Cool Cee Brown On...

Gray Pubes and Bulk Shopping

2009-04-06T06:50:00.004-04:00

Okay:

So have you seen this commercial yet?

I don’t have anything clever to say about it. But it’s always good to see black-owned companies graduating into video advertising. It’s an accomplishment (read sarcasm).

Once again, my daughter showed me that getting older is not a gradual process. You wake one up morning, you have gray pubic hair and a backache.

My daughter is 8 years old, and for whatever reason, she’s extremely talkative. I’m not exactly sure where she gets it from, but it’s ridiculous. Sometimes when we’re getting into the car she’s telling me some story about something she thinks is funny. She’s not even really breathing in between sentences. I let her in the back seat and she’s talking. I strap her into her booster and she’s still talking. I close the door and walk around to the front. When I get in the driver’s seat, she still talking!

The funny part is I don’t think she pauses while she’s in the car alone for 15 seconds. I think she just keeps right on talking.

And she begins every sentence with “This one time on Hannah Montana…”

The other day she was talking, talking, talking. I was nodding my head, trying to be polite. Then she goes, “Daddy, were you even listening to me?”

I say, “Sure I was, honey.”

And she says, “If you were listening, what was I saying?”

So I say, “You were saying…” Then I come to my senses.

“Wait a minute, dammit!” I say. “I told you I was listening. You ain’t my girlfriend. You’re an 8 year-old.”

Like my aunt used to say. “The little fuckers don’t come with instructions.”

In other news, I have officially become a very boring adult. Yesterday I went bulk shopping at BJs!

I know, I know.

My girlfriend kept telling me how much cheaper it is and how I wouldn’t have to go grocery shopping for like three months if I dropped a couple hundred at BJs. I finally caved. It was miserable.

There are all these grown-ups running around with over sized shopping carts, toddlers in tow and diaper bags slung over their shoulders. They spill out of huge SUVs, gospel music seeping from the windows. Some of them are wearing sandals.

I want to turn around and go home. Then I start noticing the prices. Three jumbo bottles of Curel for $13. Twenty-four rolls of Charmin for $10. Six gallons of Deer Park for $5. I look at my girlfriend and say, “We may need another cart.”

The other day, she bought me some scalp treatment from the hair salon because she noticed I was flaking badly. A year ago, I was knocking back shots of Dewar’s five nights a week at happy hour, having random casual sex and sleeping the entire weekend.

Now I’ve got dandruff and enough meat in my freezer and lotion under my sink to survive a nuclear holocaust.

God, you’re hilarious.

Truthfully, I don’t know how I lived like that for as long as I did. It’s hard doing all this shit alone. Especially when you’re drunk. Being sober and committed has its advantages.

Thanks for reading.

Barack Obama Action Figure? Damn...

2009-03-31T05:31:00.002-04:00

My Near Death Experience and Some Bad Customer Service

2009-03-29T21:20:00.003-04:00

Okay:

I almost died during my vacation.

Seriously.

My daughter and I were driving up Wisconsin Avenue on our way to dance practice. We had just come from seeing Monsters Vs. Aliens in Georgetown. (That’s a whole ‘nother story entirely). So, we’re driving along, minding our business, stopping at red lights and what have you. If I’m being perfectly honest—and why not be?—I was texting my girlfriend. That’s the part I played. Then, I felt something.

I swear to God, it was like my Spidey Sense was tingling or some shit. I literally felt something that told me to look to my left. This prick in a station wagon was getting ready to run me off the road. He was not signaling to make a gradual textbook lane change. This fucker was going to hop on over without even looking to his right.

Then, something told me to look to my right. I shit you not. Seriously, something told me to look. And low and behold, there was an old white lady standing at the bus stop.

I know, right.

So, then, with jungle cat reflexes, I was able to break, swerve and honk with the appropriate speed and degree so as to avoid hitting anything or anyone. Crisis averted!

And all because of my amazing fucking Spider Man non-mutant superhero reflexes.

I looked in my mirror and the prick kinda shrugged his shoulders and winced as if to say, “My bad, bro.”

When I stopped at the next light this lady pulled up next to me and started shaking her head in wild-eyed disapproval. Doesn’t that always happen after you narrowly avoid a car accident? When you get to the light, invariably, another driver who saw the whole thing will pull up next to you and shake their head in wild-eyed disapproval. As if to say, “They’ll let anyone get a license now.”

My heart was about to jump out of my chest. My daughter didn’t seem to notice at all. In fact, she didn’t say a word. She just kept playing her Nintendo DS. I, on the other hand, was both scared to death and terribly impressed with myself. It’s actually not the first time I have acted swiftly to avoid a car accident. Honestly, I’m wondering whether or not I may be gifted in this respect. Am I blessed with a rare innate skill? Maybe it’s the kind of shit the government looks for when they’re screening black op prospects. Maybe I’ve got the foundational skills for becoming, like, a Jason Borne or some shit.

It could happen.

Then, of course, there was this week’s trip to the grocery store. I went to the Safeway on Connecticut Avenue. I typically shop there because of my bourgeois sensibilities. Us uppity niggas often assume we’ll get better service and products on the other side of town. Unfortunately, we’re more often than not proven right. This day was a rare exception.

So, I’ve got all my shit and I’m standing in line waiting to get rung up. The young lady doing the ringing looks “out of place”. Don’t get me wrong. All the cashiers are people of color. But this particular young lady looks sorely “out of place”. You bourgeois niggas know what I mean.

Shorty wasn’t fitting in.

She couldn’t have been a day over 19. As she’s ringing up the guy ahead of me her cell phone rings. I can’t say I was eavesdropping because she apparently didn’t give a shit whether or not anyone was listening.

“Hi daddy,” she said.

Initially I thought—Oh. Her father’s checking up on her. Of course she has to answer the phone. She’s probably retarded or something and working here with some sort of transition program and he just wants to make sure she’s not overwhelmed.

“Yes, daddy,” she went on. “I told you I was going to work, daddy… Mm hm… I’ll be off within an hour, daddy… Okay… Bye, daddy.”

Then it hit me. She wasn’t talking to her father at all. This “chick” was yapping it up with her boyfriend while she was supposed to be ringing people up. I was mortified.

When she hung up her phone she simply said, “Sorry about that. He be getting on my nerves.”

I was speechless. The Head of Household in me wanted to talk to the manager. But the Ex-Hoodlum in me told me to relax. Then she started ringing me up. But when she got to my bag of pears, she paused and looked at me dumbfounded.

“Ill,” she said. “What kind of pears is these? They hard as shit.”

I started to say something. But I was interrupted when a child’s balloon from the next lane over hit her in the head. She turned, gave the child—a small Asian girl in stockings and patent leathers sitting in the cart seat—a dirty look and said, “Excuse you.” Then she smacked the balloon.

It took every ounce of restraint I had in me to remain silent.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is why bourgeois niggas move to the other side of town and don’t invest in their own communities. They don’t want to deal with the Uniquas of the world. Plain and simple.

On a brighter note, there’s my new favorite commercial which I’m sure you all have already seen. It’s an acid reflux pill called…wait for it, wait for it…

ACIPHEX.

Isn’t that fucking hilarious? Every time it comes on, I giggle like a little bitch.

I guess I still have some growing up to do, but I think I’ll cross that proverbial bridge when I come to it. Enjoy your week.

Thanks for reading.

Back From The Dead

2009-03-24T00:19:00.003-04:00

Okay:

Well, it has certainly been a while. I am recommitting myself to writing once a week. I think I can handle that. It goes without saying, I suppose, that I have been extremely busy. As my daughter ages, my daddy duties multiply exponentially. She’s in the third grade now which means they’re learning the multiplication table. This is where I started to tap out in school. Too much numbers!

This times that and that times this. Who needs it?

Then the motherfuckers started throwing in letters with the numbers. It was like some sort of sick game. Never having been the competitive type, I said fuck it. But I don't want my baby girl to grow to be a mathematical retard like her father.

I bought her some single digit multiplication flash cards. When I was quizzing her the other morning, I found myself having to double check the answers. Sad, I know. I get really tripped up with the odd numbers. Luckily, I have somehow raised a compassionate child. “Daddy, it’s okay,” she says. “I don’t know what 7 times 12 is either.”

She truly is a remarkable little girl. She has graduated from Disney Channel to Nickelodeon. I’m not certain that I approve. There was a titty joke on iCarly the other day. “Daddy, what’s a boob?” she asked me.

Progressive parent that I am, I offered a comprehensive and honest explanation. “A boob is a slang term for breast. A breast is a mass of fat that grows on a woman’s chest. If she chooses, she can use them to breast feed.”

“What else can she use them for daddy?”

“Other than that they’re totally useless,” I said.

Then there’s grad school. I re-enrolled this semester after having dropped out a year ago. I’m studying to become a principal, believe it or not. I’d be lying if I told you that I’m certain I’m in the right field, but I’ll be thirty this year and it’s time to shit or get off the proverbial pot.

I think of Morgan Freeman in Lean On Me. I think of Chi McBride on Boston Public. I think of my old junior high school principal, Mr. Moss.

What do all of these people have in common? A job that needs to be taken more seriously than I believe myself to be capable. I mean, what is the big fucking deal? Would it be possible for me to run a school building without becoming a tight ass in a cheap suit who thinks too much of himself? What is it about being in charge of a few hundred teenagers that turns you into complete asshole?

In the hierarchy of individuals with power, the high school principal ranks just above the ticket taker at the movie theater. I don’t want to spend $40,000 to become a self-important prick with a clip board and a to-do list.

I used to work for this one asshole a few years back. In the dead of winter, we lost our heat. People were sitting in their classrooms with their outdoor coats on, shivering. The teachers refused to teach and suggested, with all the passion marginally educated semi-professionals can muster, that we close the school and send everyone home early. He refused. Then here comes this asshole, standing in the hallway, in a fucking sweater vest and bow tie, remarking out loud to no one in particular, “It’s not that cold.”

You could see his fucking breath.

Then there was Mr. Moss who had pulled me out of class for fighting when I was in the seventh grade. Six foot five. Dark as night. Walrus mustache. This was the tight ass of all tight asses. He looked like he might shit naked so he wouldn’t wrinkle his pants. As we were walking down the hallway to his office, he stooped down to pick up a candy wrapper off of the floor.

I have always remembered that moment for some reason. Even at twelve years old I recall thinking—How pathetic! He picks up trash and intimidates children for a living. This is the opposite of what I want to do for a living.

Yet, here I am. This week, while I’m home on spring break, I’ll be working on a fictional public relations plan for a fictional school. Doesn’t that sound delicious?

I’d rather pluck the dingleberries out of my ass hair.

As my regular readers know, I am also no longer single. It’s been about five months now. The honeymoon is over and we are officially starting to get on one another’s nerves. It’s great though. I’ve been tracking her periods, so I know when to pack my patience.

It’s ridiculous really. She was just getting on my nerves earlier tonight. Then I checked my calendar and thought—Oh, that explains it.

