit out one time and give her something new to sing about, right?"
"Yeah," he said, drawing away from me as if I were talking about child porn.
"The little motherfucker Jermaine Dupri ain't hittin' that shit right. She need to get some of this Mandingo Black African Swahili shit I got going on over here. I got the goddamn velvet rope right here, knowhutumsayin?"
"Yeah, man," he said flatly, "Bang that shit out."
"Remember when her titty popped out at the Superbowl and Justin ain't wanna claim that titty? Sheeeeeeit! I woulda claimed that titty."
I let up after I was satisfied that he was sufficiently uncomfortable. My hope is that I was able to help the brother. See? I do have a heart.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
TO HEAR MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS
JOIN ME AT www.blackbroadway-online.com
Factoid: Did you know that Sherman "George Jefferson" Hemsley, James "Phillip Banks" Avery and Reginald "Carl Winslow" VelJohnson are all flaming queens? Now go back and watch a rerun of any one of those shows and see if it's not hysterically obvious.
Just the other day I ran into this guy I know whom I've long suspected to be gay. There's just something about him. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm no homophobe. I just don't really have a lot of respect for closet fags.
It's not like it's the fifties or something. And this is a super-liberal town. If he came out of the closet, no one would so much as bat an eye. I think it's kind of immature to hide your gayness. You don't have to start wearing makeup and taking hormone pills, but don't try to hide what's obvious. It insults everyone's intelligence.
We're both big Erykah Badu fans so we were discussing the sheer genius of her latest release New Amerykah. Then he adds that she debuted at number two on the R&B charts, second to Janet Jackson.
"Is she still making records?" I asked. "I thought she'd given up after that last fiasco."
"Hold on," he said rather seriously. "Don't you be talking about Janet. I love me some Janet."
Well, if I wasn't sure before, he certainly cleared it up right then. I went to art school, so I know that there are three highly revered women in the black gay community. Saying something against any one of these women will immediately ruffle the feathers of any brown peter-puffer.
Janet Jackson. Madonna. Mariah Carey.
I might as well have told a Catholic that Virgin Mary was a whore.
So I decided to have some fun with him. "Oh, I love Janet Jackson, too."
"She's bad, man," he said, smiling.
"And she got that fat booty, right?"
"Yeah," he said, looking slightly uncomfortable.
"She be doing all them freaky dance moves and singing about all that freaky shit and it make you just wanna bend her over and bang that shit out one time and give her something new to sing about, right?"
"Yeah," he said, drawing away from me as if I were talking about child porn.
"The little motherfucker Jermaine Dupri ain't hittin' that shit right. She need to get some of this Mandingo Black African Swahili shit I got going on over here. I got the goddamn velvet rope right here, knowhutumsayin?"
"Yeah, man," he said flatly, "Bang that shit out."
"Remember when her titty popped out at the Superbowl and Justin ain't wanna claim that titty? Sheeeeeeit! I woulda claimed that titty."
I let up after I was satisfied that he was sufficiently uncomfortable. My hope is that I was able to help the brother. See? I do have a heart.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
TO HEAR MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS
JOIN ME AT www.blackbroadway-online.com
Factoid: Did you know that Sherman "George Jefferson" Hemsley, James "Phillip Banks" Avery and Reginald "Carl Winslow" VelJohnson are all flaming queens? Now go back and watch a rerun of any one of those shows and see if it's not hysterically obvious.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Apathy Plus Shame Equals Sarcasm
Okay:
Here's an embarrassing factoid...I suck at math.
A lot of you who read this blog are artists as well, and I can hear you all with my special Internet Telepathy saying to yourselves, "me too."
But trust me; you don't suck at math like I suck at math.
I still count on my fingers. I don't know the multiplication table past 2s (except, of course, for 5s, 7s and 11s, which all have those clever little patterns). I have to work out two digit addition and subtraction problems on a sheet of paper and I'm still not quite sure how long division works.
I failed math every year in high school and had to retake it every summer.
Luckily, I was right when I imagined that there was no way in hell I'd ever need to use any of this shit in the real world on a regular basis.
I can remember my sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Baker, saying, "When you go into a store and buy something, you want to be able to figure out your change so they won't cheat you."
Everything this woman taught us was based in some misanthropic pretense. She once strongly cautioned us against having drinks in other people's homes for fear of being poisoned. "If it's not in a closed can, I simply tell them I don't care for any," she said.
There was a lot of paranoia surrounding the poisoning of children in the eighties. There were after-school specials and assemblies and what have you. Remember those little green mad face stickers with the poison control hotline number? Now we've got terrorism and Internet predators. Our parents had communists and venereal disease.
I'm happy to say that neither I nor anyone I know has ever been poisoned by an open beverage or Halloween candy. I also have not learned to tabulate my change in my head. And I'd like to assume that no one has ever tried to cheat me.
Math-wise, things started going downhill for me after we finished the unit on subtraction, which I estimate to be sometime in the first grade. Multiplication perplexed me. My teacher described it as, "fast addition."
I remember thinking to myself, "Why is everyone always in a rush about everything?"
It was a slippery slope from there. But the coup de grace was your friend and mine...long division.
I hated long division like it was a person.
I knew it was going to be trouble from the start. And, as I mentioned before, I never had that breakthrough that I was expecting. I fully anticipated a light turning on one day. And I would be, like, "Oh, now I get it." But that never happened. My mother even got me a tutor, but nothing seemed to work.
Come to think of it, this is when I started acting out in school. Around the time long division showed up. The most annoying thing about long division was how long it stuck around. It seemed like we spent an entire school year working on it. It was like an in-grown pubic hair, a sort of private pain.
By the time they started introducing letters and whatnot, all that x and y business, I had completely tuned out. I felt in math class much like the geek must feel in gym class. Only, I also hated gym. School just started to suck in general after a while. It was painful.
I disguised my pain by becoming the class clown, a title I would hold indefinitely. Even in grad school.
So then, after ten years of hiding my secret shame, my daughter came home last night with math homework.
Fucking fractions.
If there's anything I hate anywhere near as much as long division, it is fucking fractions. Why am I concerning myself with numbers less than one? How is this practically useful if I'm not baking a cake? And even if I'm baking a cake, they've got those measuring cups and spoons and shit and so you don't need to know any of this shit, now do you?
Remember when the teacher used to try to use pizzas to explain fractions? If Johnny eats one eighth of the pizza and Bobby eats one fourth and blah blah blah. Who gives a shit as long as I get a fucking slice? There's no math to that. Just give me my fucking slice of pizza, you prick!
The irony of all is that my first teaching assignment was middle school math. I needed a job and they needed a math teacher. "Can you teach math?" the principal asked during the interview.
"Lady," I said confidently, "I can teach anything."
I had to concentrate in order not to laugh.
Anyway.
I tried to help her with it, but I just ended up confusing myself. I was trying to fold a sheet of paper into sixths but I started off all wrong and tried to start over and ended up balling the paper up and throwing it on the ground.
My daughter patted me on the back. "Daddy," she said. "It's not as complicated as you're trying to make it out to be. The big number goes on the bottom and the small number gets topsies."
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH MY VIDEOS AT
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com
Factoid: I was elected class clown my senior year in high school. And I went to art school, so that means I was a total ass!
Here's an embarrassing factoid...I suck at math.
A lot of you who read this blog are artists as well, and I can hear you all with my special Internet Telepathy saying to yourselves, "me too."
But trust me; you don't suck at math like I suck at math.
I still count on my fingers. I don't know the multiplication table past 2s (except, of course, for 5s, 7s and 11s, which all have those clever little patterns). I have to work out two digit addition and subtraction problems on a sheet of paper and I'm still not quite sure how long division works.
I failed math every year in high school and had to retake it every summer.
Luckily, I was right when I imagined that there was no way in hell I'd ever need to use any of this shit in the real world on a regular basis.
I can remember my sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Baker, saying, "When you go into a store and buy something, you want to be able to figure out your change so they won't cheat you."
Everything this woman taught us was based in some misanthropic pretense. She once strongly cautioned us against having drinks in other people's homes for fear of being poisoned. "If it's not in a closed can, I simply tell them I don't care for any," she said.
There was a lot of paranoia surrounding the poisoning of children in the eighties. There were after-school specials and assemblies and what have you. Remember those little green mad face stickers with the poison control hotline number? Now we've got terrorism and Internet predators. Our parents had communists and venereal disease.
I'm happy to say that neither I nor anyone I know has ever been poisoned by an open beverage or Halloween candy. I also have not learned to tabulate my change in my head. And I'd like to assume that no one has ever tried to cheat me.
Math-wise, things started going downhill for me after we finished the unit on subtraction, which I estimate to be sometime in the first grade. Multiplication perplexed me. My teacher described it as, "fast addition."
I remember thinking to myself, "Why is everyone always in a rush about everything?"
It was a slippery slope from there. But the coup de grace was your friend and mine...long division.
I hated long division like it was a person.
I knew it was going to be trouble from the start. And, as I mentioned before, I never had that breakthrough that I was expecting. I fully anticipated a light turning on one day. And I would be, like, "Oh, now I get it." But that never happened. My mother even got me a tutor, but nothing seemed to work.
Come to think of it, this is when I started acting out in school. Around the time long division showed up. The most annoying thing about long division was how long it stuck around. It seemed like we spent an entire school year working on it. It was like an in-grown pubic hair, a sort of private pain.
By the time they started introducing letters and whatnot, all that x and y business, I had completely tuned out. I felt in math class much like the geek must feel in gym class. Only, I also hated gym. School just started to suck in general after a while. It was painful.
I disguised my pain by becoming the class clown, a title I would hold indefinitely. Even in grad school.
So then, after ten years of hiding my secret shame, my daughter came home last night with math homework.
Fucking fractions.
If there's anything I hate anywhere near as much as long division, it is fucking fractions. Why am I concerning myself with numbers less than one? How is this practically useful if I'm not baking a cake? And even if I'm baking a cake, they've got those measuring cups and spoons and shit and so you don't need to know any of this shit, now do you?
