Okay:
So, I took the doctor's orders and slept in today. I apologize for the late post.
In case you've been worried sick about me all weekend, I feel a whole lot better. Almost 100% now.
I drank a lot of tea. A shit load of tea actually. This charming little Jasmine Orange Blossom stuff I picked up at an organic food store. If I have to drink one more cup of this shit, I think I'm going to bludgeon myself.
I hate Jasmine Orange Blossoms, and I hope they all whither and die.
I'd go down on Star Jones for some good old fashioned Lipton.
I also gargled with warm salt water a lot. Every other hour or so. I know that sounds exciting, but, trust me, this too gets old quickly.
And then there were the lozenges.
The lozenges. The lozenges. The lozenges.
I went threw a big old house bag of those fucking things. I was popping them every few minutes or so. Like a junkie.
I remember waking up in a NyQuil-induced stupor, stumbling around in the dark, grunting like Frankenstein, looking for my bag of Ricolas.
Now, those things never get old. I've never had much of a sweet tooth, but they're actually quite delicious. I may just keep a bag around the house from now on, should the craving hit me unexpectedly.
And perhaps a small bag in the car.
And at the office.
Then there was my impotent little cheap humidifier. Apparently, it's very important to keep the air moist whenever you're having eyes, ears or throat issues. Dry heat can really exacerbate the situation.
So I broke out my humidifier, which I know for a fact does not work. But like a lazy cousin, I keep it around anyway, in the hopes that it may one day live up to its potential. But for now, all it does it make a lot of noise.
A lot of noise.
It's something like a gurgling stream, except horrible. Like, if a gurgling stream were, like, homicidally insane, it would be my humidifier.
Just imagine the most cacophonous sound you've ever heard and multiply it by ten, and that would be my humidifier just getting warmed up.
It's a wonder I haven't disposed of it yet.
I think it's, like, possessed or something. And I'm, like, it's slave so it won't let me throw it away. It hypnotizes me with it's horrible gurgling and sends me subliminal messages to go kill people.
And when I get well, watch out...
Thanks for reading.
Download the new single "In The Kitchen" and the new Freestyle of the Week FOR FREE.
GOBAMA!
Innocent Question: I had a few friends stop by to offer their get-well wishes. But instead of tea and/or soup, everyone brought alcohol. What's that about?
Monday, June 30, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
Sick And Tired
Okay:
So, yesterday I went to the ER at Providence Hospital, just a few blocks up the street from my apartment. My mother gave birth to me in that hospital. Since 1979, things have gone down considerably.
Of course, I first tried to make an appointment with my Primary Care Physician. The receptionist was kind, but unmoved. "Sorry sir," she kept repeating. "We simply cannot see you before Monday."
"Did you tell him that it was Claude and my throat hurts?"
"I'm sorry, sir. Would you like to schedule something for next week?"
"I could be dead by then."
So, I packed my bag: my iPod, my journal, a jacket and a good book. How did I learn to pack so well for the ER? My ex-girlfriend would go to the ER at least 6 times a year for one problem or another. Before I met her, I hadn't been since a stick ball accident in elementary school when I nearly lost my eye. But she turned me into an expert.
First you wait. Then you go to triage and the nurse asks you to rate your pain on a scale of one to ten. Then you wait some more. Then you go to registration and they take all your insurance info and give you your bill. Then you wait some more. Then they call you to the back and put you in the room with the reclining bed with the strip of butcher paper on it. Then you wait some more. Then a doctor comes to check you out. Then they leave. Then you wait some more. Then they come back with your prescription and your discharge papers and it's over.
Anywhere between 3 and 6 hours, depending on the time of day.
This is American health care.
According to the insurance companies and their lobbyists, it may be free and relatively quick in places like Cuba, France and Canada, but instead of writing you a prescription for antibiotics for your sore throat, they'll send you home with a bottle of warm salt water and a friendly reminder to not kiss anymore prostitutes.
Because foreigners simply cannot do medicine like Americans. They ain't got the requisite skills.
So, in triage I was interviewed by a nice white lady named Lucy. When asked to rate my pain on a scale of one to ten, I said four. "Thanks for being honest," she said.
"Does this mean that people in more pain will be seen before me?"
"Actually no. We have to send this stuff into an oversight company. I'm not sure what they do with it."
I didn't believe her.
Then it was back to the waiting room with me until they called my name for registration. There, a woman who reminded me of my Aunt Bennie gave me a co-pay bill for $50. Not bad. Less than a tank of gas, but that's not saying much these days, now is it?
Then it was back to the waiting room again where I read and watched CNN alternately. Incidentally, Obama thinks child rapists should get the death penalty, McCain supports the Supreme Court decision to overturn DC's handgun ban, and North Korea is handing over information on their nuclear weapons program.
At some point my mind started playing tricks on me and I thought I heard my name called. I wondered back to the triage area where I heard a ruckus through the doors. I looked through the window pane and saw that security was escorting a middle-aged black woman from Lucy's office. Lucy was standing across from her door, pink-faced and belligerent and pointing at the floor in her doorway. "That is totally inappropriate. Totally."
Everyone looked to where she was pointing and took baby steps away, shaking their heads.
Please, I thought, somebody tell me what's on that floor. Piss? Vomit? Shit? I must know.
Finally, my name was called to come to the back where I was directed to a room of my own. I waited there for close to thirty minutes. Then they sent in a doctor. A pretty doctor.
Just my luck, I hadn't opened my mouth in an hour, and I was sure things were pretty funky. Not that I could tell. My nose has been useless all week. She broke out the Popsicle stick, checked me out and then left. She wasn't in there two minutes. She didn't ask to hold my balls or anything. Hardly what I would consider thorough. When I wait four hours to see a doctor, and she's this cute, I expect to have my balls handled. Call me crazy.
It was after she left that I began checking stuff out. I had finished by book and was nearing my attention threshold. I took my blood pressure. Did you know that scale with the numbers on it connected to the pump is called a Sphygmomanome?
Of course, I couldn't resist the temptation to look into the Bio hazard trashcan. Nothing interesting there.
What was interesting was how dirty the place was. It wasn't any cleaner than my bathroom at home, which is saying a lot. There was all kinds of gunk on the walls, and the floor. And, of course, in a hospital , you're wondering, what is that gunk exactly and why doesn't anyone bother to get in here with a mop and some bleach occasionally? This place should be, like, the golden standard for cleanliness. It was like a public restroom in a decent mall. Not totally filthy, but still not clean enough to take a shit.
A nurse came in twenty minutes later with my prescription and discharge papers.
The primary diagnosis: Pharyngotonsillitis
My prescription: Zithromax 500mg
Doctor's orders: Lots of fluids. No smoking, alcohol or soda. Don't return to work until July 2.
Which sucks because I'm still probationary and don't have any sick leave.
The whole ordeal took five hours. But, oh well. I wouldn't have taken a vacation otherwise.
Thanks, Air Borne Bacteria.
And thank you, for reading.
Download the new single "In The Kitchen" and the new Freestyle of the Week FOR FREE.
GOBAMA!
Innocent Question: If I ever should find myself needing to go to the ER again, I'll be going to the white side of town. Does that mean I'm becoming a snob?
So, yesterday I went to the ER at Providence Hospital, just a few blocks up the street from my apartment. My mother gave birth to me in that hospital. Since 1979, things have gone down considerably.
Of course, I first tried to make an appointment with my Primary Care Physician. The receptionist was kind, but unmoved. "Sorry sir," she kept repeating. "We simply cannot see you before Monday."
"Did you tell him that it was Claude and my throat hurts?"
"I'm sorry, sir. Would you like to schedule something for next week?"
"I could be dead by then."
So, I packed my bag: my iPod, my journal, a jacket and a good book. How did I learn to pack so well for the ER? My ex-girlfriend would go to the ER at least 6 times a year for one problem or another. Before I met her, I hadn't been since a stick ball accident in elementary school when I nearly lost my eye. But she turned me into an expert.
First you wait. Then you go to triage and the nurse asks you to rate your pain on a scale of one to ten. Then you wait some more. Then you go to registration and they take all your insurance info and give you your bill. Then you wait some more. Then they call you to the back and put you in the room with the reclining bed with the strip of butcher paper on it. Then you wait some more. Then a doctor comes to check you out. Then they leave. Then you wait some more. Then they come back with your prescription and your discharge papers and it's over.
Anywhere between 3 and 6 hours, depending on the time of day.
This is American health care.
According to the insurance companies and their lobbyists, it may be free and relatively quick in places like Cuba, France and Canada, but instead of writing you a prescription for antibiotics for your sore throat, they'll send you home with a bottle of warm salt water and a friendly reminder to not kiss anymore prostitutes.
Because foreigners simply cannot do medicine like Americans. They ain't got the requisite skills.
So, in triage I was interviewed by a nice white lady named Lucy. When asked to rate my pain on a scale of one to ten, I said four. "Thanks for being honest," she said.
"Does this mean that people in more pain will be seen before me?"
"Actually no. We have to send this stuff into an oversight company. I'm not sure what they do with it."
I didn't believe her.
Then it was back to the waiting room with me until they called my name for registration. There, a woman who reminded me of my Aunt Bennie gave me a co-pay bill for $50. Not bad. Less than a tank of gas, but that's not saying much these days, now is it?
Then it was back to the waiting room again where I read and watched CNN alternately. Incidentally, Obama thinks child rapists should get the death penalty, McCain supports the Supreme Court decision to overturn DC's handgun ban, and North Korea is handing over information on their nuclear weapons program.
At some point my mind started playing tricks on me and I thought I heard my name called. I wondered back to the triage area where I heard a ruckus through the doors. I looked through the window pane and saw that security was escorting a middle-aged black woman from Lucy's office. Lucy was standing across from her door, pink-faced and belligerent and pointing at the floor in her doorway. "That is totally inappropriate. Totally."
Everyone looked to where she was pointing and took baby steps away, shaking their heads.
Please, I thought, somebody tell me what's on that floor. Piss? Vomit? Shit? I must know.
Finally, my name was called to come to the back where I was directed to a room of my own. I waited there for close to thirty minutes. Then they sent in a doctor. A pretty doctor.
Just my luck, I hadn't opened my mouth in an hour, and I was sure things were pretty funky. Not that I could tell. My nose has been useless all week. She broke out the Popsicle stick, checked me out and then left. She wasn't in there two minutes. She didn't ask to hold my balls or anything. Hardly what I would consider thorough. When I wait four hours to see a doctor, and she's this cute, I expect to have my balls handled. Call me crazy.
It was after she left that I began checking stuff out. I had finished by book and was nearing my attention threshold. I took my blood pressure. Did you know that scale with the numbers on it connected to the pump is called a Sphygmomanome?
Of course, I couldn't resist the temptation to look into the Bio hazard trashcan. Nothing interesting there.
What was interesting was how dirty the place was. It wasn't any cleaner than my bathroom at home, which is saying a lot. There was all kinds of gunk on the walls, and the floor. And, of course, in a hospital , you're wondering, what is that gunk exactly and why doesn't anyone bother to get in here with a mop and some bleach occasionally? This place should be, like, the golden standard for cleanliness. It was like a public restroom in a decent mall. Not totally filthy, but still not clean enough to take a shit.
A nurse came in twenty minutes later with my prescription and discharge papers.
The primary diagnosis: Pharyngotonsillitis
My prescription: Zithromax 500mg
Doctor's orders: Lots of fluids. No smoking, alcohol or soda. Don't return to work until July 2.
Which sucks because I'm still probationary and don't have any sick leave.
The whole ordeal took five hours. But, oh well. I wouldn't have taken a vacation otherwise.
Thanks, Air Borne Bacteria.
And thank you, for reading.
Download the new single "In The Kitchen" and the new Freestyle of the Week FOR FREE.
GOBAMA!
Innocent Question: If I ever should find myself needing to go to the ER again, I'll be going to the white side of town. Does that mean I'm becoming a snob?
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Kids Say The Darnedest Things
Okay:
This fall will be the beginning of my eighth school year in education. In that time, I have kept a personal log of the some of the funnier things I've heard children say. I may have mentioned one or two of these in previous blog entries, but I'm too high on NyQuil to check, so cut me some slack.
2003, 8th grade.
ME: Gentrification means that they are restructuring the community's economy so that people like you can no longer afford to live in the place you now call home. The cost of living will shoot through the roof, and when you move out you will be replaced with white commuters from Virginia.
FEMALE STUDENT: Why they doing that?
ME: To eliminate the ghetto.
FEMALE STUDENT: That's so stupid. We ain't gonna do nothing but find each other and start a new one.
2004, 8th grade. (Same student)
FEMALE STUDENT: I don't give a fuck.
ME: Watch your language.
FEMALE STUDENT: That's so stupid. Why in the fuck would somebody sit around and invent words you can't say? What's the fucking point? Like, 'Here go some words we don't want nobody to say.' It's dumb.
ME: I see your point. But, still, watch your language.
FEMALE STUDENT: Fuck, dick, ass, pussy, cunt and titty. Now what?
2006, 9th grade.
ME: I want you to describe your dream house.
MALE STUDENT: Like, what you mean?
ME: Well, what would you want in it? Think of the show, MTV Cribs. You've seen those houses. What would you want your house to look like?
MALE STUDENT: I'll tell you, but I won't write it down.
ME: Okay. Shoot.
MALE STUDENT: I want a Tahiti in my bungalow with fish in the floor.
ME: I'm sorry. What?
MALE STUDENT: (slowly) I.want.a.Tahiti.in.my.bungalo.with.fish.in.the.floor. That's that tight shit.
ME: Oh. I see.
2002, 7th grade.
MALE STUDENT: I heard ___________'s mother smacked the principal.
ME: I don't know anything about that.
MALE STUDENT: Well, it's about time somebody put the hands to her.
2005, 8th grade (graduation)
ME: I'm very proud of you. Congratulations.
MALE STUDENT: Mr. Nadir, I'mma get my dick sucked tonight.
ME: Well. Make sure you're safe.
2008, 10th grade.
MALE STUDENT: It's in the Bible. God didn't want it to be dark no more. So he said, "Let there be light". Next thing you know, it was light up in that motherfucker.
2007, 10th grade.
FEMALE STUDENT: When did you have your son?
2ND FEMALE STUDENT: Three months ago?
FEMALE STUDENT: Do you still feed him from your titty ball milk?
There's lots more where that came from. My advice to aspiring writers? Teach urban education for a few years.
Thanks for reading.
Download the new single "In The Kitchen" and the new Freestyle of the Week FOR FREE.
GOBAMA!
Innocent Question: In each of these instances, I laughed out loud. Is that wrong, professionally?