I never imagined planning my comings and goings around a woman’s menstruation cycle, but honestly, I think it’s the key to keeping a relationship going. I suppose I’d be pissed off if I knew I was going to be bleeding out of my crotch for the next five days and there wasn’t much to be done about it. It’s pretty gross, actually.

Other than the occasional predictable personality clashes, we’re doing just fine. I’m as happy as a faggot with front row seats at a Janet Jackson concert. No major complaints so far. I’ll keep you posted though.

Oh, and as far as politics go, I think Barack's doing a great job considering the circumstances. I heard about his little Special Olympics comment on Leno. First of all, I think it's fantastic that he went on Leno. It shows he hasn't forgotten how he got in office in the first place. Also, any man who makes fun of retards on public television is someone you can trust.

It's the prudes who give me pause.

I suppose that’s about it for now. See you next week.

Thanks for reading.

A Lame Apology, Details on an Upcoming Gig and Random Ramblings About Love and Boo Boo

2008-12-03T19:28:00.007-05:00

Okay:

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.

Election Night, Post-Victory Questions, 'Tata Salad and Updates On My Love Life

2008-11-06T19:23:00.010-05:00

Okay:

"Well, what do you know? Barack Hussein Obama. The nigga pulled it off." So said my father when he called me a little after midnight on Wednesday morning.

"Poor Jesse," he continued. "Nigga can't catch a break."

Of course, he was referring to Jesse "The Castrator" Jackson, who was weeping genuine-ish tears amidst a sea of miscellaneous white faces in Chicago during Barack's sober victory speech. Oprah, who was surprisingly well-composed, wasn't giving up nearly as dramatic a performance, even though she has a penchant for such displays. By far, the most disturbing image of the night.

But I digress. President-Elect Obama won the election by what the pundits are calling a "decisive margin". I haven't heard the word "landslide" used. And it makes me wonder what exactly constitutes a landslide. Because in my admittedly under informed eyes, it looks like McCain got his ass whooped.

I'm not trying to rub it in. I'm just saying.

Of course, being a single parent and all, I didn't get to go out to an election party or anything. It was a school night. She was tucked away in her bed, and I was struggling to stay awake in my computer chair. And, as you may have already ascertained, I was surfing for porn while watching the results. First Kentucky for McCain. Then Vermont for Obama. Then I found a great Lacey Duvalle scene, post butt-implants.

Pretty typical night.

I imagine Barack got laid that night. Michelle looks like she would consider it a forgone conclusion. There would be no coaxing necessary. And she, as we all know, has no need for implants.

Her dress was horrendous. I think they dress her poorly on purpose to distract from all that ass.

I should stop. I'm talking about the next First Lady or the First Lady-Elect or whatever. If I was President, my wife would be The First Main Bitch.

Well, I've been pulling and rooting for my man Barack for the past 2 years, and now my job is done. All I can think is, He better not fuck up. I wonder what his first taste of scandal or crisis will look like. Will he misspeak at a press conference? Will he botch a military operation? Will they find his outside kids?

Where is Hillary?

So, while I was watching the results and downloading porn I came to the slow realization that Obama was winning. Then, around 11:00pm, MSNBC declared Barack Obama the projected winner. Immediately, my phone began buzzing with text messages.

"We did it."

"Go Obama."

"Cherish this day."

"History has been made."

"Breakout the fried chicken, watermelon, hot sauce and tata salad. He won!"

And, "Make sure you have plenty of water cuz there are gonna be a lot of salty crackers at work tomorrow."

Then, as many of you already know, I heard something I hoped I wouldn't hear.

You guessed it.

Gunshots.

But you know what? If I was drunk and had a gun, I'd have probably bust off a few rounds myself. So they get a pass for the night.

Did you know Sarah Palin gets to go back to being governor of Alaska? If I were an Alaskan I wouldn't want her sorry ass anymore. You take 3 months off from work to interview for another job, and when you don't get it you just come back to the office like nothing happened. Who was running the state while she was off campaigning and buying $150,000 worth of St. John business suits? The First Dude?

John McCain also gets to go back to being the senior Arizona senator. I predict he'll be dead before 2012. Not trying to be morbid or anything. I'm just saying.

To be fair, if they had lost, Obama and Biden, who were up for reelection actually, could have gone back to their senate seats. They both won their races by a "decisive margin".

And speaking of Alaska being stupid, did you know that as of now, convicted felon Senator Ted Stevens is projected to win his seat?

There is a reason George Washington and the forefathers put Alaska way the fuck up there in Canada. Them motherfuckers is crazy.

On a personal note, I am dating someone. I've mentioned her a few times in previous blogs. She was referred to simply as "My Crush". Anyway, things are pretty serious and I couldn't be happier.

There are no other women.

We go out every weekend. We talk on the phone for hours. We text each other while we're at work. This weekend I fed her chocolate covered strawberries and oranges while we watched a Sanaa Lathan movie.

For the record, I hate Sanaa Lathan movies. And I hate chocolate.

This weekend, she's taking me to church.

It's all painfully gay, but I'm really enjoying it.

Really enjoying it.

I just hope she doesn't turn out to be some sort of piss freak or try to stick her finger up my ass or something. That would suck...majorly.

And here is the "Government Game" video again because it seems so appropriate now.

Enjoy...

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!!!

Remembering Marky Mark, Details on the Upcoming Dirty Water Show and Some Random Videos

2008-10-21T06:57:00.003-04:00

Okay:

It was an eventful weekend. I went to see Max Payne with a "friend" who is coo-coo for cocoa puffs over Mark Wahlberg. Of course, she's old enough to remember those Calvin Klein ads, but has somehow blocked out what I consider the highlight of his career, a smart and cleaver treatise on the economy called "I Need Money".

Is there a cooler white boy in Hollywood? *read sarcasm*

In all fairness, it took a while for me to come around but I now prefer boxer briefs. Even though I don't really have the legs for it. When I wake up in the morning they're all baggy, like really soft boxers. Not a good look. But when I put em on first thing in the morning...well. If I weren't so shy, I'd post a picture.

For the record, Max Payne, while it apparently was the number one box office draw over the weekend, was without a doubt the worst movie I have seen this year. It was ridiculously lame. Visually stunning, although a big Sin City rip-off. But more disturbing than the mind-numbingly asinine and hard-to-follow plot was the acting. It was as if the actors in a passive aggressive attempt at vindictiveness for being duped into this, decided to telephone in every last line. It was like watching a full-dress table reading.

Even Wahlberg, who I believe has some serious chops, was hard to watch.

It's the Oscar curse though. Remember, after Halle Berry won she made like 5 shitty movies in a row? Including Catwoman. Look at Deniro and Pacino. When was the last time one of them made a good movie?

Wahlberg was also bad in The Happening, which previously held my title for worst film of the year. Both are guaranteed to be at The Raspberries. That's almost four hours of my life that I'll never get back thanks to Marky Mark.

In happier news, Joe and I (Dirty Water) will be returning to The Black Cat this weekend (Sunday October 26)to open for Little Brother. http://blackcatdc.com/schedule.html

We've got rehearsal this week and...well, I don't want to give anything away...but we're going to fuck it up.

Here's a clip of us at The Black Cat earlier this summer opening for The Cool Kids...

In Ignorance & Confidence news, things are going well and I've been getting great responses on the "Government Game" video. This weekend I plan to unveil my newest single, the hard-hitting District anthem "DC Izza Motha@#$%!". Be at the show to pick up a copy.

Here's the "Government Game" video again, in case you missed it...

And here's something I ran across that made me laugh my ass off. Warning, ladies. This is extremely misogynistic and piggish. But if you're not too uptight, give it a chance. DO NOT WATCH AT WORK.

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

The Prodigal Son Returneth and Haveth Much Shit To Sayeth

2008-10-12T19:26:00.004-04:00

Okay:

First things first. Yes, I did fall off the face of the earth. Literally. I went for a walk one day, and dammit if I didn't fall right off the motherfucker. I guess my father was right.

"Claude," he said. "The earth is round, but flat like a quarter. They want you to believe that we're walking around on a ball. But if we're walking around on a ball, how come stuff isn't rolling all over the damn place? Doesn't make sense, does it?"

In all seriousness, the truth is I had to re prioritize some things. Long story short, I wasn't spending enough time with my kid. It's hard to justify spending upwards of two hours sitting in front of a computer every day, especially when engaged in something as self-indulgent as blogging, and even more especially when it's not making you any money. How can you justify not spending that time with your child instead?

You can't. I tried.

The little fuckers come first, man.

Then there was the issue of my Internet service being disconnected. And a bill to the cocksuckers at RCN that clearly could not be paid off unless I started putting myself out to stud for mannish lesbians who want the bun without the baker.

Then something miraculous happened. I turned on my computer one day, and I was reconnected. It's like Jesus came down and used his Christ magic to get me web access. Like he did with the wine and the fish, except this is a really impressive and decidedly useful miracle.

I suppose updates are in order.

My daughter is fine. We're spending a whole lot more time together. A few days ago I noticed that her front tooth was hanging, literally, by a thread of pink flesh. I should tell you that one of my phobias is losing my teeth. I have an unreasonable amount of anxiety about falling and getting a tooth knocked loose. Loose teeth, as a result, are unbearably gross to me. Of course, my daughter is fascinated by them. She pushes them back and forth with the tip of her tongue.

"Look, daddy," she says.

"No thanks," I say. "I'm sure it's looser than hell."

But this one was so loose I felt compelled to call my mother. "Ma," I said. "This thing shoulda fell out a long time ago. Why is it taking so long?"

"Claude," she said soberly. "You're gonna have to pull it out."

"No fucking way," I said.

"You're her father. Who else is going to do it?"

"I'm willing to outsource."

My mother agreed to do the deed, but shame eventually got the better of me and I decided I would do it myself. It is not to be underestimated how absolutely horrified I was. I would have preferred to stick my finger in that hole in the sink that stops it from flooding. Which is quite gross by the way. But it's got nothing on loose teeth.

"Sweetie," I said. "I have to pull that tooth."

She cried and ran and pleaded, so I told her that I wouldn't pull it out. I just wanted to see how loose it was. Then I got my hand in there and yanked the thing out.

Well.

Blood gushed everywhere, and a little piece of pink flesh was dangling where her tooth used to be. She screamed, "You lied to me! Why did you lie, Daddy?"

I ran out of the room for fear that I might vomit. Then I got myself together and made her a glass of warm salt water. "Gargle with this," I said.

When she looked at me I saw the little piece of pink flesh again. "What the fuck is that?" I thought. "Should that be there? Did I fuck her mouth up?"

I called my mother. "Ma," I said. "What the fuck is this pink shit dangling from her gum? I think I may have fucked her mouth up."

She assured me it would go away eventually. And it did.

Until it did, I avoided looking at her face directly. That shit was way gross.

Well, that's it for now. I won't be blogging daily anymore. But I will do my best to write at least once a week.

I leave you with the new video for my new single "Government Game". Enjoy.