Remember when the teacher used to try to use pizzas to explain fractions? If Johnny eats one eighth of the pizza and Bobby eats one fourth and blah blah blah. Who gives a shit as long as I get a fucking slice? There's no math to that. Just give me my fucking slice of pizza, you prick!
The irony of all is that my first teaching assignment was middle school math. I needed a job and they needed a math teacher. "Can you teach math?" the principal asked during the interview.
"Lady," I said confidently, "I can teach anything."
I had to concentrate in order not to laugh.
Anyway.
I tried to help her with it, but I just ended up confusing myself. I was trying to fold a sheet of paper into sixths but I started off all wrong and tried to start over and ended up balling the paper up and throwing it on the ground.
My daughter patted me on the back. "Daddy," she said. "It's not as complicated as you're trying to make it out to be. The big number goes on the bottom and the small number gets topsies."
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH MY VIDEOS AT
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com
Factoid: I was elected class clown my senior year in high school. And I went to art school, so that means I was a total ass!
Father Knows Best
Okay:
I was taking my daughter out of the tub the other day when somehow the topic of basketball came up. "Do you want to play basketball?" I asked her.
"No," she said flatly.
"'Cause you know," I said, "Girls can play basketball if they want to. It's not just a boy thing. Girls can do whatever they want to do."
"Well," she said, rather quickly, "Can they play basketball with a dead ferret?"
"No," I said, confused, "They can't play basketball with a dead ferret."
"Well then they can't do whatever they want to do, now can they?"
I took my daughter to see Horton Hears a Who on Saturday. We ended up an hour early for the movie so I decided to kill time in, you guessed it, Target. After spending nearly one hundred dollars in Target on things I didn't know I needed, my daughter and I were suddenly struck with hunger pangs. With only minutes left before the movie now, I made a quick decision to get two soft pretzels from Aunt Annie's. We snuck the pretzels into the theatre under her coat. Although she pleaded ad nauseum, "Daddy, I'm hungry", I insisted that we wait until the previews began before we started eating.
When the previews began, I handed her her pretzel and began tearing away at mine.
"Daddy," she said, slowly and seriously, "Slow down. Don't eat your whole pretzel before the movie starts because then you won't have anything to eat during the movie."
I was almost upset by her precociousness, but I was too busy stuffing my face. I have had, for as long as I can remember, a very bad habit of eating quickly. I take huge bites and barely chew my food before I swallow. It's as if I were a homeless urchin taken in by a benevolent Mormon family with more chicken and biscuits than they know what to do with.
Predictably, when the movie began, my pretzel was all gone.
"Daddy," she said, "Did you eat your whole pretzel?"
I looked at her, pitifully, with a mouth full of delicious, buttery, salty dough and nodded yes.
She seemed annoyed. "I told you not to do that. Here, take some of mine." She handed me half of her pretzel.
One day my daughter walked in the room while I was typing on my laptop. I didn't acknowledge her presence. I just continued typing. I imagined that she might be bored or hungry or both, and figured if I ignored her she would eventually discover something more entertaining, like the television or her nostril.
She walked over to me and peered over my shoulder curiously.
She didn't say a word.
Then she walked around and stood in front of me, her eyes wide and bright like Christmas morning. "Daddy," she said, barely able to contain her excitement. She pointed at my laptop. "What would you do if I peed on that?"
My daughter is proof positive of evolutionary theory. She's already ten times smarter than her old man.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
TO LISTEN TO COOL CEE BROWN MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
Factioid: My kid is smarter and cuter than your kid! Bet money!
I was taking my daughter out of the tub the other day when somehow the topic of basketball came up. "Do you want to play basketball?" I asked her.
"No," she said flatly.
"'Cause you know," I said, "Girls can play basketball if they want to. It's not just a boy thing. Girls can do whatever they want to do."
"Well," she said, rather quickly, "Can they play basketball with a dead ferret?"
"No," I said, confused, "They can't play basketball with a dead ferret."
"Well then they can't do whatever they want to do, now can they?"
I took my daughter to see Horton Hears a Who on Saturday. We ended up an hour early for the movie so I decided to kill time in, you guessed it, Target. After spending nearly one hundred dollars in Target on things I didn't know I needed, my daughter and I were suddenly struck with hunger pangs. With only minutes left before the movie now, I made a quick decision to get two soft pretzels from Aunt Annie's. We snuck the pretzels into the theatre under her coat. Although she pleaded ad nauseum, "Daddy, I'm hungry", I insisted that we wait until the previews began before we started eating.
When the previews began, I handed her her pretzel and began tearing away at mine.
"Daddy," she said, slowly and seriously, "Slow down. Don't eat your whole pretzel before the movie starts because then you won't have anything to eat during the movie."
I was almost upset by her precociousness, but I was too busy stuffing my face. I have had, for as long as I can remember, a very bad habit of eating quickly. I take huge bites and barely chew my food before I swallow. It's as if I were a homeless urchin taken in by a benevolent Mormon family with more chicken and biscuits than they know what to do with.
Predictably, when the movie began, my pretzel was all gone.
"Daddy," she said, "Did you eat your whole pretzel?"
I looked at her, pitifully, with a mouth full of delicious, buttery, salty dough and nodded yes.
She seemed annoyed. "I told you not to do that. Here, take some of mine." She handed me half of her pretzel.
One day my daughter walked in the room while I was typing on my laptop. I didn't acknowledge her presence. I just continued typing. I imagined that she might be bored or hungry or both, and figured if I ignored her she would eventually discover something more entertaining, like the television or her nostril.
She walked over to me and peered over my shoulder curiously.
She didn't say a word.
Then she walked around and stood in front of me, her eyes wide and bright like Christmas morning. "Daddy," she said, barely able to contain her excitement. She pointed at my laptop. "What would you do if I peed on that?"
My daughter is proof positive of evolutionary theory. She's already ten times smarter than her old man.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
TO LISTEN TO COOL CEE BROWN MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
Factioid: My kid is smarter and cuter than your kid! Bet money!
Friday, March 14, 2008
Misadventures In Waiting
Okay:
I waited tables and bartended for five years or so. I hated waiting tables with a bizarre sort of passion that none of my co-workers seemed to share with me. Upon graduating from college I realized that I wasn't really qualified to do anything special and there was no six-figure job waiting for me. I was damn near unemployable.
I was drinking a lot of scotch and smoking a lot of weed.
I was working double shifts Monday through Friday so I could drive up to DC every weekend and see my newborn daughter. But working that hard, and that much, and living as hard as I was living then, began to take its toll.
My slip was showing, so to speak.
I can recall waiting on a table of middle-aged white women. I even remember what section they were sitting in and what time of it day it was, which is odd considering I was as high as I've ever been.
I moseyed on up to the table with my pepper grinder and feature menu in hand. I can remember barely being able to walk straight. I had to concentrate and envision a straight line on the floor that I was following. When I got to the table I smiled big and wide and began rattling off the featured dishes.
"Today we have on our feature menu the grilled salmon, served in a red pepper teryiaki sauce with a side of spinach orzo pasta and the sixteen ounce porter house...."
I trailed off.
I stood there for a moment, unaware that I had not completed my spiel but had faded out like the end of a song. To their credit, they just stared at me politely, fully anticipating that I would recover and finish.
It was a long, pregnant silence.
Finally, I said, "Can I get you guys something to drink? Sweet tea?"
Another time I was so drunk I could barely stand up. It was an angry drunk too. One of those drunks where you start thinking about everything that's wrong with your life and how most of it is not your fault. Yeah, I was drunk like that.
I approached the table, real slow-like. It was a table of young white guys. They were all teenagers probably. I hated them immediately. I don't know why. I just did. I walked up to the table and just stood there silently with my hands behind my back. They looked at me curiously then looked at one another. Nobody said anything.
Finally one of them said, "I'll have a lemonade."
I went and got his lemonade, brought it to him and stood there like the Fruit of Islam. Again, they looked at one another and looked at me and looked at one another. The guy with the lemonade, apparently the brains of the outfit, asked earnestly, "Do you like this job?"
I took a deep breath and replied a slow, meaningful, "No."
Another time I was opening the restaurant in the morning, doing prep work in the kitchen. I can't remember if I was high or not. I may have quit by then.
At any rate, I was in the kitchen chopping chives. I had gotten really good at it. The sous chef, Jim, had taught me how to do it. I was so good he had been trying to talk me into leaving the floor to come work in the kitchen. To this day, if given a good knife, I can chop food like nobody's business. You'd be impressed.
You already see where this is going.
Anyway, maybe was high. Maybe I wasn't. The point is, I wasn't paying attention and I didn't have on a cut glove. I felt a nick on my left ring finger. Instinctively I covered it with my other hand, wincing in pain. I saw the blood flowing but was reluctant to look at the actual cut. But when I looked down at the cutting board, I saw, lying innocently on the blade of the knife, a dime-sized piece of the tip of my finger.
I yelled out for Jim and he came running. He told me he needed to see my finger to find out whether or not he needed to call the ambulance. I showed him my finger.
"GOOD GOD!" he shouted. "I've been working in kitchens for 20 years and that is the nastiest shit I've ever seen."
"Do I need an ambulance?"
"No, but you gotta cover that thing up. I think I'm gonna be sick."
You'll be glad to know that everything grew back good as new. Except the new skin is really tough and lighter than the rest of my finger and it has no feeling. But you wouldn't notice unless I told you.
Well, I hope you found these stories interesting. If you've ever waited tables, post a comment about one of your misadventures. Let's make an unproductive Friday at work out of it.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
Confession: It has not gone unnoticed by me that I have no feeling on the tip of my wedding band finger. I think it may be, like, a metaphor or something.
I waited tables and bartended for five years or so. I hated waiting tables with a bizarre sort of passion that none of my co-workers seemed to share with me. Upon graduating from college I realized that I wasn't really qualified to do anything special and there was no six-figure job waiting for me. I was damn near unemployable.