This fall will be the beginning of my eighth school year in education. In that time, I have kept a personal log of the some of the funnier things I've heard children say. I may have mentioned one or two of these in previous blog entries, but I'm too high on NyQuil to check, so cut me some slack.
2003, 8th grade.
ME: Gentrification means that they are restructuring the community's economy so that people like you can no longer afford to live in the place you now call home. The cost of living will shoot through the roof, and when you move out you will be replaced with white commuters from Virginia.
FEMALE STUDENT: Why they doing that?
ME: To eliminate the ghetto.
FEMALE STUDENT: That's so stupid. We ain't gonna do nothing but find each other and start a new one.
2004, 8th grade. (Same student)
FEMALE STUDENT: I don't give a fuck.
ME: Watch your language.
FEMALE STUDENT: That's so stupid. Why in the fuck would somebody sit around and invent words you can't say? What's the fucking point? Like, 'Here go some words we don't want nobody to say.' It's dumb.
ME: I see your point. But, still, watch your language.
FEMALE STUDENT: Fuck, dick, ass, pussy, cunt and titty. Now what?
2006, 9th grade.
ME: I want you to describe your dream house.
MALE STUDENT: Like, what you mean?
ME: Well, what would you want in it? Think of the show, MTV Cribs. You've seen those houses. What would you want your house to look like?
MALE STUDENT: I'll tell you, but I won't write it down.
ME: Okay. Shoot.
MALE STUDENT: I want a Tahiti in my bungalow with fish in the floor.
ME: I'm sorry. What?
MALE STUDENT: (slowly) I.want.a.Tahiti.in.my.bungalo.with.fish.in.the.floor. That's that tight shit.
ME: Oh. I see.
2002, 7th grade.
MALE STUDENT: I heard ___________'s mother smacked the principal.
ME: I don't know anything about that.
MALE STUDENT: Well, it's about time somebody put the hands to her.
2005, 8th grade (graduation)
ME: I'm very proud of you. Congratulations.
MALE STUDENT: Mr. Nadir, I'mma get my dick sucked tonight.
ME: Well. Make sure you're safe.
2008, 10th grade.
MALE STUDENT: It's in the Bible. God didn't want it to be dark no more. So he said, "Let there be light". Next thing you know, it was light up in that motherfucker.
2007, 10th grade.
FEMALE STUDENT: When did you have your son?
2ND FEMALE STUDENT: Three months ago?
FEMALE STUDENT: Do you still feed him from your titty ball milk?
There's lots more where that came from. My advice to aspiring writers? Teach urban education for a few years.
Thanks for reading.
Download the new single "In The Kitchen" and the new Freestyle of the Week FOR FREE.
GOBAMA!
Innocent Question: In each of these instances, I laughed out loud. Is that wrong, professionally?
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
If I Should Die...
Okay:
So, I've got the flu or the Ebola Virus or something. I can't breathe. I can't swallow. And I just started a new job, so I can't really take off.
The last time I felt like this, I ended up having a throat infection that sent me to the hospital for a night. It was the first time I had slept in a hospital since the night I was born.
I had drug myself to my doctor's office after waking up weak from dehydration, unable to swallow and in a world of indescribable pain. I stumbled into the waiting room unannounced and used sign language to tell the receptionist I needed to see the doctor. I grunted and pointed at my throat, then wiped the drool from my chin.
"Poor baby," she smiled. "Have a seat over there. I'll have the doctor see you right away."
I was soon led to my doctor's office. Had I been truly lucid, I may have found this odd. I wasn't asked to strip or put on one of those paper gowns. But in my condition, I was just happy to be in a room with prescription medicine it it.
My doctor walked in, took one look at me, shoved a Popsicle stick in my mouth, then called the nurse and told her I needed to be checked into the hospital immediately.
All my relatives came to visit. My aunts, my mother and father. My sister was there in spirit. My girlfriend, with whom I was on the outs at the time, showed up to offer her support and express her guilt. We had spent the entire week in my apartment arguing. She insisted that I was using my illness as an excuse to not talk to her. But I literally could not talk.
When she walked into my room, I remember feeling an odd sort of vindication. Like, "I told you so. I hope you feel like shit."
My mother did what she normally does. Used dark humor to add some levity to the situation. "If you die, who's going to take out my garbage and house sit when I'm on vacation? Be considerate."
Then there was some commotion. People were leaving the room and talking to doctors in the hallway. As it turned out, this hospital did not take my insurance and I needed immediate transport to a neighboring hospital to avoid being billed.
The ambulance came in the night, manned by a nice woman who did her best to make conversation. "What do you do for a living, sweetie?"
"Mmghf."
"Really? Where do you teach?"
"Hmp Mgrl."
"Wow! What a coincidence. My nephew goes there."
"Hze Mk Nrfw?"
"His name is ________________."
Now this I remember very clearly. Whoever this kid was, the mentioning of his name sent me into hysterics. He must have been a real asshole. I shot up straight in my gurney and shouted, "WRIZZHEE?"
The woman and my mother laughed long and hard. The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital the next morning. This time my father was sitting there. He had been instructed to take me home as soon I was discharged.
He sat in a chair across from me with his legs crossed at the knee. He was reading the newspaper. When my eyes opened he spoke, "Good morning, son."
"Morning, dad."
"You know, you really should take better care of yourself. You only get one body."
"My throat still hurts."
"Squeeze that button over there for the medicine."
I pressed down on the button with my numb and clumsy fingers and within seconds morphine was coursing through my veins.
Well.
In a word, the shit was incredible. It was like a twenty minute orgasm. My father continued to talk about something, as he's prone to do, regardless of whether or not anyone is listening, until he realized that I was "higher than all get out", as he put it.
In a few hours I was discharged with a prescription for Endocet.
I recovered in a week or so, and returned to work about 20 pounds lighter.
When a student asked where I had been, I told him I had a throat infection. To which he replied, "Oooh. Well, what was you doing with your throat, Peaches?"
Thanks for reading.
Download the new single "In The Kitchen" and the new Freestyle of the Week FOR FREE.
GOBAMA!
Factoid: If I die before morning, I want Morgan Freeman to do my eulogy.
So, I've got the flu or the Ebola Virus or something. I can't breathe. I can't swallow. And I just started a new job, so I can't really take off.
The last time I felt like this, I ended up having a throat infection that sent me to the hospital for a night. It was the first time I had slept in a hospital since the night I was born.
I had drug myself to my doctor's office after waking up weak from dehydration, unable to swallow and in a world of indescribable pain. I stumbled into the waiting room unannounced and used sign language to tell the receptionist I needed to see the doctor. I grunted and pointed at my throat, then wiped the drool from my chin.
"Poor baby," she smiled. "Have a seat over there. I'll have the doctor see you right away."
I was soon led to my doctor's office. Had I been truly lucid, I may have found this odd. I wasn't asked to strip or put on one of those paper gowns. But in my condition, I was just happy to be in a room with prescription medicine it it.
My doctor walked in, took one look at me, shoved a Popsicle stick in my mouth, then called the nurse and told her I needed to be checked into the hospital immediately.
All my relatives came to visit. My aunts, my mother and father. My sister was there in spirit. My girlfriend, with whom I was on the outs at the time, showed up to offer her support and express her guilt. We had spent the entire week in my apartment arguing. She insisted that I was using my illness as an excuse to not talk to her. But I literally could not talk.
When she walked into my room, I remember feeling an odd sort of vindication. Like, "I told you so. I hope you feel like shit."
My mother did what she normally does. Used dark humor to add some levity to the situation. "If you die, who's going to take out my garbage and house sit when I'm on vacation? Be considerate."
Then there was some commotion. People were leaving the room and talking to doctors in the hallway. As it turned out, this hospital did not take my insurance and I needed immediate transport to a neighboring hospital to avoid being billed.
The ambulance came in the night, manned by a nice woman who did her best to make conversation. "What do you do for a living, sweetie?"
"Mmghf."
"Really? Where do you teach?"
"Hmp Mgrl."
"Wow! What a coincidence. My nephew goes there."
"Hze Mk Nrfw?"
"His name is ________________."
Now this I remember very clearly. Whoever this kid was, the mentioning of his name sent me into hysterics. He must have been a real asshole. I shot up straight in my gurney and shouted, "WRIZZHEE?"
The woman and my mother laughed long and hard. The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital the next morning. This time my father was sitting there. He had been instructed to take me home as soon I was discharged.
He sat in a chair across from me with his legs crossed at the knee. He was reading the newspaper. When my eyes opened he spoke, "Good morning, son."
"Morning, dad."
"You know, you really should take better care of yourself. You only get one body."
"My throat still hurts."
"Squeeze that button over there for the medicine."
I pressed down on the button with my numb and clumsy fingers and within seconds morphine was coursing through my veins.
Well.
In a word, the shit was incredible. It was like a twenty minute orgasm. My father continued to talk about something, as he's prone to do, regardless of whether or not anyone is listening, until he realized that I was "higher than all get out", as he put it.
In a few hours I was discharged with a prescription for Endocet.
I recovered in a week or so, and returned to work about 20 pounds lighter.
When a student asked where I had been, I told him I had a throat infection. To which he replied, "Oooh. Well, what was you doing with your throat, Peaches?"
Thanks for reading.
Download the new single "In The Kitchen" and the new Freestyle of the Week FOR FREE.
GOBAMA!
Factoid: If I die before morning, I want Morgan Freeman to do my eulogy.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Go To Hell, Little Girl
Okay:
So, I took my daughter to the playground this weekend. Taking an only child to the playground is a bit of an ordeal. They kind of expect you to be their play partner.
Run across this bridge with me. Hold me while I swing across the monkey bars. Get on the see-saw.
It's not necessarily something I look forward to.
But she's crazy for it. And so, I oblige.
Then once she sees how tired, sweaty and disinterested I am, she demotes me to spectator.
"Look what I can do."
"Watch this, daddy."
I can't help but feel a little sorry for her though. Her daddy's a real stick in the mud. I'm too young to be this lethargic, I know. But I'm not very good at pretending.
So, I'm always happy to see other children arrive. Someone close to her age.
This past weekend I was in the middle of watching her slide sideways down the sliding board, which I am apparently supposed to be fascinated by, when two little white girls showed up.
Sisters. One smaller than my kid, the other taller.
The oldest one looked like trouble. A skinny little blond with ridiculously large ears. It looked as though a good tug could rip those things right off. They were afterthoughts, those ears. Like God had forgotten them and then slapped someone else's on at the last minute, paying no attention to symmetry or proportion.
I giggled quietly to myself.
I didn't like her walk either. Didn't like the way she ran over to our little area of the playground as if she were invited. Then she mispronounced my daughter's name, which kind of sealed the deal.
I did not like this kid.
They started playing around, running this way and that. I was relieved but still suspicious of the presumptuous blond. She seemed a bit bossy. Part of me wanted to tell my daughter, "If she gets too fresh, just lay in on those ears, man."
Next thing I knew, they were upon me. My daughter stood back and let her do the talking. "Excuse me, but would it be all right if she came to my house to play?"
"I don't think so," I said flatly. The nerve of this little girl. Who did she think she was? My kid wasn't going over anyone's house whose parents sent their kids to the playground unattended.
"Please," she begged.
"I'm sorry."
"I told you he was going to say no," my daughter said.
You're goddamn right, I thought.
They continued playing while the little one went home and returned a few minutes later with their mother and two bottles of water. I introduced myself and mentioned that the girls wanted to go to her house, but I didn't feel comfortable seeing as how we'd never met.
I tried to do the whole parent mingling thing, but I just wasn't in the mood. Plus, I was slowly discovering that I didn't like the mother either.
A weakling, she was. Those girls ran all over throwing things at one another. Any instructions she gave them were ignored.
"Don't throw that, honey" was immediately followed by the hurling of said item, just as far as their little peach arms could fling it. An abandoned pair of shoes. A toy car.
Then Big Ears came to me again. "We're going to go get ice cream. Can your daughter come?"
"Sure," I said. "We can all walk together."
"Do you have any money? Cuz, if not, my mother can pay for everyone."
"That won't be necessary," I said. My blood was boiling. Did we look poor? And even if we did, were we too poor to buy our own ice cream? I made a mental note to have a long conversation with my kid about the downside of having a sense of entitlement.
We walked to the market and everyone got ice cream. We were all sitting down on a sidewalk bench, enjoying the summer sun. Part of me was feeling bad for having judged the little girl so harshly. Then she began her interrogation.
"Where do you live?"
"Where's your mom?"
"Your dad's not married?"
My daughter, to her credit, answered candidly. "Sometimes I stay with my dad and sometimes I stay with my grandparents. I don't know where my mom is. My parents were never married. My dad's too young."
Finally, her mother injected, "Sorry, she's really curious about families."
The questioning went on. My daughter handled it with more patience, grace and composure than I ever could. I was clearly more uncomfortable than she was. And in an odd sort of way, I was proud. She seems to have a better grip on things than I would have given her credit for.
And, by the time they finished their ice cream, the two sisters were absolutely filthy. It was as though they had no regard for their clothing. They used their shirts as napkins and continued to ignore whatever redirection their mother offered.
My kid, however, kept clean as a whistle.
You're so much better than those kids, I thought. But I kept it to myself.
Thanks for reading.
Download the new single "In The Kitchen" and the new Freestyle of the Week FOR FREE.
GOBAMA!
Factoid: My kid was in a piano recital this weekend and played beautifully. I am beaming with pride, as they say.
So, I took my daughter to the playground this weekend. Taking an only child to the playground is a bit of an ordeal. They kind of expect you to be their play partner.
Run across this bridge with me. Hold me while I swing across the monkey bars. Get on the see-saw.
It's not necessarily something I look forward to.
But she's crazy for it. And so, I oblige.
Then once she sees how tired, sweaty and disinterested I am, she demotes me to spectator.
"Look what I can do."
"Watch this, daddy."
I can't help but feel a little sorry for her though. Her daddy's a real stick in the mud. I'm too young to be this lethargic, I know. But I'm not very good at pretending.
So, I'm always happy to see other children arrive. Someone close to her age.
This past weekend I was in the middle of watching her slide sideways down the sliding board, which I am apparently supposed to be fascinated by, when two little white girls showed up.
Sisters. One smaller than my kid, the other taller.
The oldest one looked like trouble. A skinny little blond with ridiculously large ears. It looked as though a good tug could rip those things right off. They were afterthoughts, those ears. Like God had forgotten them and then slapped someone else's on at the last minute, paying no attention to symmetry or proportion.
I giggled quietly to myself.
I didn't like her walk either. Didn't like the way she ran over to our little area of the playground as if she were invited. Then she mispronounced my daughter's name, which kind of sealed the deal.