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

A Night at the Kennedy Center with White People Watching Black People Do Black Stuff

2008-09-15T10:22:00.004-04:00

Okay:

So, it’s getting more and more difficult to keep blogging daily what with my Internet still being down. Joe says I should get a wireless card and see if I can pick up a signal in the building. Seems like a good and cheap idea, especially seeing as how I won’t have the money to pay Ragged Cunt Naps (RCN) for quite some time.

This weekend was eventful. The little girl and I kept a tight schedule. The highlight, I guess, was a trip to the Kennedy Center Saturday evening. They had this big event going called Arts Across America. Different performers from all over the country came to the Nation’s Capital for a one day festival. According to the brochure, there were almost three dozen performances taking place throughout the day on different stages, indoor and outdoor.

I went with my daughter and her Brownie troop to see Step Afrika! It’s a traveling showcase of step crews from various black frats and sororities. For my non-black and culturally deprived readers, stepping is a tradition on the campuses of historically black colleges and universities. It’s an African-inspired dance characterized by foot-stomping, hand-clapping and highly sophisticated synchronized routines. It’s a lot of fun to watch if the steppers are good. But they’re not always good.

Anyway, we had to stand on line for a half-hour. So, one of parents said, “Let’s have lunch then.”

I was thinking, Great. Is there an eatery somewhere? But when I finished looking around I saw that everyone in our group was reaching into their bags and pulling out sandwiches, bottled water, raw baby carrots, and fruit. I didn’t even realize they had bags!

I felt my daughter tugging at my shirt. I looked down at her and she was staring up at me with her eyes welling up. “Daddy,” she said, her voice quivering in anger, “Why didn’t you pack me a snack?”

I felt like shit on a stick.

The other parents saw my crisis and started offering up food.

“She can have half of Sara’s sandwich.”

“We’ve got an extra bag of carrots.”

“Thanks,” I said. Then I ran off to find her something to drink. It took about 15 minutes, and it cost me $3, but I came back with a small bottle of cranberry juice.
She only had a few sips before the line started moving and it was time to go in. And, of course, before we could enter the theatre, I had to throw away the juice.

When we took our seats, she was welling up again, “Daddy, why did you throw away the juice?”

“You can’t have juice in the theatre, honey. Only water.”

“Well, why didn’t you get me water like everybody else?”

I looked around and it was true. Every other little girl in our group had her own personal bottle of water. So what did I say? The only thing I could say.
“Sit down and stop complaining before I take you home. I don’t know why you’re crying. That juice cost me $3!”

Being an ornery bastard has its advantages.

She got over it, and soon it was time for the show.

For the most part, with the exception of the professional steppers who bookended the show, I was not impressed. I don’t want to call out any specific organizations―-elephants, frogs, cats, dogs, apes or whatever-―but lots of things have changed about stepping, and apparently not for the better.

Call me a snob, but when I went to college, people put work into their step routines, and they certainly wouldn’t go to the Kennedy Center with anything less than stellar. I caught myself yawning a few times.

Until, that is, one of the young ladies―who were not dressed in pink, green, or blue―busted her ass...hard. I mean, that shit looked like it hurt. To her credit, she got up and back into the routine so fast, I thought everyone else was going to do the same thing. I had to lean over to one of the other parents and ask, “Did she just bust her ass?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “But it sure looked like it.”

The high school team, however―The Coppin Academy Centaurs of Baltimore, Maryland―, was far more exciting than any of the college teams. They even broke down in the middle of the routine for a tribute to the Jheri Curl. It was great. Jheri Curls are always funny.

The true was humor was in the seats though. There were white people peppered―or salted, I guess, in this situation―throughout the crowd. They were highly concentrated in our row though. Our group of 20 was about 60% Caucasian. And what didn’t occur to me until we took our seats is white people, for the most part, have no idea what stepping is. It really is, like, one of our last secrets.

Stepping, pirated cable and sugar water.

The only other man in our group, who bore a strong resemblance to the older brother, Kent, from Napoleon Dynamite, looked confused the entire time. Especially when people started doing their calls.

“Yo-Yo!” and “Skee-Wee” and “Oo-oop!” and, of course, the constant barking.

It made me miss my college days something terrible. But when I looked over at this dude he was shaking his head and squinting his eyes as if to say, “What the shit is going on here? Are they gonna, like, try to get us or something?”

At some point he leaned over to one of the little black girls, who was seven-years-old by the way, and whispered, “What’s all this meowing about?”

I would’ve been offended if I wasn’t laughing so hard.

Right after the step show, Chuck Brown was doing a concert on the south lawn, but it was late and I had to get the little girl home. Maybe next year, if they do it again, I’ll plan a whole day around it.

And I’ll try to remember to pack a healthy lunch and some water.

And the album link…

CLICK TO DOWNLOAD THE NEW COOL CEE BROWN ALBUM "IGNORANCE & CONFIDENCE"

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA/BIDEN!

Innocent Question: What exactly do white frats and sororities do?

Reading Perez Hilton Over Someone's Shoulder and Finding Myself Reluctantly Entertained, Plus Video Footage

2008-09-11T18:25:00.005-04:00

Okay:

So, there are apparently a lot of people out there who are fascinated by celebrity gossip. So much so that a gossip can become a celebrity. Case in point: Perez Hilton.

He's famous for being a good gossip.

See, that's how popular gossip is. If you're good at it, you can become famous. Long gone are the days of faceless, nameless paparazzi.

I don't actually visit his site myself, but occasionally, while I'm in the computer lab at work, I may catch a coworker reading up on the latest. I may catch a glimpse over their shoulder.

To be honest, I'm typically fascinated by what I read.

For example, Kanye West was arrested at an LA airport for assaulting a photographer. Better still, the entire thing was recorded.

I like the part where he says, "I took it."

Then the camera guy goes, "Help me...Police."

Then Kanye goes, "Ain't no police. Get on somewhere."

I just giggle at the thought of someone having to call the police on Kanye West. He's right up there with Will Smith and Ruben Studdard on the famous non-threatening black men's list.

Even better still is Matt Damon's stinging rant against Palin. He called her candidacy a "really bad Disney movie" among other things.

Jason Bourne is "wicked smaa't".

I like it when white people get indignant. Most of the time it's funny. But here, you get the feeling he wants to kick some ass.

And he could. Jason Bourne is a mad motherfucker.

I like it when he says, "If you look at the actuaries, McCain probably won't make it through his first term."

That's so cold!

True, but cold nonetheless.

Well, that's all I have for today. Here's the album link again...

CLICK TO DOWNLOAD THE NEW COOL CEE BROWN ALBUM "IGNORANCE & CONFIDENCE"

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA/BIDEN!

Innocent Question: Who exactly is this hooded male with Kanye and why are they so adverse to having their pictures taken? I mean, Kanye is the biggest attention whore I've ever seen. What's the deal here? Hmm?

Passive Aggressive Avoidance of Necessary Therapy, A Laundry List of Mental Health Concerns and Window Shopping at Banana Republic

2008-09-11T08:10:00.003-04:00

Okay:

So, I found myself wandering down Wisconsin Avenue tonight. Friendship Heights.

For you non-Washingtonians, Friendship Heights is a high-rent district in upper Northwest. They’ve got a Barney’s. Lots of white people and wealthy-looking foreigners walking about, shopping and what have you.

Why was I there?

To be honest, I was going for an appointment with a therapist.

Yes, I have finally broken down and decided to seek out professional help for my narcissism, hyperactivity and inattentiveness. This is a big step for me.

See, come to find out my insurance company will pay for 75% of the costs for 40 visits. Then it goes down to 60% after that. Making my co-pay anywhere between $15 and $40 bucks, depending on the rates. At this point I’m just shopping around for someone who makes me feel comfortable.

But an odd thing happened, and I’m not sure if I did it on purpose or not. When the doctor gave me the address and appointment time, I did not write down her name or phone number. So, I showed up at her building, gave the receptionist the suite number and my name, but that’s the only information I had. Which should have been enough, actually. Only, I somehow wrote down either the wrong building number or the wrong suite number. So, in short, I did not make my appointment.

I left feeling like a moron. But I had to give some serious thought to whether or not I had done this on purpose.

While contemplating my navel, I somehow wandered into a Banana Republic.

Well.

I wanted everything I saw.

Wow, look at the argyle sweater vest! That pinstripe khaki suit is to die for! Man, I’d look sharp in a black suede blazer!

Then, I started checking price tags.

I was obviously in the wrong place.

And since when do I get excited about Banana Republic?

And so I left. Not because I was afraid I was about to do something stupid. At this point, I literally cannot afford to do anything stupid. Not “afford” in the abstract sense of the word. But “afford” in the very concrete sense. As in, I don’t have enough money in my account to purchase or charge anything in that store except a pair of socks. And even that would pinch a little.

Then I looked around and realized I was probably in the most inexpensive store on the entire strip.

Barney’s, Sak’s Fifth Avenue, Tiffany’s, Brooks Brothers, Gucci, Versace, and some other very secretive looking stores with names I can’t pronounce. Mara Mara, or some shit like that.

And so, I called my sister, the stock broker.

I laid out, as usual, my laundry list of complaints about my life. I do this because of my sister’s almost uncanny ability to root through bullshit. Whatever I tell her, no matter how I tell her, she knows exactly what I mean.

“You need to make more money,” she said simply. “Stop bullshitting and go do it. Ninety percent of your problems will be solved. And don’t be holding your breath waiting for someone to discover one of your rap records. Chances are slim.”

True.

Undeniably true.

But you all have seen me work my way through this train of thought before. But nothing much has changed about my issues with procrastination and indecision.

Maybe I’ll bring these issues up in therapy.

I’ll say, “Doc, I want to address my narcissism, hyperactivity, inattentiveness, procrastination and indecision…in no particular order.”

When I find a good therapist.

I guess I’ll work on that tomorrow. Or maybe Friday. Or maybe I should take the weekend to process it all. Or maybe I don’t really need therapy.

Not sure, really.

Well, here goes the album again…

CLICK TO DOWNLOAD THE NEW COOL CEE BROWN ALBUM "IGNORANCE & CONFIDENCE"

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA/BIDEN!

Innocent Question: Do pigs even have lips on which to put lipstick?

Cruising at the Cleaners, Talking Politics with Strange Old White Women and Celebrating 100 Downloads

2008-09-09T19:07:00.005-04:00

Okay:

And so today I was picking up my dry cleaning. I noticed the woman who walked in behind me. She was pretty in a really classical way. Beautiful brown skin. Nice, slim body. She looked well-employed.

I thought about approaching her but saw that she was picking up half a dozen men's shirts. Then I looked at her ring finger and saw the big rock.

It's a sign of the times. I am officially getting old.

Since when am I checking out women in pinstripe business suits at the cleaners and picking up subtle cues concerning marital status?

Whatever happened to drooling over fat asses on club night? Since when do I give a fuck about a wedding ring? Since when is that on the radar?

Next thing I know, I'll find silver in my pubes.

Then another woman walked in. Blue jeans. White shirt. Sandy brown locks. Silk scarf.

"Too tall," I thought. "But nice shoes."

What in the fuck is happening to me?!

Then as I'm leaving and climbing into my car, I see a pear-shaped, older white woman getting out of the car in front of me.