I was drinking a lot of scotch and smoking a lot of weed.
I was working double shifts Monday through Friday so I could drive up to DC every weekend and see my newborn daughter. But working that hard, and that much, and living as hard as I was living then, began to take its toll.
My slip was showing, so to speak.
I can recall waiting on a table of middle-aged white women. I even remember what section they were sitting in and what time of it day it was, which is odd considering I was as high as I've ever been.
I moseyed on up to the table with my pepper grinder and feature menu in hand. I can remember barely being able to walk straight. I had to concentrate and envision a straight line on the floor that I was following. When I got to the table I smiled big and wide and began rattling off the featured dishes.
"Today we have on our feature menu the grilled salmon, served in a red pepper teryiaki sauce with a side of spinach orzo pasta and the sixteen ounce porter house...."
I trailed off.
I stood there for a moment, unaware that I had not completed my spiel but had faded out like the end of a song. To their credit, they just stared at me politely, fully anticipating that I would recover and finish.
It was a long, pregnant silence.
Finally, I said, "Can I get you guys something to drink? Sweet tea?"
Another time I was so drunk I could barely stand up. It was an angry drunk too. One of those drunks where you start thinking about everything that's wrong with your life and how most of it is not your fault. Yeah, I was drunk like that.
I approached the table, real slow-like. It was a table of young white guys. They were all teenagers probably. I hated them immediately. I don't know why. I just did. I walked up to the table and just stood there silently with my hands behind my back. They looked at me curiously then looked at one another. Nobody said anything.
Finally one of them said, "I'll have a lemonade."
I went and got his lemonade, brought it to him and stood there like the Fruit of Islam. Again, they looked at one another and looked at me and looked at one another. The guy with the lemonade, apparently the brains of the outfit, asked earnestly, "Do you like this job?"
I took a deep breath and replied a slow, meaningful, "No."
Another time I was opening the restaurant in the morning, doing prep work in the kitchen. I can't remember if I was high or not. I may have quit by then.
At any rate, I was in the kitchen chopping chives. I had gotten really good at it. The sous chef, Jim, had taught me how to do it. I was so good he had been trying to talk me into leaving the floor to come work in the kitchen. To this day, if given a good knife, I can chop food like nobody's business. You'd be impressed.
You already see where this is going.
Anyway, maybe was high. Maybe I wasn't. The point is, I wasn't paying attention and I didn't have on a cut glove. I felt a nick on my left ring finger. Instinctively I covered it with my other hand, wincing in pain. I saw the blood flowing but was reluctant to look at the actual cut. But when I looked down at the cutting board, I saw, lying innocently on the blade of the knife, a dime-sized piece of the tip of my finger.
I yelled out for Jim and he came running. He told me he needed to see my finger to find out whether or not he needed to call the ambulance. I showed him my finger.
"GOOD GOD!" he shouted. "I've been working in kitchens for 20 years and that is the nastiest shit I've ever seen."
"Do I need an ambulance?"
"No, but you gotta cover that thing up. I think I'm gonna be sick."
You'll be glad to know that everything grew back good as new. Except the new skin is really tough and lighter than the rest of my finger and it has no feeling. But you wouldn't notice unless I told you.
Well, I hope you found these stories interesting. If you've ever waited tables, post a comment about one of your misadventures. Let's make an unproductive Friday at work out of it.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
Confession: It has not gone unnoticed by me that I have no feeling on the tip of my wedding band finger. I think it may be, like, a metaphor or something.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
The Impossible Dreams
Okay:
I once went to a professional development seminar about positive behavior facilitation. We were asked to make a list of ten things we wanted to do before we died.
I get really excited about activities like this. Not sure why. I finished my list rather quickly and when I read it off to the group, I was surprised to hear laughter. Hysteric laughter.
I offer you my list, for your reading pleasure. Maybe it will make you laugh.
1. Sky Dive: I have an obsession with the act of jumping out of a plane. To me it is the epitome of fearlessness. I also imagine that if you are on a date with a woman and she's still trying to figure out whether or not she's going to sleep with you then you tell her that you've jumped out of a plane before, it could easily get you over that hump (no pun intended) of indecisiveness. Women dig studs.
2. Take a Shit in The White House: I don't know if they have public restrooms in The White House. I haven't been since I was in elementary school. But if they do, I don't think I could die peacefully knowing that I never blessed their bowl.
3. Appear on Bill Maher: I'd love to trade witty barbs with my middle-aged white counter-part. I hear he's into promiscuous black women, which means we have something in common. We could hang out together after the show and play wingman for each other.
4. Sleep with Janet Jacme: I'm sure it's not so safe, so it'd probably be one of the last things I do. But this woman got me through some really rough times, and I'd love to have the opportunity to show her how much she means to me.
5. Get a Doctorate: I just like the way Dr. Nadir sounds. I'm hoping one day I'll accomplish enough so that someone will give me an honorary doctorate, Cosby-style. I don't really want to go through all that schooling and what have you.
6. Become a Black Belt: I've got a mean right hook but not much skill. It'd be cool to know you could kick everyone in the room's ass if you wanted to. I wouldn't talk no shit or anything. I'd play it real cool until someone tried me. Then I'd calmly bust his shit open and return to my glass of scotch. Can't you see it? I can.
7. Win an Oscar: I can't act, but I'd like to somehow win one day. For Best Lighting or Sound Editing or Silent Foreign-Language Animated Short Film, I don't really give a shit. I just want me one of them statues. And I want to wear a deep purple paisley velvet tuxedo and do the whole red carpet thing, play coy with the paparazzi and whatnot. You know the drill.
8. Sleep with Sade: I don't know if I really need to explain this one.
9. Sell a Million Records: I've never even sold enough records to cover my manufacturing costs. I feel like the universe owes me this one. (If you'd like to help you can buy my latest album Magnificent Bastard in my SnoCap box or at iTunes for $9.99).
10. Write a Book: This is something I've been wanting to do for years, but because of my ADHD, it has always alluded me. It would be a collection of autobiographical sketches and I would call it, You Can't Win.
Well, I hope you had fun laughing at my dreams.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: I have taken a shit in all three Congressional buildings.
I once went to a professional development seminar about positive behavior facilitation. We were asked to make a list of ten things we wanted to do before we died.
I get really excited about activities like this. Not sure why. I finished my list rather quickly and when I read it off to the group, I was surprised to hear laughter. Hysteric laughter.
I offer you my list, for your reading pleasure. Maybe it will make you laugh.
1. Sky Dive: I have an obsession with the act of jumping out of a plane. To me it is the epitome of fearlessness. I also imagine that if you are on a date with a woman and she's still trying to figure out whether or not she's going to sleep with you then you tell her that you've jumped out of a plane before, it could easily get you over that hump (no pun intended) of indecisiveness. Women dig studs.
2. Take a Shit in The White House: I don't know if they have public restrooms in The White House. I haven't been since I was in elementary school. But if they do, I don't think I could die peacefully knowing that I never blessed their bowl.
3. Appear on Bill Maher: I'd love to trade witty barbs with my middle-aged white counter-part. I hear he's into promiscuous black women, which means we have something in common. We could hang out together after the show and play wingman for each other.
4. Sleep with Janet Jacme: I'm sure it's not so safe, so it'd probably be one of the last things I do. But this woman got me through some really rough times, and I'd love to have the opportunity to show her how much she means to me.
5. Get a Doctorate: I just like the way Dr. Nadir sounds. I'm hoping one day I'll accomplish enough so that someone will give me an honorary doctorate, Cosby-style. I don't really want to go through all that schooling and what have you.
6. Become a Black Belt: I've got a mean right hook but not much skill. It'd be cool to know you could kick everyone in the room's ass if you wanted to. I wouldn't talk no shit or anything. I'd play it real cool until someone tried me. Then I'd calmly bust his shit open and return to my glass of scotch. Can't you see it? I can.
7. Win an Oscar: I can't act, but I'd like to somehow win one day. For Best Lighting or Sound Editing or Silent Foreign-Language Animated Short Film, I don't really give a shit. I just want me one of them statues. And I want to wear a deep purple paisley velvet tuxedo and do the whole red carpet thing, play coy with the paparazzi and whatnot. You know the drill.
8. Sleep with Sade: I don't know if I really need to explain this one.
9. Sell a Million Records: I've never even sold enough records to cover my manufacturing costs. I feel like the universe owes me this one. (If you'd like to help you can buy my latest album Magnificent Bastard in my SnoCap box or at iTunes for $9.99).
10. Write a Book: This is something I've been wanting to do for years, but because of my ADHD, it has always alluded me. It would be a collection of autobiographical sketches and I would call it, You Can't Win.
Well, I hope you had fun laughing at my dreams.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: I have taken a shit in all three Congressional buildings.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
The Breast A Man Can Get
Okay:
A few years back I was working at this charter school. It was run by this nice, older brother. At the orientation he spoke to the hundred or so employees, new and returning, about his educational philosophy. It was really motivational, helped to revitalize my waning passion for teaching. But I couldn't help but notice something very disturbing.
Here he was, this educated, well-to-do philanthropist of sorts, pouring his heart out, and I couldn't take my eyes off his tits.
He was at least a B-cup.
Like Mona Lisa's eyes, his titties followed me around the room.
He wasn't grossly overweight or anything. He just had these titties that he couldn't hide no matter what kind of shirt he wore.
I went home and told my father. He said, "I've got some pretty big ones myself, son. It happens when you get older. Unless, of course, you're naturally thin or work out regularly. You're gonna get tits."
I vowed that I would never allow it to happen to me.
Then I was out having drinks with some friends a few days ago and this sister said to me, "Oh, look. You've got man-breasts."
I said something rude to her and tried to forget about it. But, of course, I couldn't.
That night I went home and took a look in the mirror. Yes, I already knew that things were a lot softer than they used to be but I hadn't quite noticed that I was growing tits.