I did not like this kid.
They started playing around, running this way and that. I was relieved but still suspicious of the presumptuous blond. She seemed a bit bossy. Part of me wanted to tell my daughter, "If she gets too fresh, just lay in on those ears, man."
Next thing I knew, they were upon me. My daughter stood back and let her do the talking. "Excuse me, but would it be all right if she came to my house to play?"
"I don't think so," I said flatly. The nerve of this little girl. Who did she think she was? My kid wasn't going over anyone's house whose parents sent their kids to the playground unattended.
"Please," she begged.
"I'm sorry."
"I told you he was going to say no," my daughter said.
You're goddamn right, I thought.
They continued playing while the little one went home and returned a few minutes later with their mother and two bottles of water. I introduced myself and mentioned that the girls wanted to go to her house, but I didn't feel comfortable seeing as how we'd never met.
I tried to do the whole parent mingling thing, but I just wasn't in the mood. Plus, I was slowly discovering that I didn't like the mother either.
A weakling, she was. Those girls ran all over throwing things at one another. Any instructions she gave them were ignored.
"Don't throw that, honey" was immediately followed by the hurling of said item, just as far as their little peach arms could fling it. An abandoned pair of shoes. A toy car.
Then Big Ears came to me again. "We're going to go get ice cream. Can your daughter come?"
"Sure," I said. "We can all walk together."
"Do you have any money? Cuz, if not, my mother can pay for everyone."
"That won't be necessary," I said. My blood was boiling. Did we look poor? And even if we did, were we too poor to buy our own ice cream? I made a mental note to have a long conversation with my kid about the downside of having a sense of entitlement.
We walked to the market and everyone got ice cream. We were all sitting down on a sidewalk bench, enjoying the summer sun. Part of me was feeling bad for having judged the little girl so harshly. Then she began her interrogation.
"Where do you live?"
"Where's your mom?"
"Your dad's not married?"
My daughter, to her credit, answered candidly. "Sometimes I stay with my dad and sometimes I stay with my grandparents. I don't know where my mom is. My parents were never married. My dad's too young."
Finally, her mother injected, "Sorry, she's really curious about families."
The questioning went on. My daughter handled it with more patience, grace and composure than I ever could. I was clearly more uncomfortable than she was. And in an odd sort of way, I was proud. She seems to have a better grip on things than I would have given her credit for.
And, by the time they finished their ice cream, the two sisters were absolutely filthy. It was as though they had no regard for their clothing. They used their shirts as napkins and continued to ignore whatever redirection their mother offered.
My kid, however, kept clean as a whistle.
You're so much better than those kids, I thought. But I kept it to myself.
Thanks for reading.
Download the new single "In The Kitchen" and the new Freestyle of the Week FOR FREE.
GOBAMA!
Factoid: My kid was in a piano recital this weekend and played beautifully. I am beaming with pride, as they say.
America's Got Talent
Okay:
So Friday was my last day at my old job, and my friends and co-workers did not miss the opportunity to take me out and show me a good time.
A trip to The National Zoo?
A tour of The Smithsonian?
A game of Frisbee?
No. No. A thousand times no.
Try happy hour at a strip club in Chinatown. Now there's a send-off worth getting excited about.
But I jest. The truth is strip clubs aren't really my thing. Especially here in DC where you can't touch the dancers, which is like going to a restaurant with a no-swallowing policy.
And then there's the other thing. We're all sitting at a table by the stage having drinks when my homeboy leans over to me and says, "These are our students when they grow up."
But he didn't say it in an R. Kelly "I can't wait to legally pee on these bitches" kind of way. He said it in a very sobering way. Like, "Doesn't that put this all in perspective for you?"
And it did for a while. But then I realized that exotic dancing is a perfectly legal profession. Sure, there's an underworld of drug abuse and prostitution associated with it, but that surely isn't always the case. None of these girls looked high, drunk or particularly down on their luck. They were just dancing nude. And what I was doing, watching, patronizing the establishment, was also not against the law. Probably not high on the list of things you want to discuss with the parents of your students, but I was certainly well within my rights.
Having gotten it right in my head, I was then able to enjoy myself.
I asked the waitress, a middle-aged, pair-shaped white woman with a big smile, to change my $20 bill.
"Guess which titty," she giggled.
"Excuse me?"
"Guess which titty. The left or the right." Then she squeezed her arms together at the wrist, and pumped her breasts.
I pondered for a moment, then chose. "The right one," I said.
"You got it," she laughed. Then she pulled a sweaty wad of one dollar bills from her right breast.
Then, in an effort to be courteous, I peeled one dollar off the sweaty wad and stuffed in back into her shirt, which she seemed to enjoy.
"Are you gonna get up there later?" I asked.
"Honey," she said. "My dancing days are over."
Then the star of the show hit the stage. I had been hearing about this woman for months. I was told that she had a neat trick that I just had to see for myself.
My homeboy handed me a fistful of ones and told me to go over there and tell her to "Show me some respect." And so I did.
Well.
I'm trying not to be graphic here.
This woman, this very talented special woman, can make a certain body part of hers go "pop" like a champagne bottle. No hands. No special instruments. She just flexes her muscles and out comes this sound that's loud enough to draw a crowd.
I was fascinated. But not in a sexual way. More of a "That's a really neat trick!" sort of way. I guess I just can't imagine how this would be a good thing in bed.
Then, as the crowd began to form, she rolled out one more trick. Again, I shall exercise some discretion here. If you fold a dollar bill length-wise and place it on top of this body part, she can shoot that dollar bill into the air two feet high.
What a show!
Only thing is, the rest of the dancers looked so lame compared to her. She had so much money in her thigh bands, she could barely walk. For an hour's worth of dancing, she must have walked out of there with at least $300.
Probably more.
And so. The bottom line is. There's really no reason to feel sorry for strippers. At least not the good ones.
Thanks for reading.
Download the new single "In The Kitchen" and the new Freestyle of the Week FOR FREE.
GOBAMA!
Factoid: There is something, however, disheartening to say the least, about leaving a strip club while the sun is still up.
So Friday was my last day at my old job, and my friends and co-workers did not miss the opportunity to take me out and show me a good time.
A trip to The National Zoo?
A tour of The Smithsonian?
A game of Frisbee?
No. No. A thousand times no.
Try happy hour at a strip club in Chinatown. Now there's a send-off worth getting excited about.
But I jest. The truth is strip clubs aren't really my thing. Especially here in DC where you can't touch the dancers, which is like going to a restaurant with a no-swallowing policy.
And then there's the other thing. We're all sitting at a table by the stage having drinks when my homeboy leans over to me and says, "These are our students when they grow up."
But he didn't say it in an R. Kelly "I can't wait to legally pee on these bitches" kind of way. He said it in a very sobering way. Like, "Doesn't that put this all in perspective for you?"
And it did for a while. But then I realized that exotic dancing is a perfectly legal profession. Sure, there's an underworld of drug abuse and prostitution associated with it, but that surely isn't always the case. None of these girls looked high, drunk or particularly down on their luck. They were just dancing nude. And what I was doing, watching, patronizing the establishment, was also not against the law. Probably not high on the list of things you want to discuss with the parents of your students, but I was certainly well within my rights.
Having gotten it right in my head, I was then able to enjoy myself.
I asked the waitress, a middle-aged, pair-shaped white woman with a big smile, to change my $20 bill.
"Guess which titty," she giggled.
"Excuse me?"
"Guess which titty. The left or the right." Then she squeezed her arms together at the wrist, and pumped her breasts.
I pondered for a moment, then chose. "The right one," I said.
"You got it," she laughed. Then she pulled a sweaty wad of one dollar bills from her right breast.
Then, in an effort to be courteous, I peeled one dollar off the sweaty wad and stuffed in back into her shirt, which she seemed to enjoy.
"Are you gonna get up there later?" I asked.
"Honey," she said. "My dancing days are over."
Then the star of the show hit the stage. I had been hearing about this woman for months. I was told that she had a neat trick that I just had to see for myself.
My homeboy handed me a fistful of ones and told me to go over there and tell her to "Show me some respect." And so I did.
Well.
I'm trying not to be graphic here.
This woman, this very talented special woman, can make a certain body part of hers go "pop" like a champagne bottle. No hands. No special instruments. She just flexes her muscles and out comes this sound that's loud enough to draw a crowd.
I was fascinated. But not in a sexual way. More of a "That's a really neat trick!" sort of way. I guess I just can't imagine how this would be a good thing in bed.
Then, as the crowd began to form, she rolled out one more trick. Again, I shall exercise some discretion here. If you fold a dollar bill length-wise and place it on top of this body part, she can shoot that dollar bill into the air two feet high.
What a show!
Only thing is, the rest of the dancers looked so lame compared to her. She had so much money in her thigh bands, she could barely walk. For an hour's worth of dancing, she must have walked out of there with at least $300.
Probably more.
And so. The bottom line is. There's really no reason to feel sorry for strippers. At least not the good ones.
Thanks for reading.
Download the new single "In The Kitchen" and the new Freestyle of the Week FOR FREE.
GOBAMA!
Factoid: There is something, however, disheartening to say the least, about leaving a strip club while the sun is still up.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Talk Amongst Yourselves
Okay:
A few tangential questions on which to ponder this lovely Friday...
1. In porn orgies, how does the guy with smallest penis feel?
2. Can women with fat asses sit down for longer periods of time without becoming uncomfortable?
3. Am I the only one here who likes big brown areolas?
4. Has anyone else noticed lately that a lot of straight Latin men are getting their eyebrows arched?
5. What's going on with Michelle Obama's jaws?
6. Where's Dick Cheney?
7. Am I the only one here who's glad Bill Cosby finally shut the fuck up?
8. Why is Eddie Murphy coming out with another stupid movie?
9. Why do people still get excited about seeing M. Night Shyamalan movies even though they always end up sucking ass?
10. How come there are so many Filipinos on America's Best Dance Crew?
11. How did Barbara Walters get into television journalism with that speech impediment?
12. Did anyone else notice R. Kelly singing about ice cold lemonade on the Raheem DeVaughn remix?
13. When did we start drinking prescription strength cough syrup?
14. Am I the only dude here who can't wait for Run's youngest daughter to turn 18?
15. Am I the only closet T-Pain fan here?
16. How come at the end of every Sanaa Lathan movie, she ends up literally "running" to catch her man?
17. Am I the only one who, as a child, assumed Grace Jones was a transvestite?
18. Am I the only one who tried to stop watching Seinfeld after the Kramer incident but found that he couldn't really help himself?
19. Did you know that Mason "Ma$e" Betha, in spite of his recent unsuccessful attempt at joining the G-Unit roster and returning to gangsta-club rap, still has a mega-church in Atlanta?
20. Are gas prices so high because we're, like, running out of oil or what?
21. Am I the only one who has considered trading in his car for a moped?
22. Is it me, or are most young male local news reporters gay?
Thanks for reading.
Last chance to download the New Freestyle of the Week.
GOBAMA!
Factoid: Yesterday my co-workers threw me a big farewell party. There was ice cream and cake and homemade food. Our White Homegirl put it all together. Thanks, sweetie!!!
A few tangential questions on which to ponder this lovely Friday...
1. In porn orgies, how does the guy with smallest penis feel?
2. Can women with fat asses sit down for longer periods of time without becoming uncomfortable?
3. Am I the only one here who likes big brown areolas?
4. Has anyone else noticed lately that a lot of straight Latin men are getting their eyebrows arched?
5. What's going on with Michelle Obama's jaws?
6. Where's Dick Cheney?
7. Am I the only one here who's glad Bill Cosby finally shut the fuck up?
8. Why is Eddie Murphy coming out with another stupid movie?
9. Why do people still get excited about seeing M. Night Shyamalan movies even though they always end up sucking ass?
10. How come there are so many Filipinos on America's Best Dance Crew?
11. How did Barbara Walters get into television journalism with that speech impediment?
12. Did anyone else notice R. Kelly singing about ice cold lemonade on the Raheem DeVaughn remix?
13. When did we start drinking prescription strength cough syrup?
14. Am I the only dude here who can't wait for Run's youngest daughter to turn 18?
15. Am I the only closet T-Pain fan here?
16. How come at the end of every Sanaa Lathan movie, she ends up literally "running" to catch her man?
17. Am I the only one who, as a child, assumed Grace Jones was a transvestite?
18. Am I the only one who tried to stop watching Seinfeld after the Kramer incident but found that he couldn't really help himself?
19. Did you know that Mason "Ma$e" Betha, in spite of his recent unsuccessful attempt at joining the G-Unit roster and returning to gangsta-club rap, still has a mega-church in Atlanta?
20. Are gas prices so high because we're, like, running out of oil or what?
21. Am I the only one who has considered trading in his car for a moped?
22. Is it me, or are most young male local news reporters gay?
Thanks for reading.
Last chance to download the New Freestyle of the Week.
GOBAMA!
Factoid: Yesterday my co-workers threw me a big farewell party. There was ice cream and cake and homemade food. Our White Homegirl put it all together. Thanks, sweetie!!!
Thursday, June 19, 2008
While You're Down There...
Okay:
Apparently, white people call it a "rim job" and they've been doing it for years. It's technical term in "analingus" though.
As far as I can tell, it's a relatively new concept in the black community. When I first started having sex, I had never even heard of it and the thought of such a thing had never crossed my mind.
I'd never even seen it in porn, and by the time I lost my virginity, I had seen my fair share of porn.
In fact, I've only seen it gain popularity in porn over the past decade or so.
If I were a betting man, I'd wager that blacks discovered this tasty little taboo on a Chris Rock comedy special 15 years ago. The young, wiry, and remarkably ugly comedian introduced us all to something he called "tossing salad". Of course, he was actually talking about prison sex, and the use of "salad tossing" as an even more humiliating way for one prisoner to show dominance over another.
He never even mentioned it's potential for pleasure within the context of a consensual heterosexual relationship, outside of prison walls.
Well, it didn't take Black America long to find it out.
I can't remember the first time I performed the act. But I know that I got the idea from Chris Rock.
I've never been squeamish about putting in some face time with my good friend the vagina. I've always considered it a pleasant and rewarding experience. Then one day I discovered that right next door was her shy, uptight, slightly-less-attractive, neighbor. And, dammit, she needs some attention too!
And I have never known a woman to complain if while you were in the neighborhood, you took some time out to visit the vagina's lonely next door neighbor.
Never!
Discovering this, I made it a point to make it a part of my repertoire. Haven't looked back since.
The interesting thing about rim jobs, analingus, salad tossing, or whatever, is that it is the only sex act that can be reciprocated in a heterosexual encounter. Yes a man and a woman can give each other oral sex, but cunnilingus is wholly different than fellatio. It's really not the same act at all, now is it?
