So it's been weeks and I distinctly remember telling you all that I would do my best to write weekly. I have failed you, and for this, I am truly sorry. But if you're over it, then I'm over it, and we can move on.
There. We've had our moment.
In business news, I have an upcoming gig (Thursday December 18) at the legendary Bohemian Caverns where jazz greats like Miles Davis and Ornette Coleman once rocked the house. I'll be backed by none other than Sound of the City with some help from Bilal Salaam. It promises to be a pleasant affair. You should put on some soft bottom shoes and bring a friend.
$5 cover. Doors open at 8. 21 & over. I'll be hitting the stage around 9:30ish.
In personal news, I am still happily involved and things couldn't be better. I was reading over some of my past blogs recently and marveling at how deeply jaded I was about the whole relationship thing. I must have been really going through something. I remember friends of mine commenting, "Once you meet the right girl, all of that will change. She'll have your nose wide open."
And I distinctly remember being like, "Go fuck yourself."
And I remember them smiling and being like, "I can't wait to see your pussy whooped ass eat your words."
And I remember thinking that was an especially cruel comment.
Well.
I wouldn't go as far as to call myself pussy whooped. I'm still the same cat basically. But I do have a new and more positive perspective on things. And I've lost most of the compulsion to seek and conquer pussy for numbers' sake. That's not to say I've gone blind. I still see and appreciate other ass. But it's different now.
A metaphor:
When I was a teenager and didn't have a car, I was envious of anyone with a car. Whether it be a Mercedes or a Sentra. All I knew was I was walking and it sucked. Now, I have a car that runs well and is relatively new. I see other cars. Some are nicer than mine. Some are newer than mine. But they're not mine. I know my car. And I've made a lot of payments and I'm not about to walk away from the investment, and it runs well. I like my car. And seeing other cars doesn't make me envious or make me want to take my checkbook down to the dealership for a trade in. I'm good.
I go, "Oooh. Nice car." And then I keep driving.
The other day I took a shit while she was in my apartment. I think that's a big step, man. Women always seem to be looking for tokens of commitment like presents, or keys to the apartment, or promise rings or whatever. But a gesture like shitting while you're sitting in the next room speaks volumes as far as I'm concerned.
My faithful readers know how I am about the sacred act. I believe it is a private time to reflect and be alone with yourself. If I'm comfortable enough around you to take a shit, that means we've got something real.
Of course, she's yet to bless my commode with her fecal matter, but she's a girl. All things in due time.
I mean really though. How well can you say you know someone if you don't know what their shit smells like? I mean, really.
When you're taking a deuce, you're in your most vulnerable, most human state. It is the common thread that connects us all. I don't care who you are. A dignitary, a ballerina or a fucking nun. Once a day, you have to squat and drop a few stones. And if you're eating well, it's not gonna smell like strawberries.
Apparently it should float, have a good strong brown coloring and a firm consistency.
Fucking Barack Obama shits.
And so does Halle Berry. And so does the Pope.
Well, I suppose that's enough for now. I hope to see you all at the show. Tell a friend.
Thanks for reading.
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