"Vote for Obama," she shouts.

"Definitely," I say.

"I'm serious," she says. "I'm with the AFL-CIO."

"Cool," I say, anxious to get back in my car and head home.

"I've never voted Republican," she says as she moves closer. "I didn't vote for that bastard Bush or his father."

"Me neither."

"I voted for Kerry and Edwards."

"Me too."

"Edwards is my cousin."

"You don't say."

"His great grandfather was my great grandfather's brother."

"Get out!"

"My father died of cancer at 52."

"Oh no."

"He was twice as handsome as Edwards ever thought he was. A mix between Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart."

I was eventually able to pry myself away, but I left thinking, "I guess this is what adults do." They pick up their dry cleaning. Check for wedding bands. Talk politics with strangers on the street.

Maybe I'll start eating bagels.

Oh, and I am proud to announce as of today, more than 100 people have downloaded "Ignorance & Confidence". Thank you, thank you. You're far too kind.

And if you're not one of the proud 100, here she goes again...

CLICK TO DOWNLOAD THE NEW COOL CEE BROWN ALBUM "IGNORANCE & CONFIDENCE"

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA/BIDEN!

Innocent Question: Is it metro that right after I notice a woman's face and body, I look at her shoes?

A Booty Upon Which to Rest Your Sandwich and Misadventures in Blatant Student Plagiarism

2008-09-08T19:11:00.004-04:00

Okay:

And so my work crush was looking especially delicious today. My oh my, that woman has a body on her. She had on this smart looking black cotton dress that clung just so. Nothing especially whorish about her garment, but her body is so incredible, she'd have to wear an over sized sweatsuit to hide it. Even then, the pants would sit up on the round mound and the booty would kind of knowingly wink at you as if to say, "I'm still here."

Actually, I'm a freak for a woman in a sweatsuit. I mean, don't get me wrong. I like miniskirts, tight jeans and sun dresses just as much as the next man. But there's something about a woman in a pair of sweatpants. If her booty is really talking about something, those sweats are gonna cling to her in a way that no other fabric would.

Man o man! It's been a while.

But anyways. If I could get this girl to talk less, I'd propose. Just so I could look at her all the time and smack that booty on Sunday mornings. To be honest, and I know I'm going to sound a lot like the uppity, bourgeois negro you think I am, she's just too damn hood.

It's not something I would have said a year ago. But lately, I just haven't been able to stomach it. As soon as she starts talking about how she's going to spend her entire check at the mall and that $2500 Gucci purse she has her eye on and how much she loves White Zinfandel, I feel the sudden urge to leave the room.

But she sure is nice to look at, I'll tell ya.

Fat donkey booty, man. You should see it.

In other news, I received my first plagiarized essay of the year. It happens all the time. I stopped making a big deal out of it after year three. It's just far too common to make a stink.

I've seen some funny ones though. The audacity of these kids today. Back when I went to high school, in the twentieth century, there was no Google. Your black ass was supposed to go to the library. Or if you were lucky your mother bought you a set of encyclopedias. We had The World Book, but I secretly wanted Encyclopedia Britannica. But who were we to have two sets? Mom wasn't made out of money.

The most common example is when I give a long term assignment with a specific page length. Let's say I give this assignment to a group of thirty kids. Five may turn it in on time. With some fairly forceful probing, another dozen or so may turn the paper in eventually. Literally, every other paper will be completely plagiarized. The others will be so poorly written that I find myself wishing they would just go ahead and hop on the bandwagon to make a clean sweep of it.

Now, when I say completely plagiarized, I do mean completely. Sometimes, I shit you not, they hand in actual Wikipedia print outs with the web addresses, page numbers and dates in the footer and everything.

I swear on everything that is holy.

But today, I was privileged to bear witness to plagiarism on a whole 'nother level. The assignment was to write a review of the last movie you saw. A paragraph or so was all I was looking for.

For the most part, I was pleased with what came back. However, this one little girl. Just this one. She decided that a one paragraph review would require too much effort on her part, so she decided to transcribe the blurb on the back of the DVD case.

Now, I did this once or twice in my day with the blurbs on the backs of novels, so I'm not altogether unfamiliar with the practice. Only, this girl was so lazy, she didn't even pay attention to what she was writing.

Her review ended suspiciously, "For more info, visit the website www.straighttodvdblackromanticcomedy.com"

Well.

I guess I've got my work cut out for me.

And here goes the album again, in case you missed it.

DOWNLOAD

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA/BIDEN!

Innocent Question: Was I wrong for holding up her paper in front of the class and saying, "What ever you do, don't do what this little girl did."?

Getting Organized with My Young Disciple, Introducing Her To My Eighties Films and Shows Syllabus and Discovering TV Land

2008-09-07T17:18:00.005-04:00

Okay:

So, this weekend I discovered a new cable channel called TV Land. Perhaps you've heard of it. Anyways, on this channel they show all the best of everything all the time. On Saturday night, my daughter and I sat on the couch to watch a couple of movies.

I had exiled her to her room for the entire day with the arduous task of cleaning it...thoroughly. My daughter, like me, is a pack rat. She absolutely refuses to throw anything away. Everything seems like it may be of value at some point in the future.

I've still got utilities bills from 1999 on file in my closet. Who knows what could happen? I could get audited. Then it wouldn't seem so crazy, now, would it?

I instructed her to separate everything into 3 piles: stuff you want to keep, stuff you want to give away and stuff you want to throw away. There were old baby dolls and broken toys with pieces missing. But what made the bulk of the mess was paper.

See, my baby girl's quite the artist. All she needs is some paper, some pencils, and a pair of scissors. She could occupy herself for hours. Only thing is, she won't throw any of it away. Even the scraps. To her, it's all precious. We're in there for hours, going through this mound of paper.

A doggy-eared white, 11 x 14.

A yellow circle, the size of a pea.

An origami swan made from a Post-It.

"No, Daddy! Don't throw that away!"

"Well, what are you gonna do with it?"

"Something. I don't know."

And so it took all day...literally. We started around 10 in the morning. We didn't finish until 11 at night. Her room looks great now. And I took My White Homegirl's advice and took a picture of each corner, so from now when I tell her to clean her room, she'll know what it's supposed to look like. But, like I said, we took a break around 5 to watch TV Land.

There was a movie I felt she needed to see. Garry Marshall's "Overboard".

What a wonderful little white romantic comedy! And, as I understand it, Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell started dating during the filming.

But truly, folks. How could I consider myself a responsible parent after denying my daughter the pleasure of seeing one of the most memorable films of that confusing decade? "Come here, honey," I said. "You have to watch this movie with daddy."

She was able to keep up with the plot okay, even caught some of the jokes. Overall, I think she enjoyed it. "She should be happy he taught her how to be less snooty," she said.

I, on the other hand, had a chance to really appreciate Goldie Hawn's performance for the first time. No wonder she got so much work. She was brilliant! Nothing she did was way over the top. She was always able to get the big laugh with subtlety. I respect that.

Makes me want to go back and watch "Private Benjamin". Doesn't she go down on Albert Brooks in this movie? Like, in the limo after the wedding? That's insane. They don't make romantic comedies like that anymore.

And "Protocol". Remember "Protocol"? She got shot in the ass.

But I digress. We were watching "Overboard". The final scene is absolutely brilliant. I almost cried.

Then "Back To School" came on. "Wait, honey," I said. "You also have to watch this movie."

I never realized how funny Rodney Dangerfield was when I was a boy. I thought he was funny. But, dammit, that motherfucker is hilarious.

For example, the motherufucker's in a hot tub with a bunch of co-eds. He asks one, "What's your major?"

"Poetry," she says,

"Well, maybe you could help me straighten out my Longfellow," he says.

Fucking genius.

Then in the final scene when they're begging him to sub in and dive in the final meet, Lou leans over to him and says, "Get up there."

He says, "Are you crazy? The shape I'm in, they could donate my body to science fiction."

ROTF LMBAO, as they say on the Internet.

Then to top it all off, the good folks at TV Land decided to run a "Cosby Show" episode. This was the one where Vanessa was in that AP Science class and did the bullshit solar system science project and her homegirl had made those robots, and she came in 14th place and was mad. The funniest thing about this episode is the little boy who did win the Science Fair. He was a brother, with a skin tight peach sweater on, and a dry feathered doobie. He made a working tornado that "destroys a miniature farm community".

Then, just to make sure I was hooked, they ran a few episodes of "Scrubs". But they had me at hello.

This is my new favorite station.

I recommend you all support them in their future endeavors. They know television.

Download the album if you haven't already. Here's the link...

DOWNLOAD

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA/BIDEN!

Innocent Question: Is it cool for me to still find Vanessa's friends cute? I mean, we're all adults now. But is it, like, creepy or what?

Rediscovering a Cheap and Tasty Treat That I Affectionately Refer To As "The Ramen"

2008-09-04T20:09:00.003-04:00

Okay:

So, I have rediscovered Ramen Noodles. They are delicious little forgotten gems from my college years. I lived on those things for half a decade. I used to spruce them up with all kinds of stuff: hot sauce, cheese, sour cream, you name it.

At the time, you could get six for a dollar.

And this is how I came to rediscover Ramen, just 3 short days ago. It wasn't that I was feeling particularly nostalgic or had developed a hankering. I had predictably ran short on cash before pay day and needed to buy something cheap to eat that would last me the week.

Enter The Ramen.

I was also out of lotion and dish soap. So, I went to the CVS and discovered that they are now 2 for a dollar.

Fucking terrorists.

Is nothing sacred?

Sixty bucks for a tank of gas, and now, 50 cents for a pack of Ramen. Osama's fucking it up for everybody.

So, I took home The Ramen and attempted to make myself a bowl, but I got distracted by I Want to Work for Diddy and overcooked them. They turned into a mushy, beige jelly.

The next day, I took two packs of The Ramen to work with me for lunch. It was a little embarrassing, I guess. People seemed to be shaking their heads in pity. "Is it that bad, brother?" someone asked.

But I didn't slink away to my office and eat alone. I stayed in the lounge area and ate with my co-workers. They watched attentively while I doctored up my meal. I cooked The Ramen in the microwave for a few minutes. Then I let it sit.

Then I added the flavor powder, and let it sit some more.

Then I drained The Ramen.

"Oh, no!" someone shouted. "Don't do that. The juice is best part."

"You common negro," I said. "I have no use for artificially flavored salt water. I want The Ramen."

Then I added some hot sauce, black pepper and a pinch of salt.

They stared at me piteously, but I knew there was a hint of jealousy there. And they all knew better than to ask me for any of The Ramen.

The Ramen was all mine.

In business news, the album is doing quite well, and the feedback has been fantastic. If things keep going at this rate, I may be inclined to spend a few bucks and have the fucking thing mastered.

If you haven't downloaded it yet, here goes the link again...

DOWNLOAD

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA/BIDEN!

Innocent Question: What do you think are the health ramifications of eating nothing but The Ramen 3 times a day for a month?