But for some women, I've discovered, performing this particular act on a man is still kind of in the realm of sex acts that make them go "ewwwwww."
But that's just happy hour talk.
My bedroom experience has shown me that roughly eighty percent of women will do it, and for two very specific reasons that you all might find surprising.
At least the men might.
It is, in case you're new to this and curious, a uniquely pleasurable experience for men. I say this because most straight men, myself included, don't introduce that particular part of our anatomies as something to be played with.
So, that's reason 1. She knows she's gonna get a response out of this guy, a sound, a moan, that he wouldn't make for any other reason. Not from intercourse. Not from head.
Reason 2. It is impossible to be on the receiving end without assuming, shall we say, a less-than-masculine posture. There aren't a whole lot of different ways to get at this particular body part. You either have to get on all fours or hike your legs up like a baby waiting for a fresh diaper.
I find that most women who are willing to perform this act get a kick out of turning a man into a submissive.
And these are the reasons I gave it up 5 years ago. It was fun while it lasted, but the reality is...you end up looking and feeling like a bitch.
So that's how I feel about eating ass.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
Download the New Freestyle of the Week.
Innocent Question: What would you consider absolutely off limits during your private bedroom moments?
Apparently, white people call it a "rim job" and they've been doing it for years. It's technical term in "analingus" though.
As far as I can tell, it's a relatively new concept in the black community. When I first started having sex, I had never even heard of it and the thought of such a thing had never crossed my mind.
I'd never even seen it in porn, and by the time I lost my virginity, I had seen my fair share of porn.
In fact, I've only seen it gain popularity in porn over the past decade or so.
If I were a betting man, I'd wager that blacks discovered this tasty little taboo on a Chris Rock comedy special 15 years ago. The young, wiry, and remarkably ugly comedian introduced us all to something he called "tossing salad". Of course, he was actually talking about prison sex, and the use of "salad tossing" as an even more humiliating way for one prisoner to show dominance over another.
He never even mentioned it's potential for pleasure within the context of a consensual heterosexual relationship, outside of prison walls.
Well, it didn't take Black America long to find it out.
I can't remember the first time I performed the act. But I know that I got the idea from Chris Rock.
I've never been squeamish about putting in some face time with my good friend the vagina. I've always considered it a pleasant and rewarding experience. Then one day I discovered that right next door was her shy, uptight, slightly-less-attractive, neighbor. And, dammit, she needs some attention too!
And I have never known a woman to complain if while you were in the neighborhood, you took some time out to visit the vagina's lonely next door neighbor.
Never!
Discovering this, I made it a point to make it a part of my repertoire. Haven't looked back since.
The interesting thing about rim jobs, analingus, salad tossing, or whatever, is that it is the only sex act that can be reciprocated in a heterosexual encounter. Yes a man and a woman can give each other oral sex, but cunnilingus is wholly different than fellatio. It's really not the same act at all, now is it?
But for some women, I've discovered, performing this particular act on a man is still kind of in the realm of sex acts that make them go "ewwwwww."
But that's just happy hour talk.
My bedroom experience has shown me that roughly eighty percent of women will do it, and for two very specific reasons that you all might find surprising.
At least the men might.
It is, in case you're new to this and curious, a uniquely pleasurable experience for men. I say this because most straight men, myself included, don't introduce that particular part of our anatomies as something to be played with.
So, that's reason 1. She knows she's gonna get a response out of this guy, a sound, a moan, that he wouldn't make for any other reason. Not from intercourse. Not from head.
Reason 2. It is impossible to be on the receiving end without assuming, shall we say, a less-than-masculine posture. There aren't a whole lot of different ways to get at this particular body part. You either have to get on all fours or hike your legs up like a baby waiting for a fresh diaper.
I find that most women who are willing to perform this act get a kick out of turning a man into a submissive.
And these are the reasons I gave it up 5 years ago. It was fun while it lasted, but the reality is...you end up looking and feeling like a bitch.
So that's how I feel about eating ass.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
Download the New Freestyle of the Week.
Innocent Question: What would you consider absolutely off limits during your private bedroom moments?
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Graduation Revisited
Okay:
So, today our seniors are graduating, which means I should probably wear a tie. I haven't worn a tie to work in months. But this is a special occasion, I'd say.
I remember my high school graduation. Kind of.
I remember there was a lot of crying going, but I don't recall being particularly sad at all. I was more or less shocked that I had managed to pull it together and graduate. It seemed like it was touch-and-go all the way up to the last minute.
I remember the rehearsals. But because I went to art school, our rehearsals were a little but more involved. Our theme, get ready for this, was the musical Pippin. Being in the Literary and Media arts department, I had never participated in a theatrical production, but I wasn't going to miss what would probably be my last opportunity to be in a musical.
Or, at least my last chance to do it without being thought gay.
I had a small bit part with no speaking lines that I could remember. I just had to remember some light choreography and the show's theme.
I can still remember. "Join us. We've been on a journey. Mystic, magic and exotic. Join us. Come and waste a hour or two...doodely doo!"
Then I somehow ended up back in my cap and gown and sitting with the rest of my class. I don't recall exactly how it was all pieced together, but I do remember that little bit of song and the loud family in the balcony with the noise makers. But that's it really.
Gill remembers a lot more than I do. Gill, who called me the afternoon of the baccalaureate and left a message on my answering machine (remember those?) asking, "Youngin, is you goin' to the bachelorette?"
To this day, my mother and sister call him The Bachelorette Guy and can be brought to tearful laughter if the story is retold.
I was in Gill's office the other day. He showed me a copy of Jet magazine with Victoria Rockwell on the cover. "Where do you remember her from?" he asked.
"Was she on a soap opera or some sit com?"
"No, you jack ass," he said, slightly annoyed. "She spoke at our graduation."
"Really?" I said. "I don't remember her at all."
"Jesus, man," said Gill, shaking his head.
And I don't. Not one bit.
Yesterday, I was at the rehearsal. I was feeling somewhat annoyed that I hadn't been asked to participate, but then I thought better of it and decided that it would be good to do nothing and just watch.
I was nostalgic.
I sat next to Gill for a while and talked to him. Our White Homegirl was helping with the actual rehearsal.
"It's the end of an era," she said a few days ago. Friday's my last day at the job. Our little threesome will be no more. No more two hour lunches. No more philosophical debates on the merits of blowjobs and anal sex at happy hour. No more. No more. No more.
It's the same, in a far more dramatic sense, for these kids. But most of them seem oblivious. As I was. So much, in fact, that I can only remember the odds and ends, the bits and pieces, and that fact that the graduation coordinator had a troublesome mole on the tip of her nose that I couldn't stop and staring at and wondering why she wouldn't just have the thing removed, and that at some point, someone had told us to make sure not to get our cap and gowns too wet.
I listened to the graduation coordinator talking to the 16 or so graduates, while they fidgeted around and talked on their cell phones. "No balloons," she said. "They could get caught in the ceiling lights, which would be dangerous."
She continued. "And when it's over, please do not throw your caps into the air."
"What?" one of the students shouted angrily. "We can't even throw our caps?"
"Those caps have pointy ends," she went on. "And what goes up must come down. Now it would be real messed up if someone caught the pointy end of your cap in their eye on graduation day, wouldn't it?"
"A real nigga gon' throw his cap," the student said.
The graduation coordinator went on talking, making sure that everyone knew exactly where they were to sit and when they were to sit and when to turn their tassels.
One student remarked, "When we walk out that door tomorrow and go outside, that's when 'dulthood start."
I giggled, but was warmed by the sentiment.
Someone asked, "What's the theme for this thing? A graduation needs a theme."
A staff member replied, "How about 'Good Luck, Nigga'?"
Make sure to download the New Freestyle of the Week.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
Factoid: When Marion Barry was in office, he came to every single DC public high school graduation and delivered the same speech which included a refrain of comparisons between education and various items of popular culture. "Education's like scotch tape. You can't see it but know it's there. Education's like Coca Cola. It's the real thing. Education's like Pepsi. Uh Huh."
Now that, I do remember. Only he wasn't in office when I graduated.
So, today our seniors are graduating, which means I should probably wear a tie. I haven't worn a tie to work in months. But this is a special occasion, I'd say.
I remember my high school graduation. Kind of.
I remember there was a lot of crying going, but I don't recall being particularly sad at all. I was more or less shocked that I had managed to pull it together and graduate. It seemed like it was touch-and-go all the way up to the last minute.
I remember the rehearsals. But because I went to art school, our rehearsals were a little but more involved. Our theme, get ready for this, was the musical Pippin. Being in the Literary and Media arts department, I had never participated in a theatrical production, but I wasn't going to miss what would probably be my last opportunity to be in a musical.
Or, at least my last chance to do it without being thought gay.
I had a small bit part with no speaking lines that I could remember. I just had to remember some light choreography and the show's theme.
I can still remember. "Join us. We've been on a journey. Mystic, magic and exotic. Join us. Come and waste a hour or two...doodely doo!"
Then I somehow ended up back in my cap and gown and sitting with the rest of my class. I don't recall exactly how it was all pieced together, but I do remember that little bit of song and the loud family in the balcony with the noise makers. But that's it really.
Gill remembers a lot more than I do. Gill, who called me the afternoon of the baccalaureate and left a message on my answering machine (remember those?) asking, "Youngin, is you goin' to the bachelorette?"
To this day, my mother and sister call him The Bachelorette Guy and can be brought to tearful laughter if the story is retold.
I was in Gill's office the other day. He showed me a copy of Jet magazine with Victoria Rockwell on the cover. "Where do you remember her from?" he asked.
"Was she on a soap opera or some sit com?"
"No, you jack ass," he said, slightly annoyed. "She spoke at our graduation."
"Really?" I said. "I don't remember her at all."
"Jesus, man," said Gill, shaking his head.
And I don't. Not one bit.
Yesterday, I was at the rehearsal. I was feeling somewhat annoyed that I hadn't been asked to participate, but then I thought better of it and decided that it would be good to do nothing and just watch.
I was nostalgic.
I sat next to Gill for a while and talked to him. Our White Homegirl was helping with the actual rehearsal.
"It's the end of an era," she said a few days ago. Friday's my last day at the job. Our little threesome will be no more. No more two hour lunches. No more philosophical debates on the merits of blowjobs and anal sex at happy hour. No more. No more. No more.
It's the same, in a far more dramatic sense, for these kids. But most of them seem oblivious. As I was. So much, in fact, that I can only remember the odds and ends, the bits and pieces, and that fact that the graduation coordinator had a troublesome mole on the tip of her nose that I couldn't stop and staring at and wondering why she wouldn't just have the thing removed, and that at some point, someone had told us to make sure not to get our cap and gowns too wet.
I listened to the graduation coordinator talking to the 16 or so graduates, while they fidgeted around and talked on their cell phones. "No balloons," she said. "They could get caught in the ceiling lights, which would be dangerous."
She continued. "And when it's over, please do not throw your caps into the air."
"What?" one of the students shouted angrily. "We can't even throw our caps?"
"Those caps have pointy ends," she went on. "And what goes up must come down. Now it would be real messed up if someone caught the pointy end of your cap in their eye on graduation day, wouldn't it?"
"A real nigga gon' throw his cap," the student said.
The graduation coordinator went on talking, making sure that everyone knew exactly where they were to sit and when they were to sit and when to turn their tassels.
One student remarked, "When we walk out that door tomorrow and go outside, that's when 'dulthood start."
I giggled, but was warmed by the sentiment.
Someone asked, "What's the theme for this thing? A graduation needs a theme."
A staff member replied, "How about 'Good Luck, Nigga'?"
Make sure to download the New Freestyle of the Week.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
Factoid: When Marion Barry was in office, he came to every single DC public high school graduation and delivered the same speech which included a refrain of comparisons between education and various items of popular culture. "Education's like scotch tape. You can't see it but know it's there. Education's like Coca Cola. It's the real thing. Education's like Pepsi. Uh Huh."
Now that, I do remember. Only he wasn't in office when I graduated.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Cut Da Check!!!
Okay:
So part of my job is to run a paid in-school internship program. Of course, there are some inherent problems in such a program. I spent a long time thinking about how to run it so that it does not interfere with a student's academic schedule and can be tied in as a positive behavior incentive.
Imagine kids not showing up to class for weeks, months perhaps, and telling their teachers that they were at work.
Or imagine a kid telling a teacher "fuck you" one period, and then going to pick up his check the next period, with no reliable way of holding him accountable for his actions as it pertains to his pay.
Basically, he earned it. You agreed to pay him. Gotta give him his check, regardless.
Imagine the "line" trailing all the way down the hall on "Check Day", as the kids call it.
Imagine the kid whose last name begins with "W" having to wait for 15 minutes to get his check.
Imagine him eventually losing his patience and shouting, "Give me my motherfucking check, bitch!"
Imagine there being a payroll mistake and someone's check being short or missing entirely.
Whoa Nelly!
So, what does this all begin to look and sound like?
You guessed it.
Welfare.
Now don't get me wrong. There's nothing wrong with welfare, and it's really not a laughing matter for the people who need it. I just take issue with the unhealthy welfare mentality. And I also take issue with teenagers developing such a mentality before they reach the age of adulthood, with the assistance of adults who are charged with their education and overall development.
Call me crazy.
I was eventually able to create a system that eliminated these issues, for the most part.
Then I quit and found me a new job. Which is great for me, but, of course, some of my students are a little upset.
"Nadir, I heard you was leaving. Where the fuck you think you going?"
and...
"I heard you quit, man. Well, good riddance, nigga."
and...
"You a cold bitch for leaving us on stuck like this."
My interns were particularly concerned though.
"Nadir, I heard you quit. Am I still gonna get my check?"
and...
"How is I'm s'posed to git paid now?"
and...
"You was the best check-giving-out man I ever had. You was 'bout your business. Them other people used to be fucking up sometimes. But you was always right there early with my money ready. Shit gonna be fucked up now."
Gosh, I hope not.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
Don't forget to download the New Freestyle of the Week.
Innocent Question: What's your position on paid internships for students as an attendance incentive? Exploitation? Legitimate strategy? Or dangerously close to a free cheese kind of thing?
So part of my job is to run a paid in-school internship program. Of course, there are some inherent problems in such a program. I spent a long time thinking about how to run it so that it does not interfere with a student's academic schedule and can be tied in as a positive behavior incentive.
Imagine kids not showing up to class for weeks, months perhaps, and telling their teachers that they were at work.
Or imagine a kid telling a teacher "fuck you" one period, and then going to pick up his check the next period, with no reliable way of holding him accountable for his actions as it pertains to his pay.