But there they were.
I promised myself that I would go on a diet and start working out. It took a few days but last night I went for an evening run. I synced up my iPod with a high energy playlist, put on my running shoes and headed out the door. About half way up the block I noticed something.
Shit was flopping against other shit.
It wasn't painful, but certainly uncomfortable and, most of all, dismaying.
When did this happen? I used to be in such great shape. Hard as a rock. I shit you not. In fact, when I took off my clothes my lady friends would often comment on how nice my body was. It wasn't even really anything I thought about too much.
The logical part of my brain began thinking about ways to control the flopping. A sports bra maybe? Then my ego kicked in and said, "Claude, this is unacceptable."
My ego is a character in and of itself. It has my sister's voice, always tells the truth and speaks in dramatic monologues. Not to be confused with my conscience, which speaks in Malcolm X's voice but hasn't had a lot to say since 1998.
"Claude," it said, "You have got to get rid of these tits. Put that on your list of things to do, right up there with fixing your credit and throwing away your porn."
"What woman," it continued, "would be turned on when she rubs her hands across your chest and gets a handful of fat man-titty?"
So, ladies and gentleman. I will be keeping you posted on my new commitment to fitness. Although it is motivated solely by vanity and lust, I believe I will be successful in regaining the body of my youth. When there is significant change, I will post pictures.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Innocent Question: Ladies, does your man have tits? And does it bother/threaten you?
A few years back I was working at this charter school. It was run by this nice, older brother. At the orientation he spoke to the hundred or so employees, new and returning, about his educational philosophy. It was really motivational, helped to revitalize my waning passion for teaching. But I couldn't help but notice something very disturbing.
Here he was, this educated, well-to-do philanthropist of sorts, pouring his heart out, and I couldn't take my eyes off his tits.
He was at least a B-cup.
Like Mona Lisa's eyes, his titties followed me around the room.
He wasn't grossly overweight or anything. He just had these titties that he couldn't hide no matter what kind of shirt he wore.
I went home and told my father. He said, "I've got some pretty big ones myself, son. It happens when you get older. Unless, of course, you're naturally thin or work out regularly. You're gonna get tits."
I vowed that I would never allow it to happen to me.
Then I was out having drinks with some friends a few days ago and this sister said to me, "Oh, look. You've got man-breasts."
I said something rude to her and tried to forget about it. But, of course, I couldn't.
That night I went home and took a look in the mirror. Yes, I already knew that things were a lot softer than they used to be but I hadn't quite noticed that I was growing tits.
But there they were.
I promised myself that I would go on a diet and start working out. It took a few days but last night I went for an evening run. I synced up my iPod with a high energy playlist, put on my running shoes and headed out the door. About half way up the block I noticed something.
Shit was flopping against other shit.
It wasn't painful, but certainly uncomfortable and, most of all, dismaying.
When did this happen? I used to be in such great shape. Hard as a rock. I shit you not. In fact, when I took off my clothes my lady friends would often comment on how nice my body was. It wasn't even really anything I thought about too much.
The logical part of my brain began thinking about ways to control the flopping. A sports bra maybe? Then my ego kicked in and said, "Claude, this is unacceptable."
My ego is a character in and of itself. It has my sister's voice, always tells the truth and speaks in dramatic monologues. Not to be confused with my conscience, which speaks in Malcolm X's voice but hasn't had a lot to say since 1998.
"Claude," it said, "You have got to get rid of these tits. Put that on your list of things to do, right up there with fixing your credit and throwing away your porn."
"What woman," it continued, "would be turned on when she rubs her hands across your chest and gets a handful of fat man-titty?"
So, ladies and gentleman. I will be keeping you posted on my new commitment to fitness. Although it is motivated solely by vanity and lust, I believe I will be successful in regaining the body of my youth. When there is significant change, I will post pictures.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Innocent Question: Ladies, does your man have tits? And does it bother/threaten you?
Monday, March 10, 2008
Looking For Love At The Gentleman's Club
Okay:
Men are dumb.
Men are dumb because we do all sorts of dumb shit. Like paying for sex. And the only thing dumber than paying for sex is paying to watch women take their clothes off. Now, I have never paid for sex--at least not directly--but I have shoved many a dollar into the g-string of a stripper.
What's funny is most men would vehemently deny ever having gone to a prostitute, but see nothing wrong with spending fifty bucks at a strip club with no promise of ejaculating. Seems like one makes more sense than the other.
I first visited a strip club while I was in college in North Carolina. It was a hole in the wall that was robbed by three armed gunmen just days later. I ended up there because my homeboy was the bouncer and I had given him a ride to work. The Durham strip clubs, I would later learn, were unique in their pared-down raunchiness. There were literally no rules, except you were not allowed to have actual intercourse on the dance floor.
I won't disgust you with the details, but I will say that those young ladies worked really hard for five dollars. Really hard. And there wasn't a whole lot of dancing going on. The shit those guys were pulling would get you bounced out of a typical strip club on your ass. But this was Durham.
The trade off? None of those girls were Jet Beauty of the Week material. Most of them were grossly over weight and poorly groomed. I have since learned that there is a whole 'nother class of stripper. Ones who get their hair done or wear really nice wigs, eat well, work out regularly, wear custom-made outfits and use professional make up artists. And some of them are really talented dancers!
But these Durham girls.
They were just nasty. Of course, now I realize, ten years later, that it was probably just a big prostitution front. The "dancing" was just, like, an appetizer.
I got my first real dose of a strip club at a bachelor party in Charlotte a few years later. There were no shortage of rules at this place. We almost didn't get in because one of us had on boots or something. Posted on the wall when you walked in, big as day, was a sign that read: DO NOT TOUCH THE DANCERS.
I was flabbergasted.
What are you supposed to do with them then? I thought. Just watch them dance?
Then I noticed something equally disturbing. The strippers all had on bottoms. Don't get me wrong. I love tits just as much as the next man, but this isn't 1988. I need to see the good stuff to get excited.
I had a good time and all, but I couldn't help missing my little hole in the wall back in Durham. This place was so clean and sterile. They were all missing the point. A topless strip club is like a joke with no punchline.
Then I saw her.
A ridiculously voluptuous midget.
This woman was incredible. Were she not just a mere 4'8", she could have been a world famous rap video hoochie. At any rate, I got my punchline when I saw her give a lap dance to 6'8" bruiser on the outskirts of the dance floor. Her feet didn't touch the floor the whole time. She just kind of wiggled around in his lap.
The lap dances in this place: $20
The look on her face when she tried to turn around for a reverse cowgirl and almost fell off his lap: PRICELESS!
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: There is a tops-and-bottoms-on, no-lap dancing, no-touching strip club in DC. Totally fucking pointless!!!!
Men are dumb.
Men are dumb because we do all sorts of dumb shit. Like paying for sex. And the only thing dumber than paying for sex is paying to watch women take their clothes off. Now, I have never paid for sex--at least not directly--but I have shoved many a dollar into the g-string of a stripper.
What's funny is most men would vehemently deny ever having gone to a prostitute, but see nothing wrong with spending fifty bucks at a strip club with no promise of ejaculating. Seems like one makes more sense than the other.
I first visited a strip club while I was in college in North Carolina. It was a hole in the wall that was robbed by three armed gunmen just days later. I ended up there because my homeboy was the bouncer and I had given him a ride to work. The Durham strip clubs, I would later learn, were unique in their pared-down raunchiness. There were literally no rules, except you were not allowed to have actual intercourse on the dance floor.
I won't disgust you with the details, but I will say that those young ladies worked really hard for five dollars. Really hard. And there wasn't a whole lot of dancing going on. The shit those guys were pulling would get you bounced out of a typical strip club on your ass. But this was Durham.
The trade off? None of those girls were Jet Beauty of the Week material. Most of them were grossly over weight and poorly groomed. I have since learned that there is a whole 'nother class of stripper. Ones who get their hair done or wear really nice wigs, eat well, work out regularly, wear custom-made outfits and use professional make up artists. And some of them are really talented dancers!
But these Durham girls.
They were just nasty. Of course, now I realize, ten years later, that it was probably just a big prostitution front. The "dancing" was just, like, an appetizer.
I got my first real dose of a strip club at a bachelor party in Charlotte a few years later. There were no shortage of rules at this place. We almost didn't get in because one of us had on boots or something. Posted on the wall when you walked in, big as day, was a sign that read: DO NOT TOUCH THE DANCERS.
I was flabbergasted.
What are you supposed to do with them then? I thought. Just watch them dance?
Then I noticed something equally disturbing. The strippers all had on bottoms. Don't get me wrong. I love tits just as much as the next man, but this isn't 1988. I need to see the good stuff to get excited.
I had a good time and all, but I couldn't help missing my little hole in the wall back in Durham. This place was so clean and sterile. They were all missing the point. A topless strip club is like a joke with no punchline.
Then I saw her.
A ridiculously voluptuous midget.
This woman was incredible. Were she not just a mere 4'8", she could have been a world famous rap video hoochie. At any rate, I got my punchline when I saw her give a lap dance to 6'8" bruiser on the outskirts of the dance floor. Her feet didn't touch the floor the whole time. She just kind of wiggled around in his lap.
The lap dances in this place: $20
The look on her face when she tried to turn around for a reverse cowgirl and almost fell off his lap: PRICELESS!
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: There is a tops-and-bottoms-on, no-lap dancing, no-touching strip club in DC. Totally fucking pointless!!!!
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Moment Of Clarity
Okay:
Y'know. Last week was one hell of a week.
And I must admit, I behaved badly.
Nothing unusual for me. I do a lot of things I shouldn't do. More than that, I say a lot of things I shouldn't say. And when words don't work for me, I can do some pretty major damage with my silence.
It's a rarity that I'm ever silent, but when I am, it always seems to be at the wrong time.
So, I'm basically fucked.