The Art and Science of Flatulence and That's Pretty Much All I Have To Talk About Today

2008-09-03T18:23:00.004-04:00

Okay:

So, today was not an interesting day. I did, however, work out this morning, for the first time since last Wednesday, I think. I discovered something strange while at the gym.

I fart every time I do a sit up. Literally.

Usually, no one else is in the fitness center when I go. So, it's not so bad. But when there are other people there, I simply turn up my iPod and pretend not to notice. Sometimes people turn their heads, and make funny faces. But no one ever says anything.

I had the same problem when I was trying to do Yoga. And that was more embarrassing because there were usually one or two cuties in the classes. I'd be the only brother in there to begin with. And I'd be cutting loose like I was getting paid for it.

I guess I'm just what they call a "flatulent fellow".

I've come up with different categories of farts. They're not all the same, you know.

1. THE BARK: This is your standard one-second audible fart. It probably won't stink at all. More thunder than lightning.

2. THE WARM FRONT: It's usually a sign that you've got some shitting to do. This is a silent, short warm fart. It may or may not stink, but if it does, God help you.

3. THE MIST: This is just like The Warm Front, except there's a hint of moisture. And unlike The Warm Front, this one almost always smells rotten eggish.

4. THE HEATER: This one is a mix between The Warm Front and The Mist, except it's fucking hot! Guaranteed to funk up the place.

5. THE DRUMROLL: This is essentially an elongated Bark. I've had Drumrolls that must've lasted at least 30 seconds. These rarely ever stink though.

6. THE WMD: The WMD is a painful, shockingly loud Bark. It's short, it hurts, and it's sure to make everyone stop dead in their tracks. And it almost never stinks.

7. THE HYBRID: Sometimes, if you're like me, you may fart in a series. That series may contain several different types of farts. Sometimes they may run together, creating a Hybrid. That is, it may start out as a Mist than drag out into a Drumroll and end with a shot of Heater.

Today I had a lot of Mists going on. And sure as shit (no pun intended), when I got home I had to handle my business.

If you've got any other types of farts that you know of and I have not mentioned them, please leave the name and a brief explanation in the comment box.

And here goes the album again

DOWNLOAD

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA/BIDEN!

Innocent Question: If you fart while you're reading this, do me a favor and try to see if you can identify the fart in one of my categories. Thanks.

Ignorance, But Not So Much Confidence, The Coffee Situation, My Disproportionate Head and Shopping In My Mamma's Linen Closet

2008-09-02T18:29:00.006-04:00

Okay:

So, my 3-day weekend is over and I finally posted the album. The download numbers are not as high as expected, but I promised myself I wouldn't allow myself to become discouraged by obsessing over numbers. Which is pretty much a guarantee that I will.

But I digress. Business talk is boring. *yawn*

Back to the random thoughts of a self-absorbed, unsuccessful, independent artist.

This morning I noticed that I waste anywhere between 30 minutes and an hour every morning, just sort of sitting there. Not engaged in any particular activity, just kind of dicking around.

It's quite amazing, actually. I guess it's my version of meditation, as it were. Sometimes I'll turn on the computer. Open a program. Then close it. Listen to half of a song. Watch half of a video. Then I'll put on a pot of coffee.

The coffee situation in my apartment has been weird lately. I've been frequenting the recently opened Organic Market around the corner and using their soy french vanilla creamer, as well as their raw sugar. It makes a not altogether bad cup, but it's not what I'm used to.

Soy milk has a bizarre silky texture that makes me nauseous. I certainly prefer International Delight. And the raw sugar has a concentrated sweetness that is difficult to measure. So my cups lack the thickness of a traditional cup and are usually too sweet or not sweet enough.

But I'm trying to get used to it. I don't want to die of coffee. That would be pathetic.

I also look at myself in the mirror a lot. I'm wondering whether or not I want to lose weight. I mean, if I can become more disciplined with my workout schedule and commit some time everyday, I could be ripped by Christmas.

Losing any more weight may not be a good idea because...well...I've got a huge fucking head, actually. I mean, it's noticeably large. Retard big.

I don't want to look like a lollipop. Twenty less pounds and I suppose my dates will be expecting me to start drooling and banging my head on the wall. I shouldn't be surprised if they start shoving creamed corn in my mouth with a small rubber spoon.

Then, of course, I have my private time. Which I'm enjoying less and less these days. Seems like a good sign that I'll be able to ween myself off the practice eventually. I'd like to be done with it by the time I get married.

That would be awfully pathetic, now, wouldn't it? Locking myself in the bathroom for 20 minutes at a time or insisting on not being disturbed when I'm "working" on the computer. "Knock before you enter," and all that.

Then I take a shower. My tub is really, quite filthy these days. Mildew is forming. It hasn't taken on a smell, but it's only a matter of time. I've seen this before.

In my case, it's usually a sign that I'm depressed or stressed out. My kitchen floor is also pretty nasty. And sticky, actually. Which I suppose is a whole 'nother level of filth.

So, today I am going shopping. I need lotion, a mop, soap, a new shower liner, dishwashing detergent and laundry detergent. But I don't have any money in my account really, so I'm not going to the store, per se.

I'm at my mother's house.

Her being from the south and raised by parents who lived through the Depression, she's a stockpiler of toiletries and the like. She's got enough toilet paper and what have you to make it through the next two administrations.

So, when she gets home, I plan to hit her up for some bare necessities. She'll pretend to be annoyed but will secretly take great pleasure in having her closet raided. "What would you do if your mamma wasn't always so well-prepared?" she'll ask.

"Go to work ashy," I'll say.

Here's the album again.

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA/BIDEN!

Innocent Question: When out of toilet paper, what's the strangest thing you've ever wiped your ass with?

The Day After the Drop, Meditations on Palin and Lustful Thoughts About Naughty Politicians

2008-09-02T09:30:00.011-04:00

Okay:

Well, first things first. I posted my third solo album, “Ignorance & Confidence” yesterday for free download. Last time I checked, there had been a few downloads. But I’ve decided I’m not going to obsess over numbers. Or maybe I will. Who knows? I surprise myself consistently.

I stuck to my original promise to myself, which was not to spend a dime on this project. And to date, I have held true. I haven’t even paid the $400 to have my Internet reconnected. Between my mother’s house and work, I seem to be getting by okay. And there’s always the library if I’m really pressed.

The lack of connection has presented some obstacles. I have not been able to meet my Friend Acquisition Goals on social networking sites like Ning, MySpace, Imeem and Facebook. And I haven’t been able to step up my message board game at places like BGOL and Okayplayer. And I haven’t been able to really push my YouTube videos.

Luckily, I’m not accountable to anyone but myself. So, when I get the dough, I’ll call RCN and pay the bastards. Until then, I’ll just have to make due.

Tragic irony. It sucks. But fuck it, y’know.

There is a Way.

On the current event side of things, you know I have plenty to say about this whole Palin business.

When I first read the news I thought to myself, “Brilliant.” The GOP is a bunch of crafty bastards. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized how dumb of a move it is.

Maybe dumb is a strong word, but it’s certainly a gamble. Obviously, McCain is trying to snag some of those Hillary detractors everyone’s been talking about for the past month. Only Palin and Clinton are ideological opposites. But if these detractors, for the most part, feel that Hillary’s loss was due in large part to sexism within the Party, they are certainly ripe for the picking. So it may pay off. America may be that dumb.

I wouldn’t be surprised. Just disappointed.

If Barack had lost the nomination to Hillary, I would probably assume that racism played a part. But I wouldn’t vote for McCain if he picked Michael Steele as his running mate. Or Condoleezza Rice or Colin Powell or Clarence Thomas or any of those other handkerchief-head coons in Washington.

Why? Because they’re black? Vote for them for what? So they can get rid of welfare programs, abortion, affirmative action, decrease school budgets, insure global ecocide within my lifetime and start World War III? I don’t think so. Me and those cats are NOT cut from the same cloth. Those niggas are not invited to the cookout.

I’d actually be quite insulted. I’d probably vote for Hillary just ‘cause.

But the truth is I wouldn’t be undecided in the first place. I wouldn’t have a problem with Barack or Hillary in office. They agree on almost every issue of importance to me. I just prefer Barack because I think he’s more intelligent, articulate, likeable, inspirational, and, yes, he is black. And I wouldn’t mind looking at Michelle’s booty for the next eight years.

But I would never ever ever ever ever ever ever consider voting Republican.

Maybe Independent.

In fact, I’m registered as an Independent. But I’d shave my scrotum with a hot spoon before I’d ever help one of those twisted conservative Evangelical fucks get in office.

Who is this Palin chick anyway? I mean, come on. I think old Johnny Boy is thinking with his dick again.

But if I was Mrs. McCain, knowing how I got him in the first place, I’d be very leery of his sexy librarian running mate. She could get it. Those glasses really do it for me. And I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to fuck a politician before. So maybe I’ll vote for them after all. I’d like to see more of her actually.

But I digress. One positive thing to come out of all this is the GOP can no longer attack Barack on the lack-of-experience note. However, Barack needs to be really careful about how hard he comes down on Palin. He doesn’t want to come off like a bully. Just let Biden make her look like a moron in the debates.

It shouldn’t be hard.

Still, this is gonna be a close one. Over the past month or so, McCain has taken a small lead in the polls. I’m hoping the Republican convention will be a disaster. I mean, there’s no way they’ll be able to top Mile High Stadium, but never underestimate old, crotchety, wealthy white men. They’ll figure out something. And I guess they did manage to steal some of Barack’s thunder with their most recent stunt. And maybe that’s all they intended to do, which could pay off way more than any backlash for what appears to be a poor, impetuous decision on McCain’s part.

We will see in November.

Go back to your fucking igloo, Palin. Unless you wanna give me some. Then you can stay. But you have to go back as soon as we’re finished.

And here goes the link to the album again.

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA/BIDEN!

Innocent Question: Can we get Palin and Michelle on the same ticket? That would be hot.

And Here It Is...Finally..."Ignorance & Confidence"

2008-08-31T17:09:00.003-04:00

Okay:

So today is the day and here she is...

CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD.

I have just given birth to a forty-two minute long player and, boy, are my arms tired. It was a quite an ordeal getting this thing done. I didn't make a final decision on the track listing until Friday night. But this collection of songs, in this particular order, is truly something special. And it's free.

I typically don't blog on holidays. But here's a track-by-track back story.

1. INTRO: This was an actual dream that I had. But I didn't realize what the dream meant until I came up with the idea for this intro. It's not meant to be sacrilegious in any way, and I certainly hope it isn't interpreted that way. Or maybe I don't care.

2. SHINE: This was produced by my good friend, Du. He sent this beat to me a few months ago via email and said he just wanted me to put down a good 16 because he wanted to make a posse cut. When I was in the final stages of putting the album together I remembered this track and asked if he ever got any other emcees on it. Luckily the answer was no and I was able to create this track, which is probably my favorite on the entire album.

3. A GORGEOUS KILLER: I got the title from my favorite verse of all time, Pusha T's 16 bars of perfection on "What Happened To That Boy?". Joe D gave me this track a long time ago and I rediscovered it earlier this year. The song isn't really about anything. It's certainly not about violence. It's metaphorical.