Basically, he earned it. You agreed to pay him. Gotta give him his check, regardless.
Imagine the "line" trailing all the way down the hall on "Check Day", as the kids call it.
Imagine the kid whose last name begins with "W" having to wait for 15 minutes to get his check.
Imagine him eventually losing his patience and shouting, "Give me my motherfucking check, bitch!"
Imagine there being a payroll mistake and someone's check being short or missing entirely.
Whoa Nelly!
So, what does this all begin to look and sound like?
You guessed it.
Welfare.
Now don't get me wrong. There's nothing wrong with welfare, and it's really not a laughing matter for the people who need it. I just take issue with the unhealthy welfare mentality. And I also take issue with teenagers developing such a mentality before they reach the age of adulthood, with the assistance of adults who are charged with their education and overall development.
Call me crazy.
I was eventually able to create a system that eliminated these issues, for the most part.
Then I quit and found me a new job. Which is great for me, but, of course, some of my students are a little upset.
"Nadir, I heard you was leaving. Where the fuck you think you going?"
and...
"I heard you quit, man. Well, good riddance, nigga."
and...
"You a cold bitch for leaving us on stuck like this."
My interns were particularly concerned though.
"Nadir, I heard you quit. Am I still gonna get my check?"
and...
"How is I'm s'posed to git paid now?"
and...
"You was the best check-giving-out man I ever had. You was 'bout your business. Them other people used to be fucking up sometimes. But you was always right there early with my money ready. Shit gonna be fucked up now."
Gosh, I hope not.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
Don't forget to download the New Freestyle of the Week.
Innocent Question: What's your position on paid internships for students as an attendance incentive? Exploitation? Legitimate strategy? Or dangerously close to a free cheese kind of thing?
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Just Another Day
Okay:
My Father's Day was relatively uneventful.
New technology has turned this sadly overlooked holiday into something bordering on pathetic. Instead of phone calls from well-wishers, I received twenty or so text messages.
They varied from the standard: "Happy Father's Day"
To the more interesting:
"Today fellas u r not bitch ass niggas, no good mother fuckers, or trifling dogs. Today u r great dads. HAPPY FATHERS DAY. But tomorrow u go back 2 bitch ass niggas..."
It's good to know that people are thinking about you and all that you do on this special day, an after thought as it were.
"Hey, the mothers got their own day. What are we? Chop liver?"
But enough with the pity party.
I spent this morning cleaning a pair of sneakers I bought for my daughter a month ago. A pair of yellow and green Chuck Taylors that she dirtied up on "Water Day", which apparently also involved mud and what appeared to be tar of some sort.
It wasn't until my shoulders got sore from the scrubbing that I realized that canvas shoes can go in the washing machine. It was the kind of a-ha moment that leaves you feeling weak and stupid.
Voila!
Almost as good as new. I even let the laces soak a bit.
I spent most of this weekend doing things that brought home the reality of single parenthood with a special kind of poignancy.
Friday night, we watched High School Musical together. Now, quiet as kept, I am huge fan of musicals. I realize it's a little gay, but I can't help it. Grease. The Wiz. Little Shop of Horrors. I actually own these DVDs and know all the songs by heart.
I was, however, fully expecting to be bored stupid by the newest addition to the ridiculously successful Disney youth entertainment franchise. But low and behold, for what it was, I was thoroughly entertained. The songs themselves were far from memorable, but the story was engaging and at some point I found myself telling my daughter in a decidedly harsh tone to "Sit down and be quiet for one doggone minute!"
I was sitting on the edge of my seat, sincerely vested in whether or not Troy and Gabriella were going to be able to pull it off in spite of that bitch Sharpay's constant meddling.
This afternoon, I was washing a pair of Dora panties in the sink.
Then I spent forty minutes braiding hair. Only for my mother to later on to exclaim, "Sweetie, who did you hair this way and why did they do it?"
Then my stepfather jumped in, "You look like a little pickaninnie."
He sang a little song, "Pick-a-ninnie, pick-a-ninnie, pick-a-ninnie."
Then they started dancing.
Then my daughter and my mother ran upstairs and when they came back down, her hair was different.
Oh well.
Yes, I've come a very long way.
There's a kind of duality involved in all this.
But it's better than being a pure bachelor, I think.
I didn't get any presents or cards. But my sister says there's something in the mail. Still, this is the irony of Father's Day. For 24 hours, we get to celebrate exactly how unappreciated we are. But if we were celebrated on the level the mothers are, it would take all the zip out of fatherhood. We're supposed to be in the background, barely noticed, us knowing full well that none of it would be possible without us, but because we're men, we don't need all the fuss.
It's better that way. Not martyrdom. More like anonymous philanthropy.
I did, in case you were wondering, have lunch with my father. There were about eight of us. We ran up a $200 bill at Olive Garden, celebrating the old man and myself and all that we do and have done. But when the bill came everyone started pulling out cash, trying to divvy it up. "How many glasses of wine did you have?" and so on. So I handed my father my debit card and said, "Why don't we put 50% on my card and 50% on your card."
He smiled proudly and said, "I think that's a good idea."
Happy Father's Day.
Brand New Freestyle of the Week available for download today.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
Factoid: I received a grand total of 15 Happy Father's Day text messages. If you sent one of them, thank you.
My Father's Day was relatively uneventful.
New technology has turned this sadly overlooked holiday into something bordering on pathetic. Instead of phone calls from well-wishers, I received twenty or so text messages.
They varied from the standard: "Happy Father's Day"
To the more interesting:
"Today fellas u r not bitch ass niggas, no good mother fuckers, or trifling dogs. Today u r great dads. HAPPY FATHERS DAY. But tomorrow u go back 2 bitch ass niggas..."
It's good to know that people are thinking about you and all that you do on this special day, an after thought as it were.
"Hey, the mothers got their own day. What are we? Chop liver?"
But enough with the pity party.
I spent this morning cleaning a pair of sneakers I bought for my daughter a month ago. A pair of yellow and green Chuck Taylors that she dirtied up on "Water Day", which apparently also involved mud and what appeared to be tar of some sort.
It wasn't until my shoulders got sore from the scrubbing that I realized that canvas shoes can go in the washing machine. It was the kind of a-ha moment that leaves you feeling weak and stupid.
Voila!
Almost as good as new. I even let the laces soak a bit.
I spent most of this weekend doing things that brought home the reality of single parenthood with a special kind of poignancy.
Friday night, we watched High School Musical together. Now, quiet as kept, I am huge fan of musicals. I realize it's a little gay, but I can't help it. Grease. The Wiz. Little Shop of Horrors. I actually own these DVDs and know all the songs by heart.
I was, however, fully expecting to be bored stupid by the newest addition to the ridiculously successful Disney youth entertainment franchise. But low and behold, for what it was, I was thoroughly entertained. The songs themselves were far from memorable, but the story was engaging and at some point I found myself telling my daughter in a decidedly harsh tone to "Sit down and be quiet for one doggone minute!"
I was sitting on the edge of my seat, sincerely vested in whether or not Troy and Gabriella were going to be able to pull it off in spite of that bitch Sharpay's constant meddling.
This afternoon, I was washing a pair of Dora panties in the sink.
Then I spent forty minutes braiding hair. Only for my mother to later on to exclaim, "Sweetie, who did you hair this way and why did they do it?"
Then my stepfather jumped in, "You look like a little pickaninnie."
He sang a little song, "Pick-a-ninnie, pick-a-ninnie, pick-a-ninnie."
Then they started dancing.
Then my daughter and my mother ran upstairs and when they came back down, her hair was different.
Oh well.
Yes, I've come a very long way.
There's a kind of duality involved in all this.
But it's better than being a pure bachelor, I think.
I didn't get any presents or cards. But my sister says there's something in the mail. Still, this is the irony of Father's Day. For 24 hours, we get to celebrate exactly how unappreciated we are. But if we were celebrated on the level the mothers are, it would take all the zip out of fatherhood. We're supposed to be in the background, barely noticed, us knowing full well that none of it would be possible without us, but because we're men, we don't need all the fuss.
It's better that way. Not martyrdom. More like anonymous philanthropy.
I did, in case you were wondering, have lunch with my father. There were about eight of us. We ran up a $200 bill at Olive Garden, celebrating the old man and myself and all that we do and have done. But when the bill came everyone started pulling out cash, trying to divvy it up. "How many glasses of wine did you have?" and so on. So I handed my father my debit card and said, "Why don't we put 50% on my card and 50% on your card."
He smiled proudly and said, "I think that's a good idea."
Happy Father's Day.
Brand New Freestyle of the Week available for download today.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
Factoid: I received a grand total of 15 Happy Father's Day text messages. If you sent one of them, thank you.
Friday, June 13, 2008
A Fond Farewell
Okay:
So, I got me a new job. Just put in my two weeks' notice on Monday.
I've been there for two years, and to be honest, it's kind of hard to leave. I've never made so many friends at a job. Usually schools are filled with elderly women nearing retirement age. But at this place, you'd be hard-pressed to find someone older than forty.
We all go to happy-hour together and hang out on the weekends and have cookouts and whatnot. It's great. But, as they say, all good things must come to an end.
Time to move on.
And make more money elsewhere.
The Human Resources department has a cute little policy. When someone resigns, they send out an ALLSTAFF email, with a one paragraph farewell blurb that bears a close resemblance to eulogy.
"Mr. Brown worked here for five years. He was instrumental in restructuring our computer networking system and never missed a day of work. He's going on to a better place now, and he will be sorely missed."
You can tell how well someone was liked by how long the email is.
My previous supervisor, who everyone hated, was given one sentence.
"Mrs. ______________ has separated from the company citing irreconcilable differences with the executive office."
Eight years with the school and that was it.
Kind of sad. Like the epitaph for an executed woman.
The Executive Director resigned a short while ago to pursue her doctorate. Her email was close to 500 words. Like an essay, really.
I received an email from HR inquiring as to how I wanted the news to be broken. I was given 3 options.
1. You can tell the staff yourself via an ALLSTAFF email.
2. We can send out an ALLSTAFF email on your behalf.
3. You can keep the matter private and tell whomever you choose.
I replied: "I'd like for you to send out one of those flattering farewell emails. At least one paragraph, and don't forget to mention my smile."
I found myself wondering exactly how it would be worded. Would there be some veiled resentment, a tinge of sarcasm? Or would it be a glowing tribute to a valued employee?
In the end, it was pretty standard.
Nothing to be read in between the lines.
Would I be missed?
A good riddance?
Couldn't tell.
"We wish Mr. Nadir the best of luck in his pursuits."
Well.
I've got my fingers crossed for ice cream and cake. If they make it a surprise then that means they really really liked me.
And it's always good to be well-liked.
Last chance to download the New Freestyle of the Week.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
Innocent Question: Is it bad to hope that the school languishes, at least temporarily, in my absence, and that the person brought in to replace me is horribly inept?
So, I got me a new job. Just put in my two weeks' notice on Monday.
I've been there for two years, and to be honest, it's kind of hard to leave. I've never made so many friends at a job. Usually schools are filled with elderly women nearing retirement age. But at this place, you'd be hard-pressed to find someone older than forty.
We all go to happy-hour together and hang out on the weekends and have cookouts and whatnot. It's great. But, as they say, all good things must come to an end.
Time to move on.
And make more money elsewhere.
The Human Resources department has a cute little policy. When someone resigns, they send out an ALLSTAFF email, with a one paragraph farewell blurb that bears a close resemblance to eulogy.
"Mr. Brown worked here for five years. He was instrumental in restructuring our computer networking system and never missed a day of work. He's going on to a better place now, and he will be sorely missed."
You can tell how well someone was liked by how long the email is.
My previous supervisor, who everyone hated, was given one sentence.
"Mrs. ______________ has separated from the company citing irreconcilable differences with the executive office."
Eight years with the school and that was it.
Kind of sad. Like the epitaph for an executed woman.
The Executive Director resigned a short while ago to pursue her doctorate. Her email was close to 500 words. Like an essay, really.
I received an email from HR inquiring as to how I wanted the news to be broken. I was given 3 options.
1. You can tell the staff yourself via an ALLSTAFF email.
2. We can send out an ALLSTAFF email on your behalf.
3. You can keep the matter private and tell whomever you choose.
I replied: "I'd like for you to send out one of those flattering farewell emails. At least one paragraph, and don't forget to mention my smile."
I found myself wondering exactly how it would be worded. Would there be some veiled resentment, a tinge of sarcasm? Or would it be a glowing tribute to a valued employee?
In the end, it was pretty standard.
Nothing to be read in between the lines.
Would I be missed?
A good riddance?
Couldn't tell.
"We wish Mr. Nadir the best of luck in his pursuits."
Well.
I've got my fingers crossed for ice cream and cake. If they make it a surprise then that means they really really liked me.
And it's always good to be well-liked.
Last chance to download the New Freestyle of the Week.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
Innocent Question: Is it bad to hope that the school languishes, at least temporarily, in my absence, and that the person brought in to replace me is horribly inept?
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Victoria's Secret Revealed
Okay:
Clothing can be deceptive. To the casual observer, I probably look slim and relatively firm.
But the reality is I'm just a big wad of cookie dough.
There's nothing firm on this body of mine anymore. Everything is soft.
Except for where and when it counts, of course.
I'm self-conscious about it, but not really. I usually find some way to warn a woman ahead of time if I think we may have sex. I may talk a little bit about wanting to lose weight and start working out again. I may even play with my belly fat.
Most of them giggle and tell me I haven't seen anything yet.
Some of them giggle uncomfortably but seem disgusted.
Others, like my sister, will turn up their noses and state flatly, "That's disgusting."
But what I don't do is attempt to perpetrate as though I got the big sexy going on under my shirt so I can have to deal with the anxiety of knowing how disappointed they'll be when I disrobe.
Women, however, don't appear to have the same concerns or offer the same courtesies.
I can't tell you how many times I've been disappointed at seeing how a woman really looks naked.
Stomachs I can deal with.
Stretch marks or whatever.
Guts.
Rolls.
Seen it all.
Not a big deal.
What does infuriate me, however, is the disappointing titty.
I guess it's because it's fairly difficult to ascertain the consistency of the tit through clothing. Bellies are easy to spot, even when great measures are being taken to hide them. But they've got a whole industry for creating deception around the tit.
I guess it's because I'm such a tit man.
I love ass, don't get me wrong.
But there is something about a pair of big titties that makes my mouth water.
And before you ask, yes, I was breast-fed.
So, it always sucks to think you've found someone with a nice rack, only to take her home and realize that she's got the pancake action going on.