Whatever I say is bound to be the wrong thing to say, and whatever I don't say is certain to be interpreted as insolence.
I'm not a victim though. I'm an asshole. I embrace it.
There is power in my assholery. I get to do and say a lot of things that normal people wouldn't dream of. Last week at happy hour I led a fifteen minutes group discussion about my penis.
"My penis is Martin Luther King," I said. "I had a dream...and it was my dick."
"My penis is George W. Bush, Jr.," I continued. "It won't pull out and it has a coalition of the willing...namely, my balls."
I can say things like this in public because I am an asshole and people know it. Because I embrace it, they accept it. Sometimes, however, I go too far.
A few weeks ago I said some unflattering things about a friend of mine behind her back. When it got back to her, she was understandably outraged and told me so.
But I didn't apologize.
I was silent.
I don't know. Part pride, part ego. Even though I knew I was one hundred percent wrong, I didn't do my due diligence in rectifying the situation with a prompt, sincere apology and explanation. It's not even like I was confused about whether I was wrong or not. I knew I was wrong, didn't deny it. I just didn't make it a priority to right things.
I let it fester for a week. We finally had it out on Friday when she approached me after work. I gave her an apology, which she accepted, but not without giving me a well-deserved earful about character and integrity.
Afterwards, I should have felt better but I didn't. I thought about it the whole weekend. Why did I do something so adolescent to begin with and why was I so reluctant to apologize?
Then it came to me while I was shitting. In my last relationship I did a lot of apologizing. At least once a week. Sometimes twice a week. I would get the silent treatment for days at a time. Two or three times a month I had to participate in screaming matches against my will.
Then after a few years, I turned her off. I stopped caring. It was the only way I could protect myself.
See, all that constant groveling and apologizing put me in a weak position. And being in a weak position sucks. I don't know how conscious it was, but I think I kind of made a pact with myself to no longer give into the emotional whims of women. Right or wrong, to always stand my ground.
So, even though my friend had a legitimate grievance, I couldn't approach her and apologize for fear that she would take the opportunity to belittle me and question my manhood. Better to let her approach me.
I was experiencing what I like to call an "Ex-Back". That is, a person or situation reminded me of my ex-girlfriend, so I freaked.
Bottom line: better to be an asshole than a sucker.
So, after I got off the toilet I felt a lot better. For a couple of reasons. I do intend to fix things with my friend, or at least explain my behavior. She is not my ex-girlfriend and does not deserve the full-brunt of my assholery.
See? Therapy is dumb. All you need is some peace and quiet and a nice, long shit.
I call it "Doo Doo Therapy".
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Innocent Question: Do you think that this is why God made us shit? So that at least three times a week we'd be forced to think about things? By that rationale, the more you shit, the more enlightened you are.
Y'know. Last week was one hell of a week.
And I must admit, I behaved badly.
Nothing unusual for me. I do a lot of things I shouldn't do. More than that, I say a lot of things I shouldn't say. And when words don't work for me, I can do some pretty major damage with my silence.
It's a rarity that I'm ever silent, but when I am, it always seems to be at the wrong time.
So, I'm basically fucked.
Whatever I say is bound to be the wrong thing to say, and whatever I don't say is certain to be interpreted as insolence.
I'm not a victim though. I'm an asshole. I embrace it.
There is power in my assholery. I get to do and say a lot of things that normal people wouldn't dream of. Last week at happy hour I led a fifteen minutes group discussion about my penis.
"My penis is Martin Luther King," I said. "I had a dream...and it was my dick."
"My penis is George W. Bush, Jr.," I continued. "It won't pull out and it has a coalition of the willing...namely, my balls."
I can say things like this in public because I am an asshole and people know it. Because I embrace it, they accept it. Sometimes, however, I go too far.
A few weeks ago I said some unflattering things about a friend of mine behind her back. When it got back to her, she was understandably outraged and told me so.
But I didn't apologize.
I was silent.
I don't know. Part pride, part ego. Even though I knew I was one hundred percent wrong, I didn't do my due diligence in rectifying the situation with a prompt, sincere apology and explanation. It's not even like I was confused about whether I was wrong or not. I knew I was wrong, didn't deny it. I just didn't make it a priority to right things.
I let it fester for a week. We finally had it out on Friday when she approached me after work. I gave her an apology, which she accepted, but not without giving me a well-deserved earful about character and integrity.
Afterwards, I should have felt better but I didn't. I thought about it the whole weekend. Why did I do something so adolescent to begin with and why was I so reluctant to apologize?
Then it came to me while I was shitting. In my last relationship I did a lot of apologizing. At least once a week. Sometimes twice a week. I would get the silent treatment for days at a time. Two or three times a month I had to participate in screaming matches against my will.
Then after a few years, I turned her off. I stopped caring. It was the only way I could protect myself.
See, all that constant groveling and apologizing put me in a weak position. And being in a weak position sucks. I don't know how conscious it was, but I think I kind of made a pact with myself to no longer give into the emotional whims of women. Right or wrong, to always stand my ground.
So, even though my friend had a legitimate grievance, I couldn't approach her and apologize for fear that she would take the opportunity to belittle me and question my manhood. Better to let her approach me.
I was experiencing what I like to call an "Ex-Back". That is, a person or situation reminded me of my ex-girlfriend, so I freaked.
Bottom line: better to be an asshole than a sucker.
So, after I got off the toilet I felt a lot better. For a couple of reasons. I do intend to fix things with my friend, or at least explain my behavior. She is not my ex-girlfriend and does not deserve the full-brunt of my assholery.
See? Therapy is dumb. All you need is some peace and quiet and a nice, long shit.
I call it "Doo Doo Therapy".
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Innocent Question: Do you think that this is why God made us shit? So that at least three times a week we'd be forced to think about things? By that rationale, the more you shit, the more enlightened you are.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Worst SAT Score Ever
Okay:
I remember quite clearly the day I took the SAT. As clearly as I remember anything from high school anyway. I don't remember the month, the day or the location. And I don't remember any of the questions or what the proctor(s) looked like. I don't even remember if it was particularly difficult.
I remember two things really:
I scored a 1090 (which was pretty good for a DCPS graduate in the late 90s)
and I took it the morning after an Outkast concert.
I remember that part because I was the only one among my crew of friends who did not go to the concert. I figured the SAT was more important. I imagined I'd have the chance to see them again. (Ironically, I would open for them two years later while in college.)
I also remember that my sister scored, like, a 1400 or something. But she was always the brains in the family.
Now, the scale is different. Not the scale exactly. They've just added a Writing portion that is also worth 800 points, so now a perfect score is 2400.
Remember they used to tell us that you get 200 points just for spelling your name right? I always imagined that there was some poor slob out there that they were thinking about. Someone who lacked the capacity to answer any of the questions correctly, but they did not want him to go home empty handed. Like a benevolent game show host. They did not want to make him feel like a complete loser. But I never imagined that someone could not even luck upon one or two good guesses.
That is until the other day.
One of my students brought in his SAT scores. He scored an even 200.
I teach this kid. I know he's limited. He can barely read at all, in fact. He has no phonemic awareness, and at 17, he's got no motivation to try to make up for lost time. To him, I imagine it's the same way that climbing Mount Everest seems like a cool idea.
But, DAMN.
No lucky guesses?
Isn't that, like, a mathematical impossibility?
He's in the first percentile in nearly every category.
He asked his reading teacher, "What do all these ones mean?"
It means he that he performed better than one percent of the people who took the SAT this year so far. And that one percent is probably just some sort of error margin. That is, that one percent probably does not exist.
Whilst racking my brain to figure out how in the hell this kid could have performed so poorly, it finally occurred to me.
He didn't perform at all.
He opened up that test, discovered he didn't understand a word of it and walked out.
Which begs an entirely different question: What jackass told this little boy to take the SAT?
Which begs another question: What do you do with a student who is limited, yet ambitious? Do you crush their spirit and tell them what they can't do?
I'm reminded of the teacher from The Autobiography of Malcolm X who told told young Malcolm that a lawyer was an unrealistic career goal for a nigger, that he should try to become a carpenter.
The flip side is of this philosophical question is the kid with the worst SAT score ever. His esteem is crushed. Is it up to knowledgeable adults that care for him to put him into situations were he can succeed?
Or does he need a reality check such as this to push him toward a more "realistic goal"?
A sort of truth therapy, which you all know I am in favor of.
Not sure.
No punchline here. Just a thought.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: I graduated from high school with a 2.2 GPA, but I graduated from college cum laude. See? High school is dumb.
I remember quite clearly the day I took the SAT. As clearly as I remember anything from high school anyway. I don't remember the month, the day or the location. And I don't remember any of the questions or what the proctor(s) looked like. I don't even remember if it was particularly difficult.
I remember two things really:
I scored a 1090 (which was pretty good for a DCPS graduate in the late 90s)
and I took it the morning after an Outkast concert.
I remember that part because I was the only one among my crew of friends who did not go to the concert. I figured the SAT was more important. I imagined I'd have the chance to see them again. (Ironically, I would open for them two years later while in college.)
I also remember that my sister scored, like, a 1400 or something. But she was always the brains in the family.
Now, the scale is different. Not the scale exactly. They've just added a Writing portion that is also worth 800 points, so now a perfect score is 2400.
Remember they used to tell us that you get 200 points just for spelling your name right? I always imagined that there was some poor slob out there that they were thinking about. Someone who lacked the capacity to answer any of the questions correctly, but they did not want him to go home empty handed. Like a benevolent game show host. They did not want to make him feel like a complete loser. But I never imagined that someone could not even luck upon one or two good guesses.
That is until the other day.
One of my students brought in his SAT scores. He scored an even 200.
I teach this kid. I know he's limited. He can barely read at all, in fact. He has no phonemic awareness, and at 17, he's got no motivation to try to make up for lost time. To him, I imagine it's the same way that climbing Mount Everest seems like a cool idea.
But, DAMN.
No lucky guesses?
Isn't that, like, a mathematical impossibility?