4. CUCUMBER: This is another track from Du. I love this beat. I don't know how you could even attempt to talk about anything besides pimp shit over something like this. I guess here I was trying to redefine cool, not literal pimping. Hopefully, that's what comes across. Or maybe I don't care.

5. INTERLUDE: I recorded this while I was suffering from a fairly serious throat infection this summer that kept me quarantined to the house for a week. Joe thought it was hilarious, and maybe you will too. Or maybe you'll feel the same way that I feel about most interludes. An unnecessary self-indulgent distraction from the music.

6. THEME FROM "A PLACE CALLED FAR": Joe D produced this one too. I'm probably most proud of this track. The concept, I think, is pretty original and truly interesting. I'll let you be the judge though.

7. COCKY: Bridge produced this one. He's a good friend and he's been sending me beats for a few months now. This track reminds me of my favorite period in hip hop. The lyrics are a reflection of me at my irreverent best, balanced with some mature introspective conceits. Me likey.

8. GOVERNMENT GAME: Also produced by Bridge. This was the second track I recorded to the beats he had been sending me. I recorded the first verse one night. Then I went to the movies one night, alone. And that's when the second verse came to me. I wanted to create a crescendo effect. It ended up sounding exactly the way it did in my head, which is a rarity.

9. DC IZZA MOTHA@#$%: This is another Joe D banger. I recorded the first version of this track at Gill's house earlier this year. There was some crazy buzzing going on in the mic, so I re-recorded it at my house later, but it's pretty close to the original. Always gotta do at least one for the homies. Maybe this'll become like a local anthem. That would be nice.

10. LOVE'S HOLIDAY: Joe's a genius. I absolutely love this beat and always have, but I could never figure out what to write to it. Then this idea just came to me one day while I was lounging around the house. Originally I was singing the bridge at the end, but I was horribly out of key so I knew I wanted to get another vocalist to sing the lyrics for me. Moon was my first choice, and it took months before I finally got her over to my house to lay the thing down. It came out great though. I met John Lee though my friend Matt Grason at a Motel show at DC9. I told him I needed some guitar work and we set up some time for him to come through. He brought in this big plastic suitcase full of shit that would give his guitar different sounds. He drank a few beers, smoked a few cigarettes, did 3 or 4 takes and was out of there. I was completely mesmerized and more than satisfied with how everything turned out.

So there you have it. I hope you enjoy it. Happy Labor Day and thanks for taking the time to download "Ignorance & Confidence".

A Cheeky Review of Obama's Speech and One Last Plea for Support This Labor Day

2008-08-29T10:01:00.004-04:00

Okay:

So, I just got finished watching Obama deliver his speech at the Democratic National Convention. Right now, there are three gray-haired white men breaking his forty-two minute address down sentence by sentence.

Twenty-nine declarations of policy to counter attacks that his promises for change are empty political catch phrases.

Four direct attacks against the George W. Bush presidency.

Nineteen direct attacks against John McCain.

“Eloquent”

“Masterful”

“Poignant”

“Inspiring”

At some point, I imagine Barack is going to walk onto their set, pull his dick out, and they’ll all take turns blowing him.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am, perhaps, the most ardent Barack supporter that I know personally. And I thought his speech, as usual, was absolutely spot-on. He’s a bad motherfucker. And I like the idea of having a bad motherfucker in office. And him being black is just icing on the cake.

And, no, I’m not particularly concerned with the issues. At least, I wasn’t before. But this brother makes me feel like I should care. It seemed, as corny as it sounds, that at certain points he was speaking directly to me.

He talked about people having mountainous student loans that they can’t pay off… Hello!

Increasing wages for educators…Hello!

People not being able to afford their mortgages…Hello!

Driving cars they can’t afford…Hell-fucking-o!

But in all fairness, there were some things that did bother me. So in the interest of being somewhat objective, I will list them in short order.

1. His daughters have their hair pressed. That really bothers me.

2. There’s something funny going on with Michelle’s mouth. I think she may have had her jaw broken before.

3. His suit jacket didn’t have a vent, which I think is a mistake fashion-wise.

4. He did stumble several times, which, as a rapper who must commit hundreds of thousands of words to memory, I find inexcusable.

5. His introductory video was a little white for my tastes. Makes it look like the only black person he knows is his wife.

Other than that, I was absolutely captivated. Makes me wonder what the Republicans are going to say tomorrow. I like the part where he challenged McCain to reframe from attacks against his character and patriotism. They’re gonna have to get really creative to offset the magnitude of this thing. It’s historical.

Even Pat Buchanan said, “This was genuinely outstanding, magnificent…it was beautiful.”

Times they are a’changin’. The oldest, whitest, orneriest conservative in politics had to take his turn licking the black man’s balls.

Maybe McCain will say, “You know what? Fuck it.”

But back to me. This Labor Day I will be posting my third solo album, “Ignorance & Confidence” for free download. I hope you all take a few minutes out of your day to click the link and have a listen.

If you love America, download my album. Because it’s never been about me. It’s about You.

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA/BIDEN!

“IGNORANCE & CONFIDENCE” AVAILABLE FOR FREE DOWNLOAD ON LABOR DAY AT
http://coolceebrown.blogspot.com

Innocent Question: Am I the only one that thinks the cameramen have been ordered to not shoot anymore profiles of Michelle’s booty? I haven’t seen that masterpiece of human flesh in months.

I Piss People Off, Someone Pissed Me Off and the Return of the Sinnerman

2008-08-28T10:11:00.004-04:00

Okay:

So, I am well aware that I piss people off all the time. I piss off my mother, my stepfather, my sister, my daughter sometimes, random people on public transit.

Most times, people are not shy about letting me know.

“You are such a fucking asshole!” a friend of mine screamed at me over the phone last week.

“You’re a fairly consistent fuck-up,” my stepfather said to me a few days ago.

I’ve also heard, “You’ve got some nerve.”

And, “Who do you think you are?”

I typically take it with a grain of salt. Consider the source. Respond with something flippant.

This seems to piss people off more than anything else. I’m not sure why though. You piss someone off. They tell you that you pissed them off, in some decidedly unfriendly language. The “f” word and what have you.

Then, when you don’t give a shit, they get really pissed off.

It’s actually quite entertaining. You can watch them authoring an impromptu tell-off, their eyes moving about furiously, veins bulging and whatnot. And when you respond with a smile and a rather casual, “Sorry you feel that way”, there’s an inexplicable, sadistic ecstasy.

At least, that’s the way I see it.

But, occasionally, the tables are turned for me. I’m a fairly even-tempered guy, inexhaustible list of neuroses aside. People rarely piss me off. They annoy me. Wear out their welcomes. Give me the impression that they are of lower intelligence. Offend my sensibilities. But I rarely get pissed.

But when I do―“Whoa Nelly,” as they say.

That brings me to today’s episode. A co-worker of mine, good friend actually, approached me in the hallway and instructed me to begin offering services to some kid who was having trouble adjusting to high school. When I told her it was not my job to counsel freshman having trouble adjusting, she responded that it was indeed my job and insinuated that I did not know exactly what my job is.

Well.

Next thing I knew, we were screaming at each other at the top of our lungs in the middle of the hallway. “Have you ever taken a course in this?” she asked.

“No,” I replied. “But you’re still wrong. And fuck your bullshit class.”

This statement, I realize, retaliatory and immature as it was, is indicative of my general attitude towards everything. That is, if I am confident that I know what I’m doing, an overt suggestion to the contrary is infuriating. The sadness of all this is how fucking typical it is. I felt myself about to blurt out, “Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?!!”

How pathetic is that? I have somehow become someone who takes pride is his work or whatever. This nine-to-five of mine, this gig, this slave, has somehow taken root in my inner-self. So much so as to create feelings. Like a lover.

I’m not happy about this.

But fuck all that. Work is dumb. Back to the art.

As a treat and a bit of an incentive, I am posting my first solo album, “Sinnerman”, for free download. Or maybe it’s not a treat at all. But here goes.

It’s an enjoyable piece. Produced, recorded and engineered entirely by my good friend and Dirty Water cohort, Joe D. I got a couple of good reviews and actually made a small profit on this album. A very small one. It was recorded in 2005 over the course of a few months. It’s unique among my other efforts in that every song that was recorded for the album made it to the final cut. Joe and I usually leave a few songs on the proverbial cutting room floor for one reason or another. But this one was different. We got into a good creative space and everything we did came out great.

I really don’t look at it as a collection of songs, as a result. It’s more like one long song with a lot of movements. Like an opera, but with no narrative. I guess my favorite thing about it is the incredibly wide range of topics. I don’t think I could do anything like it now. Also, I think Joe was able to avoid the pitfalls of the project producer. That is, he was able to create a unique sound for each track. You’d think I had a cadre of beatsmiths working on this thing.
Enjoy. And make sure you remember where to be on Labor Day.

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA/BIDEN!

“IGNORANCE & CONFIDENCE” AVAILABLE FOR FREE DOWNLOAD ON LABOR DAY AT
http://coolceebrown.blogspot.com/

Innocent Question: Am I the only one who gets the occasional pube snag? Doesn’t that shit sting?

Quotables from My Hip and Not So Hip Parents and Some Notes On My Twitter

2008-08-26T18:52:00.005-04:00

Okay:

My parents had me late. My father was in his forties. My mother was in her late thirties. My father is a stand-up comedian who never happened. Motherfucker is hilarious. And pretty hip, too.

An example.

My daughter's mother called me the spring of my junior in college and told me she was pregnant. It was an out-of-body experience, to say the least. I knew I couldn't tell my mother, and I didn't for some time, actually. But my father was the first person I thought to call.

"Dad," I said. "I think I may have knocked somebody up."

"Wow," he said. Then he took a deep breath. "Well, if she don't scream, you don't holler."

I didn't know exactly what he meant at the time, but it sure sounded cool. Old school pimp shit. I've always respected old school pimp shit.

My mother, on the other hand, has never been hip. Now don't get me wrong. She is the smartest, most resourceful, classiest, most beautifullest woman I know. She's my mamma. And she's a hell of a cook. Or, as my father used to say, "She can cook a pig in fifteen minutes."

She also sews. Back in the seventies, she used to make her own dresses, and then make my father a tie with the leftover material. I imagine they were very cute.

And she can fix a toilet.

Anyways. My mother's not hip though. I was reminded of this just the other day. A little over 10 years ago, someone taught my mother what "da bomb" means. And ever since then, whenever she wants to sound hip while exclaiming her affinity for something or someone, she says it's "da bomb".

The other day we were discussing my finances, or rather my lack thereof. "401K's are 'da bomb'," she said.

One day we were discussing the national debate over gay marriage. "Gays are 'da bomb'," she said.

"Lactaid is 'da bomb'."

"South Africa is 'da bomb'."

And her latest, "Catholicism is 'da bomb'."

(Apparently, she likes the fact that mass is only one hour, and everyone stays relatively calm.)

She's working on incorporating "off da hook" into her daily vocabulary, but I don't think it's gonna take.