Of course, I know that after a woman gives birth, if she has a large chest, those tits are going to go through all kinds of crazy changes. And I can respect and appreciate that. My problem lies in the deception that is created.
I once got a woman with DDDs back to my apartment. I was so excited. Like Christmas morning. Couldn't wait. I could barely hold a conversation with this woman. She had them all served up, high, about to bust through the top of her blouse.
It came time to do the deed. I helped her take of her shirt and unhook that harness she had on. And by now, you've already guessed what happened.
Those big mamma jammas came tumbling down to her waist.
I couldn't see her navel anymore.
Her nipples pointed to the floor like they were giving me directions to her feet.
I reached out to touch them. They were deflated, lifeless beach balls. There was no fun to be had there.
Again, ladies. I know life happens and there's no way to predict or necessarily prevent (not all the time at least) how time will ravage your body. I'm just saying that a warning would be nice.
Don't forget to download the New Freestyle of the Week.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
Innocent Question: If a man stuffed his pants with a sock or some other phallic to appear larger, and when he took his pants off you were disappointed and shocked at how small his penis was, what would you do?
Clothing can be deceptive. To the casual observer, I probably look slim and relatively firm.
But the reality is I'm just a big wad of cookie dough.
There's nothing firm on this body of mine anymore. Everything is soft.
Except for where and when it counts, of course.
I'm self-conscious about it, but not really. I usually find some way to warn a woman ahead of time if I think we may have sex. I may talk a little bit about wanting to lose weight and start working out again. I may even play with my belly fat.
Most of them giggle and tell me I haven't seen anything yet.
Some of them giggle uncomfortably but seem disgusted.
Others, like my sister, will turn up their noses and state flatly, "That's disgusting."
But what I don't do is attempt to perpetrate as though I got the big sexy going on under my shirt so I can have to deal with the anxiety of knowing how disappointed they'll be when I disrobe.
Women, however, don't appear to have the same concerns or offer the same courtesies.
I can't tell you how many times I've been disappointed at seeing how a woman really looks naked.
Stomachs I can deal with.
Stretch marks or whatever.
Guts.
Rolls.
Seen it all.
Not a big deal.
What does infuriate me, however, is the disappointing titty.
I guess it's because it's fairly difficult to ascertain the consistency of the tit through clothing. Bellies are easy to spot, even when great measures are being taken to hide them. But they've got a whole industry for creating deception around the tit.
I guess it's because I'm such a tit man.
I love ass, don't get me wrong.
But there is something about a pair of big titties that makes my mouth water.
And before you ask, yes, I was breast-fed.
So, it always sucks to think you've found someone with a nice rack, only to take her home and realize that she's got the pancake action going on.
Of course, I know that after a woman gives birth, if she has a large chest, those tits are going to go through all kinds of crazy changes. And I can respect and appreciate that. My problem lies in the deception that is created.
I once got a woman with DDDs back to my apartment. I was so excited. Like Christmas morning. Couldn't wait. I could barely hold a conversation with this woman. She had them all served up, high, about to bust through the top of her blouse.
It came time to do the deed. I helped her take of her shirt and unhook that harness she had on. And by now, you've already guessed what happened.
Those big mamma jammas came tumbling down to her waist.
I couldn't see her navel anymore.
Her nipples pointed to the floor like they were giving me directions to her feet.
I reached out to touch them. They were deflated, lifeless beach balls. There was no fun to be had there.
Again, ladies. I know life happens and there's no way to predict or necessarily prevent (not all the time at least) how time will ravage your body. I'm just saying that a warning would be nice.
Don't forget to download the New Freestyle of the Week.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
Innocent Question: If a man stuffed his pants with a sock or some other phallic to appear larger, and when he took his pants off you were disappointed and shocked at how small his penis was, what would you do?
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
The Pitfalls Of Do It Yourself Porn
Okay:
There's nothing I've ever wanted to do sexually that I haven't done yet. I guess that makes me what some people would call a freak. And it's not necessarily a moniker I shy away from. But, honestly, it might be a bit of an overstatement.
I'm really not that freaky.
I like basic boy-girl sex.
I don't really do toys. Something about holding a dildo seems emasculating.
I'm not really interested in menage e trois or group sex. I've barely got the attention span to pay attention to one woman. Satisfying more than one sounds a lot like work, and I've always looked at sex as a leisure activity.
And despite what I understand to be a trend growing in acceptability, I am steadfast in my opposition to having my butthole manipulated.
Call me old school.
I do enjoy porn. Which is probably an understatement.
My mother called the other day asking what I would like for Father's Day. I asked for a one terabyte external hard drive. Partly, because I record vocals at home and the files are huge and it would be a soul-crushing disaster if my shit crashed.
But I am equally worried, if not more so, about my porn.
Still, even my porn is pretty boring as far as porn goes. It's all boy-girl black-on-black gonzo. I don't care much for story lines. I like big booties and titties. I like the ones where they oil the girls up with, like, Wesson.
I've got a few group scenes, but they're hard to watch. I get all confused about what's going on and eventually lose interest. It's easier to focus on just 2 people.
What can I say? I grew up on Nintendo.
Although, I enjoy being a voyeur, I have no interest in video-taping myself, which is kind of the point of this blog.
Whilst having a conversation with some friends, most of whom I consider to be prudes, I was shocked to discover that I was the only one who had never video-taped himself.
"Never?"
"No, never."
"You never even took pictures?"
"No, never."
"Do you want to?"
"No, not really."
"Why not?"
I thought about it. I think it's partially because I'm so out-of-shape. Also, most of the women I find myself dealing with are hardly ready to run a marathon.
Mostly though, when I have sex, it's usually so damned casual that I doubt any sensible woman would entertain the thought. It's really, like, a boyfriend-girlfriend thing, isn't it?
And from what I understand, the girl usually has to keep the tape. Which is understandable, but it still seems unfair.
Plus, I plan on being famous one day. And having a sex tape floating around could be a liability. Especially if I try to run for mayor or something. Not so much if I end up becoming the first reputable hip hop author. In that case it would probably help.
Last night, I had a dream that I was with a woman I have been seeing sporadically since college. We've had a humorous, scant sexual history. I met her in the middle of my erectile dysfunction period. And the truth is, we've never had full-blown, strong-erection intercourse.
Ironically, she's the woman I think of when I'm having trouble cumming. (Was that too explicit?)
Anyway, we were fooling around in a library somewhere. We were naked, sitting on a big blanket and I was recording it. Then the woman I was sleeping with up until a short while ago walked in. She was kind of upset or whatever, but not really. Still, it ended our session prematurely.
Which pissed me off.
So that's all I have to say about amateur porn.
Please, please, don't forget to download the New Freestyle of the Week.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
Innocent Question: If things ended badly with you and an ex-boyfriend/girlfriend, who went on to become famous, and you had possession of a sex tape, would you sell it?
There's nothing I've ever wanted to do sexually that I haven't done yet. I guess that makes me what some people would call a freak. And it's not necessarily a moniker I shy away from. But, honestly, it might be a bit of an overstatement.
I'm really not that freaky.
I like basic boy-girl sex.
I don't really do toys. Something about holding a dildo seems emasculating.
I'm not really interested in menage e trois or group sex. I've barely got the attention span to pay attention to one woman. Satisfying more than one sounds a lot like work, and I've always looked at sex as a leisure activity.
And despite what I understand to be a trend growing in acceptability, I am steadfast in my opposition to having my butthole manipulated.
Call me old school.
I do enjoy porn. Which is probably an understatement.
My mother called the other day asking what I would like for Father's Day. I asked for a one terabyte external hard drive. Partly, because I record vocals at home and the files are huge and it would be a soul-crushing disaster if my shit crashed.
But I am equally worried, if not more so, about my porn.
Still, even my porn is pretty boring as far as porn goes. It's all boy-girl black-on-black gonzo. I don't care much for story lines. I like big booties and titties. I like the ones where they oil the girls up with, like, Wesson.
I've got a few group scenes, but they're hard to watch. I get all confused about what's going on and eventually lose interest. It's easier to focus on just 2 people.
What can I say? I grew up on Nintendo.
Although, I enjoy being a voyeur, I have no interest in video-taping myself, which is kind of the point of this blog.
Whilst having a conversation with some friends, most of whom I consider to be prudes, I was shocked to discover that I was the only one who had never video-taped himself.
"Never?"
"No, never."
"You never even took pictures?"
"No, never."
"Do you want to?"
"No, not really."
"Why not?"
I thought about it. I think it's partially because I'm so out-of-shape. Also, most of the women I find myself dealing with are hardly ready to run a marathon.
Mostly though, when I have sex, it's usually so damned casual that I doubt any sensible woman would entertain the thought. It's really, like, a boyfriend-girlfriend thing, isn't it?
And from what I understand, the girl usually has to keep the tape. Which is understandable, but it still seems unfair.
Plus, I plan on being famous one day. And having a sex tape floating around could be a liability. Especially if I try to run for mayor or something. Not so much if I end up becoming the first reputable hip hop author. In that case it would probably help.
Last night, I had a dream that I was with a woman I have been seeing sporadically since college. We've had a humorous, scant sexual history. I met her in the middle of my erectile dysfunction period. And the truth is, we've never had full-blown, strong-erection intercourse.
Ironically, she's the woman I think of when I'm having trouble cumming. (Was that too explicit?)
Anyway, we were fooling around in a library somewhere. We were naked, sitting on a big blanket and I was recording it. Then the woman I was sleeping with up until a short while ago walked in. She was kind of upset or whatever, but not really. Still, it ended our session prematurely.
Which pissed me off.
So that's all I have to say about amateur porn.
Please, please, don't forget to download the New Freestyle of the Week.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
Innocent Question: If things ended badly with you and an ex-boyfriend/girlfriend, who went on to become famous, and you had possession of a sex tape, would you sell it?
Monday, June 9, 2008
Fully Loaded Question
Okay:
So, I was kind of casually dating this young lady who asked me an interesting question once.
"Your wife of ten years suddenly fell ill and spent years recuperating from a series of surgeries. During this time she was physically incapable of having sex. At some point you all had a conversation about it and she encouraged you to have an affair to satisfy your sexual needs. Would you do it?"
My answer?
Absolutely not.
I may be a lot of things, but I'd like to think that by the time I'm willing to tie the knot and commit to being with one woman for the rest of my life, I'd be above that sort of thing. Especially considering the fact that our lack of sex was due to uncontrollable circumstances.
A bit surprised, she altered the scenario.
"Let's say she is fully recuperated physically, but due to hormonal changes as a result of the illness, the surgeries, aging and other variables, she no longer has a desire to have sex. Would you have an affair?"
My answer?
Absolutely.
You mean to tell me that her hormones are somehow preventing her from parting her legs? If it's a matter of desire or lack thereof, then it seems to me that it is completely within her control.
Yes, yes, yes. The female body is a mysterious thing. But men have hormones too. And our bodies tell us to do all kinds of crazy shit that would be counter-productive within the context of a marriage, but we are expected to control, tame, suppress those desires. I'd expect my wife to do the same thing.
Come up off of that thang and pretend like you enjoy it.
Fake it till you make it, as they say. I imagine that after a while you'd get back into the swing of things. In the interim, that's why the good people at Johnson & Johnson invented KY jelly.
The conversation then deteriorated into a debate on the feminine versus the male perspective on marriage.
My contention is that women, sadly, are indoctrinated with the belief that marriage should be a life goal. Something everyone should do before they die. And, idealistically, before they turn 30.
Men, simply, are not.
Our life goals center around work and the acquisition of wealth. In a perfect world, the two perspectives would compliment one another, but nowadays, that's hardly the case.
Her position was that it is disrespectful for a man to carry on a long-term, exclusive and presumably sexual relationship with a woman, having no intentions of marrying her.
I retorted that if a woman has marriage high on her list of things to do before her ovaries shrivel, she should consider abstaining. If you want an old-school courtship, you need to keep that thang under lock-and-key and play your part in the fairy tale as well.
Things got a little heated, but the conversation ended on a friendly note.
The following morning I received an email from her requesting that I not call her anymore. "We are obviously on two different pages" or some shit like that.
Weird, huh?
Thanks for reading.
And don't forget to download the New Freestyle of the Week.
GOBAMA!
Photo provided courtesy of Kelli Anderson of Sojournals.com. Copyright 2008.
Innocent Question: What the fuck?
Opening For The Cool Kids
Okay:
Well, it's six in the morning and I've decided to go to work on time, even though I considered taking the morning off. Seeing as how, last night I didn't get in until two-ish.
I'm groggy in the worst kind of way. My eyelids feel all sticky and my tummy is questionable, but I think I'll manage.
But, man, was it worth it!
Last night was fucking fantastic.
In case you're a sporadic reader, last night Joe and I opened for The Cool Kids at one of DC's larger concert venues, The Black Cat.
As I mentioned on Friday, up until this weekend, I hadn't done much to prepare for the gig. In fact, I had gotten the impression that no one had heard about it and had resigned to a sinking feeling that it was going to be an underwhelming experience.
But fortunately, I was proven wrong on all fronts.
First, let me say that it was plantation hot yesterday. And the women responded accordingly. They were all ass-naked. Literally.
Now that I've gotten that out of the way...
Joe and I were given a dressing room complete with couches, clean towels, and a mini-fridge stocked with water and soda. We were given a few drink tickets each and a free dinner.
And I, proud to say, only had one drink before the set. So there.
We performed a high-velocity thirty minute set, accompanied by local hip hop band, The Els. The crowd loved us! We were funny, engaging and virtually flawless. I couldn't have prayed to Jesus or whomever for a better show.
In case you were wondering, I was wearing a bad ass straw fedora and a beautiful white linen shirt. Very pretty.
Afterwards we sold an assload of the CDs. Took some pictures with some fans. Signed some autographs. Used the rest of those drink tickets. And, at the end of the night, we got paid more than I've ever gotten paid to perform in my entire career.
I really don't have anything sarcastic or witty to say. I'm still kind of in shock.
So back to all the ass.
Man o man!
Ri-fucking-diculous.
I saw one girl who had, like, some shiny gold Reynold's Wrap business tied around her waist trying to pass it off as a skirt. And because I'm me, all I kept thinking was, If she farts, there's gonna be trouble.
She wasn't the only one though. There seemed to be a preponderance of booty everywhere and I'm hoping that today won't be any different.
We had pictures and video taken, so I'll be posting all that stuff soon.
A special thanks to my homies: Heron, Renell, Kelli, Abby and The Els.
Don't forget to download the New Freestyle of the Week.
And thank you, for reading.
GOBAMA!
Factoid: I am going to work today; however, I plan on not working, per se.