He's in the first percentile in nearly every category.
He asked his reading teacher, "What do all these ones mean?"
It means he that he performed better than one percent of the people who took the SAT this year so far. And that one percent is probably just some sort of error margin. That is, that one percent probably does not exist.
Whilst racking my brain to figure out how in the hell this kid could have performed so poorly, it finally occurred to me.
He didn't perform at all.
He opened up that test, discovered he didn't understand a word of it and walked out.
Which begs an entirely different question: What jackass told this little boy to take the SAT?
Which begs another question: What do you do with a student who is limited, yet ambitious? Do you crush their spirit and tell them what they can't do?
I'm reminded of the teacher from The Autobiography of Malcolm X who told told young Malcolm that a lawyer was an unrealistic career goal for a nigger, that he should try to become a carpenter.
The flip side is of this philosophical question is the kid with the worst SAT score ever. His esteem is crushed. Is it up to knowledgeable adults that care for him to put him into situations were he can succeed?
Or does he need a reality check such as this to push him toward a more "realistic goal"?
A sort of truth therapy, which you all know I am in favor of.
Not sure.
No punchline here. Just a thought.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: I graduated from high school with a 2.2 GPA, but I graduated from college cum laude. See? High school is dumb.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Behind Every Good Man
Okay:
I was watching the news today during my lunch break. I learned, sadly, that my man Barack lost both Ohio, Texas and one of those little states in New England. Which means he's gonna have to slug it out with Hillary until the Convention.
I'm a little fucked up about it.
A few days ago they were all but handing him the nomination on a bleach white napkin embroidered with the Presidential seal. Today, much is uncertain.
Meanwhile, the Republicans, including Huckabee, are all rallying around their guy. They can spend the next few months digging up dirt and stacking cash for the General Election.
On the other side, Hillary and Barack are going to spend the next few months trying to publicly lynch each other. By the time someone is nominated, the country may be sick of the whole affair. Making another four years of rightist, imperialist, fascist Republican bullshit a virtual certainty.
I'm coming to the point.
Whilst I was pitying myself and my fellow countrymen, I saw a clip of Michelle Obama on CNN addressing a rally somewhere. She had on a nice black business suit/dress get up with some ruffly business on the top. I noticed something I hadn't noticed before.
Michelle Obama has a really fat ass.
I mean, I always knew she was shapely and my man Barack had, to his credit, landed him a real sister.
But DAMN.
This woman could be a stripper if she wanted to. Hell, she could be a stripper in Atlanta. She could make it in Atlanta, man. And that's saying a lot because the bar is a lot higher down there. Shit's crazy down there. Them girls got talent.
Now some of you may shake your heads and say, "Claude, you're a staunch Barack supporter. How can you demean the potential First Lady so?"
I'm of the opinion that her having a brain and a fat ass is a good thing.
What sister doesn't want the brain, the degrees, the money, the prestige, the good man, the itty bitty waist and and the big ole juicy booty?
Move over, Oprah.
Michelle Obama is the new envy of every black woman in America. When little black girls say their prayers at night, that's what they ask for. Good Education, Good Career, Good Man, Fat Ass.
Now they'll just say, "God, make me Michelle Obama."
She is living the Black American Dream.
Now. Oprah's got the education, the dream job, more money than she could ever spend, and the fat ass, but no husband. And not that every black girl should aspire to get married, but I think most sisters, or people for that matter, would admit that it's on their list of things to do. Michelle is living proof that you can have it all.
And it's obvious, in my opinion, that Barack is still hittin' that. Matter of fact, I think he can't wait to hit that. Sometimes when they're on TV together I catch her looking at him like, "I'm a tear his ass up when we get back on the bus."
This shit is turning her on. I wouldn't be surprised if by the time this is all over she's pregnant with kid number three. If he wins, she may be the first First Lady to give birth while her husband's in office. I'll have to check my facts on that one.
Either way, I'm one hundred percent certain that neither Nancy, Barbara, Hillary or Laura got any dick while in the White House unless they got it from a friendly aid or Secret Service agent.
Well, maybe Laura still gets it. She's just so goddamn Stepford that I doubt she enjoys it.
Jackie O was getting it. But so was everyone else.
Bottom line: a sexy, shapely, sassy First Lady is a good thing. And them being sexually active will make people feel safe, I think. People who orgasm regularly are less likely to make bad decisions. If you can not only sleep on it, but sleep and bust a nut on it, all the better.
Another real-life reason to vote for my man.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factiod: They be doing it!
I was watching the news today during my lunch break. I learned, sadly, that my man Barack lost both Ohio, Texas and one of those little states in New England. Which means he's gonna have to slug it out with Hillary until the Convention.
I'm a little fucked up about it.
A few days ago they were all but handing him the nomination on a bleach white napkin embroidered with the Presidential seal. Today, much is uncertain.
Meanwhile, the Republicans, including Huckabee, are all rallying around their guy. They can spend the next few months digging up dirt and stacking cash for the General Election.
On the other side, Hillary and Barack are going to spend the next few months trying to publicly lynch each other. By the time someone is nominated, the country may be sick of the whole affair. Making another four years of rightist, imperialist, fascist Republican bullshit a virtual certainty.
I'm coming to the point.
Whilst I was pitying myself and my fellow countrymen, I saw a clip of Michelle Obama on CNN addressing a rally somewhere. She had on a nice black business suit/dress get up with some ruffly business on the top. I noticed something I hadn't noticed before.
Michelle Obama has a really fat ass.
I mean, I always knew she was shapely and my man Barack had, to his credit, landed him a real sister.
But DAMN.
This woman could be a stripper if she wanted to. Hell, she could be a stripper in Atlanta. She could make it in Atlanta, man. And that's saying a lot because the bar is a lot higher down there. Shit's crazy down there. Them girls got talent.
Now some of you may shake your heads and say, "Claude, you're a staunch Barack supporter. How can you demean the potential First Lady so?"
I'm of the opinion that her having a brain and a fat ass is a good thing.
What sister doesn't want the brain, the degrees, the money, the prestige, the good man, the itty bitty waist and and the big ole juicy booty?
Move over, Oprah.
Michelle Obama is the new envy of every black woman in America. When little black girls say their prayers at night, that's what they ask for. Good Education, Good Career, Good Man, Fat Ass.
Now they'll just say, "God, make me Michelle Obama."
She is living the Black American Dream.
Now. Oprah's got the education, the dream job, more money than she could ever spend, and the fat ass, but no husband. And not that every black girl should aspire to get married, but I think most sisters, or people for that matter, would admit that it's on their list of things to do. Michelle is living proof that you can have it all.
And it's obvious, in my opinion, that Barack is still hittin' that. Matter of fact, I think he can't wait to hit that. Sometimes when they're on TV together I catch her looking at him like, "I'm a tear his ass up when we get back on the bus."
This shit is turning her on. I wouldn't be surprised if by the time this is all over she's pregnant with kid number three. If he wins, she may be the first First Lady to give birth while her husband's in office. I'll have to check my facts on that one.
Either way, I'm one hundred percent certain that neither Nancy, Barbara, Hillary or Laura got any dick while in the White House unless they got it from a friendly aid or Secret Service agent.
Well, maybe Laura still gets it. She's just so goddamn Stepford that I doubt she enjoys it.
Jackie O was getting it. But so was everyone else.
Bottom line: a sexy, shapely, sassy First Lady is a good thing. And them being sexually active will make people feel safe, I think. People who orgasm regularly are less likely to make bad decisions. If you can not only sleep on it, but sleep and bust a nut on it, all the better.
Another real-life reason to vote for my man.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factiod: They be doing it!
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
The Ugliest Toenails On The Eastern Seaboard
Okay:
I'd like to talk about my toes today.
I used to have really nice toes. Once when I was younger I had a young lady suck on them.
Which is pretty cool for all the fellas who have never had the pleasure.
I still have nice feet. No corns or bunions. But my toes. Good Lord, my toes.
No self-respecting woman would ever put her mouth on them or anywhere near them.
The reform school I went to had a military program. When I arrived they gave me one pair of chloroforms and one pair of leather hard bottoms. After I got kicked out (Yes, you can get kicked out of reform school) I think I burned them or something.
I must have marched one thousand miles in those things.
Every morning they woke us up at the buttcrack of dawn. There was always a fifteen minute line in the showers. We all stood there, shivering in the morning cold with our thong flip flops and towels wrapped around our waists. It was like the breadline during the Depression. No one smiled. It was five o-clock in the morning. The floor was cement painted red, peeling all over.
You had five minutes. The flight sergeant stood nearby keeping time. Not that anyone wanted to take a long shower. The stalls were gross. You felt dirtier after you got out.
Truth be told, most people only needed 2 minutes to wash. Then they jerked off for 3 minutes. I know I did sometimes.
Then we held morning formation around the flag pole while someone played Reverie on a bugle. The bugle player sucked. As far as bugle playing goes. But like I said. It was five o'clock in the morning. Whitney Houston would have sounded like a dying warthog that early.
Then we marched to breakfast.
You heard me. We marched to fucking breakfast.
Thing is, the mess hall was only yards away from the flagpole. A thirty second leisurely walk. And it's not even like the breakfast was anything to get excited about, much less march about. Powdered eggs, biscuits and gravy. Cornbeef and hash.
But we had to march around the entire campus for this crap. Hundreds of us. The flight sergeants shouting cadence. "YOUR LEFT, YOUR LEFT, YOUR LEFT, RIGHT, YOUR LEFT, RIGHT, YOUR RIGHT, YOUR LEFT!"
I still hear that shit in my sleep sometimes.
The campus was probably a square half mile. Every fucking day. Every morning.
And every day after classes at 3:30.
Then once more at night before dinner.