Now I'm going home to finish some mixing on a couple of songs. I need to get final drafts to the producers before the end of the week. Remember where to be at midnight on Labor Day.

I haven't been whoring myself all over the Internet for the past month for nothing. I've got a fucking Twitter account and everything now. Fucking Twitter, man.

My good friend Kelli Anderson of http://sojournals.com had been pestering me for months to sign up. I just didn't like the sound of it.

Twitter.

It sounds like a new nickname for coochie. But I'm glad I did it. Wave of the future, man. Twitter is 'da bomb'.

And those videos again.

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA/BIDEN!

"IGNORANCE & CONFIDENCE" AVAILABLE FOR FREE DOWNLOAD ON LABOR DAY AT
http://coolceebrown.blogspot.com

Innocent Question: Am I the only one who sometimes sprays on the morning's first piss? What's that about when you spray, man? What's going on there?

A Scathing Critique of the Most Popular Videos, A Glowing Tribute to Pink's Latest Effort and an Update on the New Album

2008-08-25T18:34:00.004-04:00

Okay:

So, I just came home from my first day of school. It's been a really long day. I woke up around 4:30 for some reason. I guess I was more anxious than I realized. I went to the gym for an hour or so. Then I came back to my apartment and watched MTV for a while.

I used to love MTV when I was a teenager. They played videos all day. It was great. Now it's mostly reality shows, and most of them suck ass. But early, early, early in the morning, when it's still dark out, they still play actual music videos. And when I can wake up early enough, I like to watch. Most of the time, the videos suck just as much as the goddamn reality shows.

There's that fucking Nelly video. Too generic and devoid of soul or creativity to criticize. Then there's a whole lot of Flo Rida, who may or may not own a shirt. And that white prick, Donnie, from "Making The Band 3". But there's so much Diddy in the video it just ends up being funnier than anything else. I mean, from what I can tell, he has a decent voice and the song is not awful, but the ego on Diddy would put Mussolini to shame.

It's kind of like watching a porno movie where the male star keeps talking into the camera, and directing the camera man to give him close ups, as if anyone were there to see him. True, if he were not there things would be pretty boring and perhaps there would be nothing to watch at all. But still, nobody's there to see him, per se.

Then there's this Slipknot video. I can't make any sense of the song. Just a bunch of white boys screaming. But everybody in the band wears these really cool leather masks. They look like psycho killers. I like them.

Then there's the Gym Class Heroes, who look cooler than they sound. The lead vocalist is a half-breed with a pierced septum and those big quarter-sized African earrings. I've always wondered what those people do when they decide that they're over the whole freaky National Geographic thing. If they take those things out, what do their earlobes look like? Are they all nasty and flabby with big holes in them or do they draw back up relatively quickly? I'd like to know the answer before I die. Anyway, the new Gym Class Heroes song sucks. It's called "Cookie Jar" or something like that, and I don't like it. Although I'm sure they're nice people. Even the freaky-looking mulatto.

Cassie, who I had forgotten all about, has a new really stupid song with Lil Wayne in it. Now, don't get me wrong. I like Cassie, as far as marginally-talented skinny light-skinned girls with long hair go. And I like Lil Wayne. But I could take a break from him for a while. What about you?

There were some gems though. John Legend has a new dance track with Andre 3000. They're looking excessively metrosexual in the video, but the song is a stone cold jam. And it's good to see Andre under any circumstances. Motherfucker always brings it. I like the way he always manages to say something truly nasty without making it seem misogynistic. I'd like to live that way.

But my new jammy jam jam is Pink's new single. You heard right. Pink's new single. I don't know what the name of it is, but it's a great fucking song and the video is pretty cool too. As I understand it, she wrote it about her ex-husband and their divorce and he is actually in the video playing her estranged paramour. Now, that is what I call art.

Then I turned off the television, had some private time in front of my computer, put on some coffee, took a shower, shaved, got dressed, and went to work.

I don't remember much else after that. And now, I'm back at my mother's house, using her Internet connection and watching "Rain Man" on OnDemand. I'm waiting for my daughter to get here so I can see how her first day in third grade went.

In "Ignorance & Confidence" news, I just got off the phone with one of the producers, and I think I'll be done with the track listing by tomorrow night. I'm starting to become really enamored with this project. This one has some charm. I know you guys are gonna love it. Make sure you tell all your friends to be here on Labor Day.

And the videos again...

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA/BIDEN!

"IGNORANCE & CONFIDENCE" AVAILABLE FOR FREE DOWNLOAD ON LABOR DAY AT
http://coolceebrown.blogspot.com/

Tip of the Day: Gentlemen, until you are familiar with the power of the flush, do not flush while you are still sitting. It could go bad.

My Latest Vow of Celibacy, Updates on the New Album, and Other Random Unrealistic Promises to Self

2008-08-24T19:28:00.006-04:00

Okay:

And so my Internet is still off. I just can't get over the irony of all this. The album drops in a week, and I can't promote it the way I planned. It's all fucked up, man. Somebody out there wants me to fail.

Maybe that someone is me.

Maybe I have sabotaged myself and made it absolutely impossible for me to be successful in this venture. Maybe I secretly want to remain an unknown, frustrated independent artist.

But that's a downer, now isn't it?

In lighter news, I have recommitted myself to celibacy.

You heard me. Celibacy.

I have had it. It's all too complicated. I know some of my regular readers may be laughing their asses off. "You've said this before, Cee Brown," they might be saying. But I'm serious this time.

I've had enough. I'm full. I'm backing away from the table.

"What brings this about?" you ask? I had me what they call an epiphany.

A metaphor, if you will.

I also stopped eating meat recently. I woke up one morning and said, "To hell with all this shit."

Not because I'm some kind of animal-freak or a Buddhist or whatever. I give two shits how many chickens Farmer Joe kills every year. I just decided I wasn't getting anything good out of it anymore. Beef sometimes disagrees with my stomach. Pork is gross. And, chicken...well, chicken is delicious actually. But, dammit, you've gotta take a stand at some point. And so I stopped.

I feel similarly about sex. I don't want another kid. I don't want an STD. And I don't want a girlfriend. Odds are, the more I have sex, the more likely I am to get one of the aforementioned undesirables. So, until further notice, I am closing down the shop.

We may open our doors again one day, but for now, let's just say we're closed for renovations.

In other news, Joe came over this weekend and helped me put the finishing touches on the album. We drank a few beers and put some work in. Now I'm just doing some mixing and trying to finalize the track listing.

I have some more exclusives coming up this week as we draw closer and closer still to Labor Day. The new "Cucumber" video has 42 views so far. The "Love's Holiday" video is at 133.

It's funny, converting art into numbers. But I guess this is something like the celibacy thing. I am also going to be abstaining from poverty for the indefinite future.

I will also be abstaining from beer, which is delicious but chock-full of calories.

And reality television.

And happy hour.

And church.

Here are those videos in case you missed them.

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!...AND BIDEN.

"IGNORANCE & CONFIDENCE" AVAILABLE FOR FREE DOWNLOAD LABOR DAY AT http://coolceebrown.blogspot.com

Tip of the Day: Gentleman, apparently if you eat pineapples it will improve the taste of your essence and provide for more enthusiasm from your lady during those special moments. You're welcome.

Good Places to Make Dookey, the "Cucumber" Debut and Some Questions on Which to Ponder

2008-08-21T17:22:00.005-04:00

Okay:

On Monday the students arrive and I begin my eighth school year in urban education. I've learned a lot and come a long way since I first started teaching six years ago. I could tell you some stories about my first year, but I don't want to incriminate myself (No Kelly).

One thing I do remember about my first teaching job, if you don't mind talking about it, was that I had a great staff bathroom to shit in. It had a lock on the door and a nice clean-looking commode. A little toilet paper lining and I was totally comfortable doing my morning movement before class started.

The place where I worked after that was walking distance from my house, so I usually went home to handle my business. The place after that had a really nice, spacious staff bathroom with potpourri, soft music and an "occupied" light.

Nothing beat my last job though. I was in a seven-story office building that had been converted into a school. The seventh floor, however, was reserved for the executive offices. And up there was the queen mother of all handicapped stalls. A small horse could have given birth in that stall. Sometimes I would just go up there to think. Even if I didn't have to take a shit.

This new place though. Jesus. The staff bathroom is in the teacher's lounge, which makes no sense. People can hear you pee. And it's thirty people sharing that one commode. You can't a shit in there, someone's always waiting right outside the door.

They'll smell you.

I guess the upside is it's just a 5-minute drive from home. I can go home and take a shit on my lunch break. But I shouldn't have to, y'know. I just shouldn't have to.

And on the business tip, 27 views today of my new music video "Cucumber".

And 119 views of "Love's Holiday".

Not too shabby.

Thanks, everybody.

Next week, there will be more treats. So stay tuned.

And, now, some questions on which to ponder this lovely Friday...

1) You can page your lost portable phone. Why can't you page your lost remote control?

2) How come there's no McDonald's delivery service in DC?

3) How come Diddy gets to have so many reality shows?

4)How come so many overweight, middle-aged, out-of-work white actors dye their hair blond? Don't they know they look ridiculous?

5) How come you have to wash your dishes before you put them in the machine?

6) What am I supposed to do with all my VHS tapes?

7) Does anybody else remember those long cardboard boxes they used to put CDs in?

8) Where exactly is "The Internet"?

9) Has anyone else here heard that white people don't put on lotion?

10) Where's Malik Yoba?

Talk amongst yourselves.

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

"IGNORANCE & CONFIDENCE" AVAILABLE FOR FREE DOWNLOAD SEPTEMBER 1ST AT
http://coolceebrown.blogspot.com

Tip of the Day: Do not get hot wax on your pubes! It may seem freaky and interesting, but it could go bad.

The Results of My Private Loan Application, Celebrating 100 Views and Running, the Unexpected Pregnancy Disaster Scale and The Leak Continues

2008-08-20T20:57:00.008-04:00

Okay:

So, perhaps you're just dying to know what went down last night when I asked my stepfather for a loan. I absolutely HATE the idea of having to borrow money from anyone, especially him, but he is the only person I know who is in a position to help me.

So, what happened?

Turned down cold. Flat. "I don't have it," he said. "Maybe you need to have your water turned off or whatever to learn your lesson."

Maybe he has a point. But if all I was worried about was having my water turned off, I wouldn't have come to him in the first place.

Oh well.

Smart money says you should always have a contingency. Not that I have one. But I'm definitely working on one.

Yessir. I'm working on it.

So, in much lighter news, I reached the 100 views mark with the "Love's Holiday" video today on YouTube.

That's 100 views in 3 days, folks. Thank you for all your support. A special thank you to my homeboy Brian, who has been playing it for everyone he knows. Then he calls me to tell me about it. "Yo, Cee Brown, I'm over here with such and such and we just watched your video, yo. Shit's bananas, B. The shit is fresh."

"Thanks, Brian."

"I'm tellin' everybody, B. Then I'mma call you and tell you I told them and let you talk to them so they know it's real."

Brian, I've always said, could sell an asshole to a buttcrack. He has truly missed his calling. He should've been a Jewish television executive.