Well, it's six in the morning and I've decided to go to work on time, even though I considered taking the morning off. Seeing as how, last night I didn't get in until two-ish.
I'm groggy in the worst kind of way. My eyelids feel all sticky and my tummy is questionable, but I think I'll manage.
But, man, was it worth it!
Last night was fucking fantastic.
In case you're a sporadic reader, last night Joe and I opened for The Cool Kids at one of DC's larger concert venues, The Black Cat.
As I mentioned on Friday, up until this weekend, I hadn't done much to prepare for the gig. In fact, I had gotten the impression that no one had heard about it and had resigned to a sinking feeling that it was going to be an underwhelming experience.
But fortunately, I was proven wrong on all fronts.
First, let me say that it was plantation hot yesterday. And the women responded accordingly. They were all ass-naked. Literally.
Now that I've gotten that out of the way...
Joe and I were given a dressing room complete with couches, clean towels, and a mini-fridge stocked with water and soda. We were given a few drink tickets each and a free dinner.
And I, proud to say, only had one drink before the set. So there.
We performed a high-velocity thirty minute set, accompanied by local hip hop band, The Els. The crowd loved us! We were funny, engaging and virtually flawless. I couldn't have prayed to Jesus or whomever for a better show.
In case you were wondering, I was wearing a bad ass straw fedora and a beautiful white linen shirt. Very pretty.
Afterwards we sold an assload of the CDs. Took some pictures with some fans. Signed some autographs. Used the rest of those drink tickets. And, at the end of the night, we got paid more than I've ever gotten paid to perform in my entire career.
I really don't have anything sarcastic or witty to say. I'm still kind of in shock.
So back to all the ass.
Man o man!
Ri-fucking-diculous.
I saw one girl who had, like, some shiny gold Reynold's Wrap business tied around her waist trying to pass it off as a skirt. And because I'm me, all I kept thinking was, If she farts, there's gonna be trouble.
She wasn't the only one though. There seemed to be a preponderance of booty everywhere and I'm hoping that today won't be any different.
We had pictures and video taken, so I'll be posting all that stuff soon.
A special thanks to my homies: Heron, Renell, Kelli, Abby and The Els.
Don't forget to download the New Freestyle of the Week.
And thank you, for reading.
GOBAMA!
Factoid: I am going to work today; however, I plan on not working, per se.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
About This Weekend's Show...
Okay:
And so I have a gig on Sunday night.
You are now the second person to know.
My friends were railing me today about the inexcusable lack of promotion.
"You're opening for The Cool Kids!"
"They're huge!"
"Where are the fliers?!"
What was my response? A solemn, "I know."
I guess I assumed that because The Cool Kids are such a "huge" act, they'd be their own draw, and it would be Joe and I's opportunity to perform for a new set of ears and eyes. You know that old Eddie Murphy sketch about the woman who marries Johnny Carson and insists on keeping a part-time job.
"I just got paid, Johnny. Now we have two-hundred-million-and-seventy dollars. Put that with the rest."
I guess that's kind of how I was looking at it. But in retrospect, it seems silly. Now the "big gig" is two short days away and, apparently, no one knows about it.
I guess I have yet to figure out the whole Internet marketing thing. And the truth is, I'm not much of a business man. As my sister once told me, and not in a malicious way, "You ain't no Puff Daddy."
But in the climate of today's music industry, what with all the downloading and message boards and social networking sites, one must learn.
So, in the spirit of my favorite procrastinator's maxim, "It's never too late", I'll be initiating a full-court press of promotion for one day. I'm going to utilize all my powers to insure that I get everyone I know to come out and show some support on Sunday.
I will be performing with my Dirty Water cohort, Joe D, backed by The Els. If you've never seen me in person, I'll be the handsome gentleman at the bar sweating profusely, wringing his hands, mumbling to himself and nursing a glass of scotch. That is, until showtime. At which point I will transform into an articulate and energetic erection with a keen sense of style.
Hope to see you there. And, please, help spread the word.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
"Freestyle of the Week" FREE DOWNLOAD LINK
"No Fear" Maxi Single FREE DOWNLOAD LINK
SUNDAY JUNE 8 - Dirty Water live at The Black Cat (Washington, DC)
SATURDAY JULY 26 - Cool Cee Brown live at The Capital Hip Hop Soul Fest (Washington, DC)
Factoid: If you come and tell me you heard about the show from this blog, I will buy you a drink. (Bottom shelf)
Oh, and I almost forgot. My sister has a big test tomorrow for which she has been studying insanely hard. Please send her your good luck vibes through the Internet. GOOD LUCK, SIS!
And so I have a gig on Sunday night.
You are now the second person to know.
My friends were railing me today about the inexcusable lack of promotion.
"You're opening for The Cool Kids!"
"They're huge!"
"Where are the fliers?!"
What was my response? A solemn, "I know."
I guess I assumed that because The Cool Kids are such a "huge" act, they'd be their own draw, and it would be Joe and I's opportunity to perform for a new set of ears and eyes. You know that old Eddie Murphy sketch about the woman who marries Johnny Carson and insists on keeping a part-time job.
"I just got paid, Johnny. Now we have two-hundred-million-and-seventy dollars. Put that with the rest."
I guess that's kind of how I was looking at it. But in retrospect, it seems silly. Now the "big gig" is two short days away and, apparently, no one knows about it.
I guess I have yet to figure out the whole Internet marketing thing. And the truth is, I'm not much of a business man. As my sister once told me, and not in a malicious way, "You ain't no Puff Daddy."
But in the climate of today's music industry, what with all the downloading and message boards and social networking sites, one must learn.
So, in the spirit of my favorite procrastinator's maxim, "It's never too late", I'll be initiating a full-court press of promotion for one day. I'm going to utilize all my powers to insure that I get everyone I know to come out and show some support on Sunday.
I will be performing with my Dirty Water cohort, Joe D, backed by The Els. If you've never seen me in person, I'll be the handsome gentleman at the bar sweating profusely, wringing his hands, mumbling to himself and nursing a glass of scotch. That is, until showtime. At which point I will transform into an articulate and energetic erection with a keen sense of style.
Hope to see you there. And, please, help spread the word.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
"Freestyle of the Week" FREE DOWNLOAD LINK
"No Fear" Maxi Single FREE DOWNLOAD LINK
SUNDAY JUNE 8 - Dirty Water live at The Black Cat (Washington, DC)
SATURDAY JULY 26 - Cool Cee Brown live at The Capital Hip Hop Soul Fest (Washington, DC)
Factoid: If you come and tell me you heard about the show from this blog, I will buy you a drink. (Bottom shelf)
Oh, and I almost forgot. My sister has a big test tomorrow for which she has been studying insanely hard. Please send her your good luck vibes through the Internet. GOOD LUCK, SIS!
The Price Of Gas
Okay:
So my daughter asked me, "Daddy, what's a fart?"
And I responded, "You know how in science class they tell you about the three different kinds of matter?"
"Solid, liquid and gas."
"Exactly. All day long, your body is taking in matter. But some of that matter doesn't belong in your body, so your body gets rid of it."
"Like trash?"
"Exactly like trash. Solid."
"Doo-doo."
"Liquid."
"Pee-pee."
"And gas."
"Fart."
"Exactly, honey. You got it." My stepfather looked over at me and nodded his head approvingly. I had successfully explained the fart.
However, I'm not sure if anyone ever explained it to me so clearly. In fact, my cousins and I had a running bet when we were kids, that if you turned around quickly enough, you could see your fart. Of course, I was the one who came up with such a fantastic tale. I told them it looked like a small yin yang.
I'm a fairly flatulent guy myself. As is my father. I typically will crank out a half-dozen an hour. I read somewhere that the human body is expelling unwanted gas all the time, but most of the time you won't notice.
Part of it is mental, I'm sure. For example, every time I have a young lady come to visit me, one gauge for judging how much I like her is how much gas I get. If I have to leave the room every twenty minutes or so to let 'em rip, I know I've got me someone special.
I once farted while getting orally pleasured by a girlfriend of mine. She had enough class to not say anything and continue doing her job, but when the session was over she barked, "Don't be passing gas while I'm giving you head. That's gross."
I usually fart at least once while having intercourse. But I've never been called on it.
Sometimes Gill may come into my office at work, crank out one or two and then leave. Sometimes he lifts his leg. Sometimes on his way out the door he says, "Your welcome."
Sometimes, my farts follow me. I once farted in my office, and it stank so bad I had to leave and go to someone else's room. A student looked up at me and shouted, "Damn, did you just bust your ass or something?"
"In my office a few minutes ago."
"Well, that shit is on you."
The other day I went to Gill's classroom, with the intention of shooting the shit, but I ended up cranking out a pretty big one.
Gill said, "That was Mr. Nadir, boys and girls. You see how his fart got all that treble. Mr. Gill's farts got that bass."
Cerebral motherfucker gets me every time.
Then there's the infamous shart to consider. And a shart is exactly what you think it is.
Yes, it has happened to me before, but because I live a charmed life, it has never happened to me outside of the home.
A buddy of mine sharted on the way to school once and had to go back home to change. His grandmother wrote him a note, and sent him back to school. Once he got to class, he handed the teacher the note, which she read out loud for some reason.
"Please excuse my grandson for being tardy. He had loose stools."
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
"Freestyle of the Week" FREE DOWNLOAD LINK
"No Fear" Maxi Single FREE DOWNLOAD LINK
SUNDAY JUNE 8 - Dirty Water live at The Black Cat (Washington, DC)
SATURDAY JULY 26 - Cool Cee Brown live at The Capital Hip Hop Soul Fest (Washington, DC)
Factoid: Did you know that farts contain butane and are highly flammable?
So my daughter asked me, "Daddy, what's a fart?"
And I responded, "You know how in science class they tell you about the three different kinds of matter?"
"Solid, liquid and gas."
"Exactly. All day long, your body is taking in matter. But some of that matter doesn't belong in your body, so your body gets rid of it."
"Like trash?"
"Exactly like trash. Solid."
"Doo-doo."
"Liquid."
"Pee-pee."
"And gas."
"Fart."
"Exactly, honey. You got it." My stepfather looked over at me and nodded his head approvingly. I had successfully explained the fart.
However, I'm not sure if anyone ever explained it to me so clearly. In fact, my cousins and I had a running bet when we were kids, that if you turned around quickly enough, you could see your fart. Of course, I was the one who came up with such a fantastic tale. I told them it looked like a small yin yang.
I'm a fairly flatulent guy myself. As is my father. I typically will crank out a half-dozen an hour. I read somewhere that the human body is expelling unwanted gas all the time, but most of the time you won't notice.
Part of it is mental, I'm sure. For example, every time I have a young lady come to visit me, one gauge for judging how much I like her is how much gas I get. If I have to leave the room every twenty minutes or so to let 'em rip, I know I've got me someone special.
I once farted while getting orally pleasured by a girlfriend of mine. She had enough class to not say anything and continue doing her job, but when the session was over she barked, "Don't be passing gas while I'm giving you head. That's gross."
I usually fart at least once while having intercourse. But I've never been called on it.
Sometimes Gill may come into my office at work, crank out one or two and then leave. Sometimes he lifts his leg. Sometimes on his way out the door he says, "Your welcome."
Sometimes, my farts follow me. I once farted in my office, and it stank so bad I had to leave and go to someone else's room. A student looked up at me and shouted, "Damn, did you just bust your ass or something?"
"In my office a few minutes ago."
"Well, that shit is on you."
The other day I went to Gill's classroom, with the intention of shooting the shit, but I ended up cranking out a pretty big one.
Gill said, "That was Mr. Nadir, boys and girls. You see how his fart got all that treble. Mr. Gill's farts got that bass."
Cerebral motherfucker gets me every time.
Then there's the infamous shart to consider. And a shart is exactly what you think it is.
Yes, it has happened to me before, but because I live a charmed life, it has never happened to me outside of the home.
A buddy of mine sharted on the way to school once and had to go back home to change. His grandmother wrote him a note, and sent him back to school. Once he got to class, he handed the teacher the note, which she read out loud for some reason.
"Please excuse my grandson for being tardy. He had loose stools."
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
"Freestyle of the Week" FREE DOWNLOAD LINK
"No Fear" Maxi Single FREE DOWNLOAD LINK
SUNDAY JUNE 8 - Dirty Water live at The Black Cat (Washington, DC)
SATURDAY JULY 26 - Cool Cee Brown live at The Capital Hip Hop Soul Fest (Washington, DC)
Factoid: Did you know that farts contain butane and are highly flammable?
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
And The Winner Is...
Okay:
And the winner is...
My man pulled it off and I couldn't be more happy about something I had relatively no control over.
The preliminaries are over, and now, the main event.
Obama vs. McCain.
He survived Reverend Wright. But what kind of dirt is the GOP going to dig up during the next six months?
Maybe he's got a baby stashed away somewhere.
Jesse did.
Cosby did.
Let's hope Barack's got more control over his penis than the average black man of prominence.
Maybe he misappropriated some funds somewhere.
Remember Congressman Whatshisname that had 90 grand in his office freezer?
Maybe there's a picture of him somewhere standing next to a black radical or an Islamic fundamentalist.
Maybe he's got herpes.
Maybe he'll lose that trademark cool of his at a press conference and blurt out, "Will you fucking crackers come off it already? I am not a fucking Muslim!...Not that there's anything wrong with that."
Maybe Michelle is the one who'll get buck somewhere.
Some little, blond co-ed might ask her, "So what's it like being married to that fine hunk of man?"
To which she might reply, "Excuse me, bitch?"
Then there's the VP ticket to consider.
What to do, o, what to do?
Apparently, Hillary has made it clear that she is more than willing to get on the infamous Superticket with the DNC's golden-brown boy.
Although Obama/Clinton sounds like a sure winner to me, a lot of older people I talk to seem to think that it wouldn't do either of them any good.
I hear, "Obama needs to put a white boy on that ticket. Edwards maybe."
"Michelle will never let that bitch in her house."
"The Clintons are trouble."
"When a black man and a white woman spend a lot of time around each other, it's difficult to not imagine that they're fucking."
Still, I'm of the mind that the Superticket is the way to go. Hillary won the popular vote. All her supporters who swore to vote for McCain if she lost would be appeased. It would unify the party.
I don't see how he could justify not picking her.
And something tells me that she wouldn't have publicly entertained the notion if the promise had not already been made.
But I'm no Chris Matthews. I barely know what I'm talking about.
In January I told everyone at the bar that Edwards was going to win.
"Barack and Hillary are just for pretty. To get things riled up. The Party will eventually come to their senses. Edwards is the cleanest white boy in the crew. He looks the part and he's not a complete moron. That's good enough for America.