Then there were those goddamn parades every other week. Sweltering heat. We had to wear our dress blouses for those things. Sometimes we had to stand at attention for up to a half-hour. Which may sound simple, but trust me--it ain't. Some people would lock their knees (which would cut off blood circulation), pass out and have to be taken to the infirmary. It worked, but I didn't like the idea of being unconscious down there. We were in the middle of Virginia and those rednecks were scary. No telling what they might do to an unconscious DC nigger.
Plus, if you got in trouble they gave you their neat little variation of detention. They called it Tours. Instead of sitting in a room and staring at the wall, you went to a gym and marched around the perimeter for three hours. Futility is torture.
Then if you got in big trouble they gave you in-school suspension. Not only did it include the day's three marches and the evening Tours, you had to do morning, afternoon and midnight PT (physical training). PT was run by a pure blood redneck named Sergeant Turner and consisted of hundreds of push ups, sit ups, Indian Runs and Suicides. You bought lots of Ben Gay from the canteen. I learned the hard way that you never apply Ben Gay above the mid-thigh mark. That shit travels under your skin.
Long story short, those bastards ruined my pretty little feet.
I've got three black toenails. And the ones that aren't black want to be.
My doctor told me they'll probably fall off one day, but that was years ago.
As a bit of a consolation, I was in remarkable shape for years. A six-pack, a well-defined back, and chiseled arms.
I ain't got no of that shit no more, but I still got the goddamn toes.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: As a result of my time there, I can shine a shoe and make a bed like nobody's business.
I'd like to talk about my toes today.
I used to have really nice toes. Once when I was younger I had a young lady suck on them.
Which is pretty cool for all the fellas who have never had the pleasure.
I still have nice feet. No corns or bunions. But my toes. Good Lord, my toes.
No self-respecting woman would ever put her mouth on them or anywhere near them.
The reform school I went to had a military program. When I arrived they gave me one pair of chloroforms and one pair of leather hard bottoms. After I got kicked out (Yes, you can get kicked out of reform school) I think I burned them or something.
I must have marched one thousand miles in those things.
Every morning they woke us up at the buttcrack of dawn. There was always a fifteen minute line in the showers. We all stood there, shivering in the morning cold with our thong flip flops and towels wrapped around our waists. It was like the breadline during the Depression. No one smiled. It was five o-clock in the morning. The floor was cement painted red, peeling all over.
You had five minutes. The flight sergeant stood nearby keeping time. Not that anyone wanted to take a long shower. The stalls were gross. You felt dirtier after you got out.
Truth be told, most people only needed 2 minutes to wash. Then they jerked off for 3 minutes. I know I did sometimes.
Then we held morning formation around the flag pole while someone played Reverie on a bugle. The bugle player sucked. As far as bugle playing goes. But like I said. It was five o'clock in the morning. Whitney Houston would have sounded like a dying warthog that early.
Then we marched to breakfast.
You heard me. We marched to fucking breakfast.
Thing is, the mess hall was only yards away from the flagpole. A thirty second leisurely walk. And it's not even like the breakfast was anything to get excited about, much less march about. Powdered eggs, biscuits and gravy. Cornbeef and hash.
But we had to march around the entire campus for this crap. Hundreds of us. The flight sergeants shouting cadence. "YOUR LEFT, YOUR LEFT, YOUR LEFT, RIGHT, YOUR LEFT, RIGHT, YOUR RIGHT, YOUR LEFT!"
I still hear that shit in my sleep sometimes.
The campus was probably a square half mile. Every fucking day. Every morning.
And every day after classes at 3:30.
Then once more at night before dinner.
Then there were those goddamn parades every other week. Sweltering heat. We had to wear our dress blouses for those things. Sometimes we had to stand at attention for up to a half-hour. Which may sound simple, but trust me--it ain't. Some people would lock their knees (which would cut off blood circulation), pass out and have to be taken to the infirmary. It worked, but I didn't like the idea of being unconscious down there. We were in the middle of Virginia and those rednecks were scary. No telling what they might do to an unconscious DC nigger.
Plus, if you got in trouble they gave you their neat little variation of detention. They called it Tours. Instead of sitting in a room and staring at the wall, you went to a gym and marched around the perimeter for three hours. Futility is torture.
Then if you got in big trouble they gave you in-school suspension. Not only did it include the day's three marches and the evening Tours, you had to do morning, afternoon and midnight PT (physical training). PT was run by a pure blood redneck named Sergeant Turner and consisted of hundreds of push ups, sit ups, Indian Runs and Suicides. You bought lots of Ben Gay from the canteen. I learned the hard way that you never apply Ben Gay above the mid-thigh mark. That shit travels under your skin.
Long story short, those bastards ruined my pretty little feet.
I've got three black toenails. And the ones that aren't black want to be.
My doctor told me they'll probably fall off one day, but that was years ago.
As a bit of a consolation, I was in remarkable shape for years. A six-pack, a well-defined back, and chiseled arms.
I ain't got no of that shit no more, but I still got the goddamn toes.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: As a result of my time there, I can shine a shoe and make a bed like nobody's business.
Something Is Fishy Here
Okay:
I recently went out with a few friends of mine to a happy hour in some hoity toity bistro just outside of Georgetown. The group was pretty much split in half gender-wise.
Now, this is no attempt to critique the character of our female companions, (both of whom I love dearly) but merely to understand certain behaviors.
I love black women.
I have a black mamma, a black grandmamma, 2 black sisters, a gang of black aunts, a black niece, etc., etc.
Salt of the earth as far as I'm concerned. And they are varied as the colors in the rainbow in terms of personality and temperment.
Having said all of that, I do have some questions/concerns.
If I hadn't seen this type of thing more than once, I wouldn't bring it up. If I hadn't seen it more than a few times in similar contexts, I wouldn't bring it up.
Here comes our waiter. A young wiry Latin American fellow, short on manners and obviously very busy. It happens. They can't all be overcome with joy to run for your drinks and napkins. But because he did not approach the table with a big gay Broadway musical smile, it set a certain tone. This is the part he played.
The beautiful black woman to my left asked, "Hey, what's in the tempura shrimp?"
The waiter replied with a pause and a slight smirk, "Shrimp."
Well, that was all it took. Her night was ruined, and she was not going to suffer in silence. She did that whole chastise-you-to-someone-else-but-loud-enough-for-you-to-hear thing.
"He's an asshole," she said to me, her back turned to him, "I know it has shrimp in it. I can read. I just needed him to explain the dish to me. That is his job, right?"
He was standing just 2 feet away and could most certainly hear everything she was saying. Poor guy. Was he a bit of a prick? Yes. And that's coming from someone who used to wait tables. So maybe he deserved a little heat.
Moving on.
The beautiful black woman to my right said, "It smells like fish in here."
The one to my left chimed in, "I didn't want to say anything, but it does stink."
"Girl, it's like day-old seafood or something. It's not supposed to smell this strong. Something ain't right."
As it turned out, we were in a seafood restaurant. But it was a little fishier than it should have been.
Moving on again.
We were soon joined by another beautiful black woman. She sat and talked for a while and her sisters told her all about fishy smell and the rude waiter. Then she remarked, "Well, I have been sitting here for a while and he hasn't offered me a drink."
It was true. He hadn't offered her a drink.
Then it was time to go, and everyone wanted separate checks. It took us almost twenty minutes to itemize the receipt. I'm almost certain he received a remarkably small tip.
My question/concern is not whether there is something innate in my sisters that makes them complain so. Because, of course, not all of them are the same. However, I have noticed similar behavior in sisters from different regions, different economic backgrounds, etc. etc. Enough so that it begs the question: what came first? the chicken or the egg?
That is, have sisters acquired such a widely known reputation for being difficult to please, that people don't even try anymore? Do people see black women coming, suck their teeth and sigh, and just prepare to not be good enough?
Did that waiter see all those sisters sitting at our table and make up his mind that he was not going to be attentive because no matter how hard he ran, they would find something to complain about and would not compensate him appropriately? Was the waiter rude to my homegirl because he had already mentally prepared himself to be belittled and had unconsciously taken an offensive stance? Did the hostess see them coming and tell the kitchen cooks to put yesterday's fish on the grill in the hopes of driving them out with funk?
What came first? The chicken or the egg?
Because if any of those things are even partially true, then this is a perpetual cycle if nothing else. One feeds the other. The preconception feeds the behavior which feeds the stereotype which feeds the preconception which feeds the behavior.
But what came first?
Your thoughts?
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: Black women are the least likely ethnic/gender group in this country to get married. Isn't that fucked up?
I recently went out with a few friends of mine to a happy hour in some hoity toity bistro just outside of Georgetown. The group was pretty much split in half gender-wise.
Now, this is no attempt to critique the character of our female companions, (both of whom I love dearly) but merely to understand certain behaviors.
I love black women.
I have a black mamma, a black grandmamma, 2 black sisters, a gang of black aunts, a black niece, etc., etc.
Salt of the earth as far as I'm concerned. And they are varied as the colors in the rainbow in terms of personality and temperment.
Having said all of that, I do have some questions/concerns.
If I hadn't seen this type of thing more than once, I wouldn't bring it up. If I hadn't seen it more than a few times in similar contexts, I wouldn't bring it up.
Here comes our waiter. A young wiry Latin American fellow, short on manners and obviously very busy. It happens. They can't all be overcome with joy to run for your drinks and napkins. But because he did not approach the table with a big gay Broadway musical smile, it set a certain tone. This is the part he played.
The beautiful black woman to my left asked, "Hey, what's in the tempura shrimp?"
The waiter replied with a pause and a slight smirk, "Shrimp."
Well, that was all it took. Her night was ruined, and she was not going to suffer in silence. She did that whole chastise-you-to-someone-else-but-loud-enough-for-you-to-hear thing.
"He's an asshole," she said to me, her back turned to him, "I know it has shrimp in it. I can read. I just needed him to explain the dish to me. That is his job, right?"
He was standing just 2 feet away and could most certainly hear everything she was saying. Poor guy. Was he a bit of a prick? Yes. And that's coming from someone who used to wait tables. So maybe he deserved a little heat.