"McCain's too old and ugly. Giuliani's a sleazebag. Romney's a fucking Mormon. Half the country thinks they're a cult. Huckabee, even with that ridiculous name, is the obvious choice.
"Mark my words. This summer: Edwards/Obama vs. Huckabee/Giuliani. Who wants to put some money on it?"
Well.
The suspense is killing me. But I think it's going to be clear relatively early which way the country is leaning. By the time we get good into the summer, we'll know.
Unfortunately, for those of us who make between 30 and 100 grand a year, it's not going to make much difference.
Thanks for reading.
GO-FUCKING-BAMA!
"Freestyle of the Week" FREE DOWNLOAD LINK
"No Fear" Maxi Single FREE DOWNLOAD LINK
SUNDAY JUNE 8 - Dirty Water live at The Black Cat (Washington, DC)
SATURDAY JULY 26 - Cool Cee Brown live at The Capital Hip Hop Soul Fest (Washington, DC)
Innocent Question: What if Obama wins...and he ends up sucking ass? Wouldn't that be terrible?
And the winner is...
My man pulled it off and I couldn't be more happy about something I had relatively no control over.
The preliminaries are over, and now, the main event.
Obama vs. McCain.
He survived Reverend Wright. But what kind of dirt is the GOP going to dig up during the next six months?
Maybe he's got a baby stashed away somewhere.
Jesse did.
Cosby did.
Let's hope Barack's got more control over his penis than the average black man of prominence.
Maybe he misappropriated some funds somewhere.
Remember Congressman Whatshisname that had 90 grand in his office freezer?
Maybe there's a picture of him somewhere standing next to a black radical or an Islamic fundamentalist.
Maybe he's got herpes.
Maybe he'll lose that trademark cool of his at a press conference and blurt out, "Will you fucking crackers come off it already? I am not a fucking Muslim!...Not that there's anything wrong with that."
Maybe Michelle is the one who'll get buck somewhere.
Some little, blond co-ed might ask her, "So what's it like being married to that fine hunk of man?"
To which she might reply, "Excuse me, bitch?"
Then there's the VP ticket to consider.
What to do, o, what to do?
Apparently, Hillary has made it clear that she is more than willing to get on the infamous Superticket with the DNC's golden-brown boy.
Although Obama/Clinton sounds like a sure winner to me, a lot of older people I talk to seem to think that it wouldn't do either of them any good.
I hear, "Obama needs to put a white boy on that ticket. Edwards maybe."
"Michelle will never let that bitch in her house."
"The Clintons are trouble."
"When a black man and a white woman spend a lot of time around each other, it's difficult to not imagine that they're fucking."
Still, I'm of the mind that the Superticket is the way to go. Hillary won the popular vote. All her supporters who swore to vote for McCain if she lost would be appeased. It would unify the party.
I don't see how he could justify not picking her.
And something tells me that she wouldn't have publicly entertained the notion if the promise had not already been made.
But I'm no Chris Matthews. I barely know what I'm talking about.
In January I told everyone at the bar that Edwards was going to win.
"Barack and Hillary are just for pretty. To get things riled up. The Party will eventually come to their senses. Edwards is the cleanest white boy in the crew. He looks the part and he's not a complete moron. That's good enough for America.
"McCain's too old and ugly. Giuliani's a sleazebag. Romney's a fucking Mormon. Half the country thinks they're a cult. Huckabee, even with that ridiculous name, is the obvious choice.
"Mark my words. This summer: Edwards/Obama vs. Huckabee/Giuliani. Who wants to put some money on it?"
Well.
The suspense is killing me. But I think it's going to be clear relatively early which way the country is leaning. By the time we get good into the summer, we'll know.
Unfortunately, for those of us who make between 30 and 100 grand a year, it's not going to make much difference.
Thanks for reading.
GO-FUCKING-BAMA!
"Freestyle of the Week" FREE DOWNLOAD LINK
"No Fear" Maxi Single FREE DOWNLOAD LINK
SUNDAY JUNE 8 - Dirty Water live at The Black Cat (Washington, DC)
SATURDAY JULY 26 - Cool Cee Brown live at The Capital Hip Hop Soul Fest (Washington, DC)
Innocent Question: What if Obama wins...and he ends up sucking ass? Wouldn't that be terrible?
Monday, June 2, 2008
Lions And Tigers And Patent Leather Flats
Okay:
So, my mother took my daughter to the Universoul Circus on Saturday.
"Every white person should see this thing," she said. "It's so tacky and black."
Not to be outdone by the doting grandmother, I decided to take my daughter to the zoo on Sunday. I had this marvelous day all planned out. We would take pictures and then come home and create a photo journal. She could write captions about the animals and help me put everything together in Photoshop. It was going to be great. She was going to love it. A lot more than that silly old circus.
But things didn't go exactly as I had planned.
"Can we also go to the playground, daddy?"
"Sure thing, honey. After the zoo."
Then she and her grandmother went upstairs to get all frilled up. When they came back downstairs, she looked like she was going to a play or something, or some kind of outing. Gorgeous. I wondered if I had missed something.
"Those shoes aren't going to work," I said. It wasn't until after I said it that I realized how pleased she was with herself. Her face dropped. "I mean, you look fantastic, but we're going to be doing a lot of walking and those shoes are going to be a problem."
She was crushed.
"Your father's right," my mother said. "Let's go see what else we can put on."
She stomped back up the stairs slowly and stopped midway to give me an over-the-shoulder-pitiful pout before she rounded the corner.
This is her signature move.
I am impervious. But no one else seems to be. She is pretty good though.
After ten minutes of waiting, I got impatient. How long does it take to change shoes?
"What's going on up there?" I shouted.
Then my mother came walking down the stairs...without my daughter.
"She said she doesn't want to change her shoes. The other shoes won't match with her outfit."
"What?" I shouted incredulously. I yelled up the stairs. "Get your butt in your room and change your shoes. You don't get to tell anyone what you're not going to do around here. This isn't a democracy. It's a dictatorship!"
Two minutes later my daughter came downstairs in a pair of crocks.
"Those are fine for walking, honey," I said. "But you're going to have to wear sneakers if you want to go to the playground later."
For some reason I was really concerned about the security of loosely fitting plastic sandals on a metal jungle gym with ropes and monkey bars and bridges and all sorts of lovely things to trip up on. In one way, it seems silly. In another way, it seems totally reasonable.
"Well, I don't think I want to go to the playground then."
I was shocked. Suddenly, I was staring at a little woman. Two years ago I could have dressed her in a burlap sack and she wouldn't have given two shits. Now she was putting fashion ahead of recess.
"That's ridiculous," I said.
"Daddy," she wined, "My sneakers don't match with this outfit. The colors are all wrong."
There was some crying involved, but eventually, she put the damn sneakers on.
My mother warned me against being too strict and forceful. I warned her against being too accommodating.
And low and behold, by the time we got to the zoo, she didn't give a shit anymore. And all was well again.
Kids.
The most disturbing part, I suppose, was how quickly she got over the animals. After a few lions and tigers, she was ready to go.
"You wanna go to The Ape House, honey?"
"I don't care."
"Well, what do you want to do?"
"I want a smoothie and a souvenir."
"What kind of souvenir?"
"A stuffed panda."
"Deal."
So, we went to the gift shop. I found the panda section and called to her, but she had been distracted by something more appealing.
A goddamn giraffe purse.
"But we didn't even see any giraffe's today?"
"I know. But it's a purse though. See?"
I suppose this is what I get for being such a horn dog all these years. God has a wicked sense of humor.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
"Freestyle of the Week" FREE DOWNLOAD LINK
"No Fear" Maxi Single FREE DOWNLOAD LINK
SUNDAY JUNE 8 - Dirty Water live at The Black Cat (Washington, DC)
SATURDAY JULY 26 - Cool Cee Brown live at The Capital Hip Hop Soul Fest (Washington, DC)
Innocent Question: My daughter is 7 and wants to get her ears pierced. I am of the opinion that she is way too young to be altering her body. And I think it's part of this whole "little woman" thing, which I think can become dangerous if not kept in check. The women in my family think I'm nuts and my daughter thinks I'm an asshole. Suggestions?
So, my mother took my daughter to the Universoul Circus on Saturday.
"Every white person should see this thing," she said. "It's so tacky and black."
Not to be outdone by the doting grandmother, I decided to take my daughter to the zoo on Sunday. I had this marvelous day all planned out. We would take pictures and then come home and create a photo journal. She could write captions about the animals and help me put everything together in Photoshop. It was going to be great. She was going to love it. A lot more than that silly old circus.
But things didn't go exactly as I had planned.
"Can we also go to the playground, daddy?"
"Sure thing, honey. After the zoo."
Then she and her grandmother went upstairs to get all frilled up. When they came back downstairs, she looked like she was going to a play or something, or some kind of outing. Gorgeous. I wondered if I had missed something.
"Those shoes aren't going to work," I said. It wasn't until after I said it that I realized how pleased she was with herself. Her face dropped. "I mean, you look fantastic, but we're going to be doing a lot of walking and those shoes are going to be a problem."
She was crushed.
"Your father's right," my mother said. "Let's go see what else we can put on."
She stomped back up the stairs slowly and stopped midway to give me an over-the-shoulder-pitiful pout before she rounded the corner.
This is her signature move.
I am impervious. But no one else seems to be. She is pretty good though.
After ten minutes of waiting, I got impatient. How long does it take to change shoes?
"What's going on up there?" I shouted.
Then my mother came walking down the stairs...without my daughter.
"She said she doesn't want to change her shoes. The other shoes won't match with her outfit."
"What?" I shouted incredulously. I yelled up the stairs. "Get your butt in your room and change your shoes. You don't get to tell anyone what you're not going to do around here. This isn't a democracy. It's a dictatorship!"
Two minutes later my daughter came downstairs in a pair of crocks.
"Those are fine for walking, honey," I said. "But you're going to have to wear sneakers if you want to go to the playground later."
For some reason I was really concerned about the security of loosely fitting plastic sandals on a metal jungle gym with ropes and monkey bars and bridges and all sorts of lovely things to trip up on. In one way, it seems silly. In another way, it seems totally reasonable.
"Well, I don't think I want to go to the playground then."
I was shocked. Suddenly, I was staring at a little woman. Two years ago I could have dressed her in a burlap sack and she wouldn't have given two shits. Now she was putting fashion ahead of recess.
"That's ridiculous," I said.
"Daddy," she wined, "My sneakers don't match with this outfit. The colors are all wrong."
There was some crying involved, but eventually, she put the damn sneakers on.
My mother warned me against being too strict and forceful. I warned her against being too accommodating.
And low and behold, by the time we got to the zoo, she didn't give a shit anymore. And all was well again.
Kids.
The most disturbing part, I suppose, was how quickly she got over the animals. After a few lions and tigers, she was ready to go.
"You wanna go to The Ape House, honey?"
"I don't care."
"Well, what do you want to do?"
"I want a smoothie and a souvenir."
"What kind of souvenir?"
"A stuffed panda."
"Deal."
So, we went to the gift shop. I found the panda section and called to her, but she had been distracted by something more appealing.
A goddamn giraffe purse.
"But we didn't even see any giraffe's today?"
"I know. But it's a purse though. See?"
I suppose this is what I get for being such a horn dog all these years. God has a wicked sense of humor.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
"Freestyle of the Week" FREE DOWNLOAD LINK
"No Fear" Maxi Single FREE DOWNLOAD LINK
SUNDAY JUNE 8 - Dirty Water live at The Black Cat (Washington, DC)
SATURDAY JULY 26 - Cool Cee Brown live at The Capital Hip Hop Soul Fest (Washington, DC)
Innocent Question: My daughter is 7 and wants to get her ears pierced. I am of the opinion that she is way too young to be altering her body. And I think it's part of this whole "little woman" thing, which I think can become dangerous if not kept in check. The women in my family think I'm nuts and my daughter thinks I'm an asshole. Suggestions?
Sunday, June 1, 2008
The Mack Is Back
Okay:
Great, fantastic news.
She called.
The mack is back.
For a second there, I thought I was slipping. But, apparently, I made some kind of impression on her as well.
For those of you who read my blog sporadically, a brief recap of last week's events. Like the first five minutes of a Season Premier.
Memorial Day Weekend, I met a woman at a cookout who matched, at least at first glance, most of my criteria for consideration of serious and exclusive dating. She gave me her number, I called her a few times, but I never heard back from her.
Then I wrote a week's worth of sexually charged blogs to make myself feel better.
Then I got over it.
Then she called.
I should have seen this coming.
Not because I'm so damned charming. But because it's so goddamned predictable. The big question now, however, is whether or not this is going anywhere. I'll be honest. Notwithstanding the limited amount of communication we have had to date, I have yet to find anything disturbing or obnoxious about this woman. She doesn't even have kids!!!
Usually I can size a woman up fairly quickly and make some sort of cursory judgement about whether or not she's someone I can take seriously. There's ALWAYS something.
Maybe she's too promiscuous.
Maybe she's too talkative.
Too shallow.
Too uptight.
Too cocky.
Too tall.
Too fat.
Too skinny.
Too dumb.
Too Christian.
Too many fucking kids.
Too whatever the hell. The point is, me not having found something to judge her on puts me at a strategic disadvantage. But I guess this is symptomatic of a larger issue.
If I were enough of a sucker to visit a therapist, he'd probably tell me that I choose women that I know I have no future with so that I don't have to confront my own issues, which would be magnified within the context of a serious relationship. He'd tell me that I choose women with painfully obvious flaws so that I can feel better about my own shortcomings, which are hidden a bit deeper below the surface. Then I would tell him to go fuck himself and give me my money back because therapy is dumb and I already knew all that stuff.
So, I suppose I'll just have to ride this one out and see what happens.
But the suspense is killing me, you know.
See, the good thing about shallow, promiscuous women is that there are generally no surprises. Which I must admit, is getting a little boring. I guess I could use a little excitement around here.
But maybe I'm looking at this all wrong. Maybe she'll end up being the jump off of all jump offs. Wouldn't that be crazy?
We'll see.
I'll be sure to keep you posted on the developments and whatnot.
2 FAVORS:
1. Download the New Freestyle of the Week.
2. Come to the show this Sunday at the Black Cat.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
"Freestyle of the Week" FREE DOWNLOAD LINK
"No Fear" Maxi Single FREE DOWNLOAD LINK
SUNDAY JUNE 8 - Dirty Water live at The Black Cat (Washington, DC)
SATURDAY JULY 26 - Cool Cee Brown live at The Capital Hip Hop Soul Fest (Washington, DC)
Innocent Question: What do you non-whores to do satisfy your sexual needs when there's no one special in the picture? Seriously.
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