Moving on.
The beautiful black woman to my right said, "It smells like fish in here."
The one to my left chimed in, "I didn't want to say anything, but it does stink."
"Girl, it's like day-old seafood or something. It's not supposed to smell this strong. Something ain't right."
As it turned out, we were in a seafood restaurant. But it was a little fishier than it should have been.
Moving on again.
We were soon joined by another beautiful black woman. She sat and talked for a while and her sisters told her all about fishy smell and the rude waiter. Then she remarked, "Well, I have been sitting here for a while and he hasn't offered me a drink."
It was true. He hadn't offered her a drink.
Then it was time to go, and everyone wanted separate checks. It took us almost twenty minutes to itemize the receipt. I'm almost certain he received a remarkably small tip.
My question/concern is not whether there is something innate in my sisters that makes them complain so. Because, of course, not all of them are the same. However, I have noticed similar behavior in sisters from different regions, different economic backgrounds, etc. etc. Enough so that it begs the question: what came first? the chicken or the egg?
That is, have sisters acquired such a widely known reputation for being difficult to please, that people don't even try anymore? Do people see black women coming, suck their teeth and sigh, and just prepare to not be good enough?
Did that waiter see all those sisters sitting at our table and make up his mind that he was not going to be attentive because no matter how hard he ran, they would find something to complain about and would not compensate him appropriately? Was the waiter rude to my homegirl because he had already mentally prepared himself to be belittled and had unconsciously taken an offensive stance? Did the hostess see them coming and tell the kitchen cooks to put yesterday's fish on the grill in the hopes of driving them out with funk?
What came first? The chicken or the egg?
Because if any of those things are even partially true, then this is a perpetual cycle if nothing else. One feeds the other. The preconception feeds the behavior which feeds the stereotype which feeds the preconception which feeds the behavior.
But what came first?
Your thoughts?
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: Black women are the least likely ethnic/gender group in this country to get married. Isn't that fucked up?
Monday, March 3, 2008
Mushrooms And Skydiving
Okay:
For as long as I can remember I’ve wanted to jump out of a plane.
I’m not an adrenaline freak or anything like that. In fact, I try to stay as far away from danger as possible. I would never do rafting or run with the bulls. I’m one of those old school scared Negroes. I stay in the house for the most part, where it’s warm and safe.
I don’t even like planes. I have a mild case of acrophobia.
But I have always imagined that if I were to muster up enough courage to jump out of a plane, then everything else would get the volume turned down.
“Ask that pretty girl for her phone number? Sheeeeit! I once jumped out of a plane. This is nothing.”
“Quit my job and write full time? Sheeeeit! I once jumped out of a plane. This is nothing.”
You see?
I’m coming to the point now.
Like I said last week, I’ve experimented with a few different kinds of drugs. Today I want to tell you about the time I ate mushrooms.
When I was college my closest friend and I used to work at this Italian chain restaurant. Of course we had oodles and oodles of white co-workers, which was both a blessing and a curse. Nothing wrong with the whites, it’s just that cultural differences can get magnified in high-intensity environments. And this little dive was the company’s most profitable location in the region. We busted our asses every night, but made great tips.
One night my friend and I inquired amongst the whites about some mushrooms.
“What’s it all about?”
“How does it make you feel?”
So, one of the whites said, “Why don’t I just bring an ounce past your crib later and we can chew up and watch The Sopranos or something?”
My friend and I eagerly agreed and set about getting mentally prepared for this new adventure. Since we didn’t know whether or not we were going to get the munchies, we went out and bought a shitload of food. Chips, cheeseburgers, soda and a bunch of other more shit. We also bought lots of Newports in case the stuff made you nervous-like, in which case cigarettes would come in handy.
We were stockpiling like we were preparing for a hurricane. The logic was that we didn’t know whether or not we’d be able to drive once the mushrooms took hold, so we wanted to have everything we could possibly need at our disposal.
When we got to my apartment, I hid my car keys from myself in case the shit made me freak out and want to go do something stupid in my car.
See? I was a responsible stoner.
So, the white boy arrived with an ounce of mushrooms. A really nice guy. Fire-engine red hair with freckles. Like something out of a 1960s sit com.
He warned us, “These things taste like shit. In fact, that’s where they get ‘em. Off of cow shit.”
“They grow on cow shit?”
“They grow on cow shit.”
“Oh…continue.”
“It’s like acid but cleaner. You may get nauseous though.”
We start digging in. We sit and watch an entire episode of The Sopranos and nothing happens. We’re just sitting there chatting it up, waiting for the damn things to take hold.
“It may take a while,” he said. “Plus, you generally wouldn’t split and ounce between three people.”
Then all of a sudden, I felt the need to lie down. It was more than a need. I had to fucking straighten out my body onto a flat surface or I was going to die. So I lied down on the floor. Then my stomach started to turn and I thought I may have to shit, but I couldn’t get up. I was stuck on the floor there, moaning quietly to myself and holding my stomach for twenty minutes. No one seemed to notice me.
Then I snapped out of it.
Literally.
All of a sudden I felt great. Greater than I ever felt in my life.
I jumped up like Roger Rabbit and sat down next to the white boy.
“White boy,” I said, “These things are fucking great. I love you, man.”
“I love you, man.”
“Listen,” I said, “Have you ever jumped out of a fucking plane?”
“No,” he said.
“Then you’re not a real man. How you can be a real man if you’ve never jumped out of a fucking plane?"
“You can’t.”
“You’re goddamn right. That’s what a real man does. A real man jumps out of a fucking plane.”
“Fucking A.”
“White boy,” I said, “Will you jump out of a plane with me?”
“Shit yeah.”
“That’s what I’m talking about, white boy.”
I went on like that for hours. No one slept that night. We couldn’t. Those things wire you up.
I haven’t touched them since. And no, me and the white boy did not jump out of a plane together. But every now and then, I still feel the urge.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: One of my secret sex fantasies is to have sex while free-falling naked from a plane. I hear you can’t get pregnant at certain altitudes.
For as long as I can remember I’ve wanted to jump out of a plane.
I’m not an adrenaline freak or anything like that. In fact, I try to stay as far away from danger as possible. I would never do rafting or run with the bulls. I’m one of those old school scared Negroes. I stay in the house for the most part, where it’s warm and safe.
I don’t even like planes. I have a mild case of acrophobia.
But I have always imagined that if I were to muster up enough courage to jump out of a plane, then everything else would get the volume turned down.
“Ask that pretty girl for her phone number? Sheeeeit! I once jumped out of a plane. This is nothing.”
“Quit my job and write full time? Sheeeeit! I once jumped out of a plane. This is nothing.”
You see?
I’m coming to the point now.
Like I said last week, I’ve experimented with a few different kinds of drugs. Today I want to tell you about the time I ate mushrooms.
When I was college my closest friend and I used to work at this Italian chain restaurant. Of course we had oodles and oodles of white co-workers, which was both a blessing and a curse. Nothing wrong with the whites, it’s just that cultural differences can get magnified in high-intensity environments. And this little dive was the company’s most profitable location in the region. We busted our asses every night, but made great tips.
One night my friend and I inquired amongst the whites about some mushrooms.
“What’s it all about?”
“How does it make you feel?”
So, one of the whites said, “Why don’t I just bring an ounce past your crib later and we can chew up and watch The Sopranos or something?”
My friend and I eagerly agreed and set about getting mentally prepared for this new adventure. Since we didn’t know whether or not we were going to get the munchies, we went out and bought a shitload of food. Chips, cheeseburgers, soda and a bunch of other more shit. We also bought lots of Newports in case the stuff made you nervous-like, in which case cigarettes would come in handy.
We were stockpiling like we were preparing for a hurricane. The logic was that we didn’t know whether or not we’d be able to drive once the mushrooms took hold, so we wanted to have everything we could possibly need at our disposal.
When we got to my apartment, I hid my car keys from myself in case the shit made me freak out and want to go do something stupid in my car.
See? I was a responsible stoner.
So, the white boy arrived with an ounce of mushrooms. A really nice guy. Fire-engine red hair with freckles. Like something out of a 1960s sit com.
He warned us, “These things taste like shit. In fact, that’s where they get ‘em. Off of cow shit.”
“They grow on cow shit?”
“They grow on cow shit.”
“Oh…continue.”
“It’s like acid but cleaner. You may get nauseous though.”
We start digging in. We sit and watch an entire episode of The Sopranos and nothing happens. We’re just sitting there chatting it up, waiting for the damn things to take hold.
“It may take a while,” he said. “Plus, you generally wouldn’t split and ounce between three people.”
Then all of a sudden, I felt the need to lie down. It was more than a need. I had to fucking straighten out my body onto a flat surface or I was going to die. So I lied down on the floor. Then my stomach started to turn and I thought I may have to shit, but I couldn’t get up. I was stuck on the floor there, moaning quietly to myself and holding my stomach for twenty minutes. No one seemed to notice me.
Then I snapped out of it.
Literally.
All of a sudden I felt great. Greater than I ever felt in my life.
I jumped up like Roger Rabbit and sat down next to the white boy.
“White boy,” I said, “These things are fucking great. I love you, man.”
“I love you, man.”
“Listen,” I said, “Have you ever jumped out of a fucking plane?”
“No,” he said.
“Then you’re not a real man. How you can be a real man if you’ve never jumped out of a fucking plane?"
“You can’t.”
“You’re goddamn right. That’s what a real man does. A real man jumps out of a fucking plane.”
“Fucking A.”
“White boy,” I said, “Will you jump out of a plane with me?”
“Shit yeah.”
“That’s what I’m talking about, white boy.”
I went on like that for hours. No one slept that night. We couldn’t. Those things wire you up.
I haven’t touched them since. And no, me and the white boy did not jump out of a plane together. But every now and then, I still feel the urge.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: One of my secret sex fantasies is to have sex while free-falling naked from a plane. I hear you can’t get pregnant at certain altitudes.
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