But in all seriousness, he's a good friend and a big thank you is in order. So, thanks, Brian.

On a personal note, the cute girl at my job gets dumber and cuter everyday. It's really quite amazing. I've never seen anything like it. I'm waiting to see where this is going though. Dumb has never bothered me before, but now it just looks like a big red flag. I keep thinking, "What if she got pregnant?"

I never used to think that. But now, it's, like, the first question that pops in my head. "How big of a disaster would it be if this woman got pregnant with my child?"

On an escalating scale, I'd put her at about a 6. Definitely undesirable and depressing to think about, but not catastrophic.

Fellas, where would you rate your lady? Ladies, where would you rate your man? Call it, the Unexpected Pregnancy Disaster Scale. I'd say that anything over a 4 means you probably shouldn't be sleeping with that person.

Still, how sick is that though? As a preliminary criteria? I think I need a vacation.

Or a really good beejay.

Oh yeah. I didn't forget. Today is Thursday, and, as promised, THE LEAK CONTINUES...

Let me know what you think. I actually made this one before "Love's Holiday". Hope ya like it.

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

"IGNORANCE & CONFIDENCE" AVAILABLE FOR FREE DOWNLOAD SEPTEMBER 1ST AT
http://coolceebrown.blogspot.com

Tip of the Day: Beware the corner of the condom wrapper.

Notes on the Hokey and Spectacular Films of the 80s, Cee Brown Swallows His Pride and Other Miscellany

2008-08-19T18:43:00.005-04:00

Okay:

So, my Internet is still off. I'm writing today's blog from my mother's house. She's got OnDemand, and right now I'm watching "RoboCop". I used to love this movie. For an eighties flick, it's held up remarkably well in terms of enjoyability. Most of the movies from that curious decade, John Hughes and all that, are painfully asinine when I watch them now.

I was watching "My Stepmom's An Alien" the other day. Completely ridiculous. Kim Bassinger, Dan Ackroyd, Jon Lovitz and a fucking talking purse. Even "The Breakfast Club", as blasphemous as it may sound, seems a little hokey now. Iconic as the character was and is, Judd Nelson is actually pretty hard to watch in my late twenties. All full of melodramatic teenage angst. It's painful.

But it's not like every 80s movie sucked. There was "Revenge of the Nerds", which is still fucking hilarious. "Karate Kid", "The Last Dragon" and "Purple Rain".

"The Lost Boys" is nostalgic for me on a whole 'nother level. Me and my cousins used to watch it over and over again. We couldn't get enough of it. And the ending! Jesus, the ending! There has never been a better ending in cinematic history. I'll stand by the statement against anyone who has a different opinion. The grandfather knew all along! The whole time he was pretending to be a crazy old coot, but he knew all along. Genius.

Then there was "Weird Science", which began my short-lived obsession with Kelly LeBrock. Me and Gill were just talking about this flick the other day. Both of us agreed that it was absolutely ridiculous, regardless of how geeky they were, that neither one of those motherfuckers tried to fuck her. Even in that shower scene. Other than that, it's another two thumbs up for old John Hughes.

Then there were the less notables like "Just One of the Guys", which was the only PG-13 movie I've ever seen with full frontal nudity. Remember the tit-flashing scene at the end? And isn't it a little gay for them to have ended up dating? I mean, up until a few weeks ago you thought she was a dude. Your best friend, in fact. She kisses you and shows you her tits and you figure, "Hey, might as well give it a shot."

Supergay.

Then there's "The Legend of Billie Jean", which got horrible reviews and grossed a paltry $3.5 million, seems like it might be fun to watch now. And that movie where they used to sing that song "Top That". Remember that one?

The dude would go "Top thaaaat. Uh, top thaaaat."

And the chick would go, "I don't really give a...about tryin'na top that."

And they would keep going back and forth like that. It was cute. I liked that one too.

So, anyways. "Robocop" is still good. They're blowing up all kinds of shit and laughing maniacally. And then there's the "I'd buy that for a dollar" guy. He's still funny.

Enough nostalgia.

Back to the present. My Internet is still off and being over here makes me want to get OnDemand. I gotta get my hands on some more dough somehow.

Oooooh. And there goes toxic waste guy. I forgot about this part. This is so cool. Remember how in the 80s, everyone was all preoccupied with toxic waste? Whatever happened to toxic waste anyways? And the fucking wales? Remember the goddamn wales? Did we save them or what? Like, what happened?

Okay, so back to my money problems. I have made a decision. It's time to ask for help. I was inspired by something I read today or some other day. "A wise man knows when to ask for help."

Or something like that.

Anyway, I'm going to ask my stepfather for a loan.

I know. I know. I know.

I hate doing it. And he may or may not say yes. This will be the second time I've come to him for money.

Oh shit. The bad guy just fell out of the window. Dropped like thirty stories. Remember in the 80s how the bad guy always ended up falling from a tall building in the end? It was a pretty common demise for the antagonist. Why was Hollywood so obsessed with those falling shots? Even today with the advanced computer graphic stuff, they still can't make it look real.

Okay, back to the money. So, I still haven't paid him all of his money back from the loan I took off him a year ago. And I'm concerned that this may make him feel uncomfortable about loaning me the money. But the worst thing he can say is no. So I'm gonna swallow my pride and give it a shot. Wish me luck. I'll let you know how it goes.

An update on my crush: She said something really stupid today. Her stock is falling.

An update on the "Love's Holiday" video: 86 views and counting.

The Leak Continues this Thursday. Stay tuned.

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

"IGNORANCE & CONFIDENCE" AVAILABLE FOR FREE DOWNLOAD SEPTEMBER 1ST AT
http://coolceebrown.blogspot.com

Tip of the Day: Apparently, lifting your buttcheek to fart makes it louder, which is considered uncouth in certain circles.

Reaction to Lukewarm Video Response, Fighting with the Fascists at RCN and Scant Details On My New Work Crush

2008-08-18T17:57:00.005-04:00

Okay:

58 views on the "Love's Holiday" video last time I checked YouTube. Here it is again in case you missed it.

My homeboy called me and told me he loved it and a few people left comments on some Ning sites. But I'm not satisfied. I need to be showered, no, bombarded with praise in order to feel good about all this.

So, I get home today, and low and behold, my Internet has been disconnected. No, it's not a felled power line. No there isn't something wrong with the tower or the satellite or where ever the hell the Internet comes from.

I am three months behind on my bill.

I don't know when I'll be able to pay them. I have a much larger bill called rent which is taking precedence this pay period. This broke shit is for the fucking birds!!!

I have gotta sell me some records, man.

I don't know. Maybe this is what they mean when they say things will get worse before they get better. Maybe I'll be telling all this shit to Conan O'Brien. I sure hope so.

Am I the only one who does imaginary dialogues with talk show hosts when he's home alone? I've been doing it since I was 8.

Weird kid.

By the way. The people at RCN are pure pricks. I called them to see if I could get on a payment plan.

"How about a payment plan?" I asked.

"I don't think so. We don't really do that here," replied the shockingly cold white girl on the other end.

"May I talk to a manager then?" I asked.

"You could. But there's really no point. He's just gonna tell you the same thing I just told you. We do not under any circumstances do payment plans. Your disconnection date is the 17th."

"But I need the Internet. I write a daily blog, and I have, like 3 dozen readers who'll be heartbroken if I don't post every morning. They might call the police and file, like, a missing person's report."

"That's too bad, sir. Your disconnection date is the 17th. Are you gonna be able to pay?"

"No, ma'am."

"Well, is that all then?"

Cold-hearted sons of bitches. True to their word, which is commendable. But sons of bitches nonetheless.

Where do they get off charging for the Internet anyway? It's the information super highway. Anything I want to know, I can find out in seconds. Shit like this shouldn't be a privilege of the wealthy. It should be free, goddammit.

Fucking faggot RCN fascist motherfuckers.

It's fucking George Bush and his goddamn war, and the fucking No Child Left Behind stupid law, insane gas prices, and what have you, fucked up economy, and I'm about to start selling crack.

Know what I'm saying?

In all seriousness, this couldn't have happened at a worse time. I'm supposed to drop an Internet-Only album in 2 weeks, and I don't have any fucking Internet. This has got to be some kind of message from God. I just don't have any fucking clue what he's trying to say.

"Become more fiscally responsible, my son."

Thanks a lot, God. I get it. Now use your magic Jesus powers to turn my fucking Internet back on.

In lighter news, I think I have a crush on the girl at work. We don't have anything in common and she's four years younger than me, but she's really cute and her body is amazing. Maybe I'll give it a shot. I'm like 0 for 3 this year in crush pursuance. I'm due for a W.

I'll keep you posted.

"The Leak" continues this Thursday, so make sure you're here to get the exclusive.

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

"IGNORANCE & CONFIDENCE" AVAILABLE SEPTEMBER 1ST FOR FREE DOWNLOAD AT
http://coolceebrown.blogspot.com/

Tip of the Day: Don't fuck with RCN. They're ruthless cunts.

New Music Video, Details on My Lost Weekend, and a Lengthy Lamentation on Temporary American Poverty

2008-08-17T15:04:00.008-04:00

Okay:

Ever heard of John Lenon's "lost weekend"? Well, this was my lost weekend, except I wasn't off with my wife-approved mistress somewheres. I was at home alone, working to promote the new album. Also, I am flat broke, so I couldn't leave my apartment even if I wanted to.

You've heard the term "flat broke" before. I know I have. But I'm just now coming to understand exactly what it means. Of course, as a citizen of the world, I have some perspective. I'm not Rio de Jinero broke. I'm not Johannesburg broke. I'm in that unique state of temporary American poverty. I'll have some money soon. Payday's Friday. And I have some checks coming in from some contract writing. But for the time being, I'm confined to my quarters and relegated to the surprisingly fun task of making meals out of, what they call in the restaurant business, side items.

Tonight's meal: Tuna Salad, Vegetarian Beans and Apple Sauce. Accompanied by one ice cold glass of Arcadia Spring Water. (The gallon has to last me the whole week). I think it's actually going to be quite tasty.

Luckily, my daughter is out of town with her grandmother and aunt. I would hate for her to see me in this pathetic state. I haven't brushed my teeth since Friday, and, pardon my candor, but I can smell my own balls.

But it has been a productive two days. I finished editing the video for the first leaked track from the new album. Check it out.

Pretty cool if I may say so myself, and it didn't cost me a dime. Just a few hours in front of the computer. Which, however, according to my sister the stock broker, can be monetized into a specific dollar amount using a simple formula.

I did some other things. I vacuumed the living room and did the dishes. I discovered that there is no real way to keep a white trash can looking sanitary and promised myself I would go stainless steel as soon as I get some financial slack. I also need new break pads, a welcome mat, a new shower curtain, a new driver's side view mirror, electric clippers, an ironing board and a new mount for my front license plate which fell off some time last year.

Oh, and I would like a wine rack and some bottles to go in it.

And a new set of pots and pans. And a cooking apron.

And I'd like to have the upholstery in my car cleaned. And have all the nicks and dents bumped out.

A pull up bar for my bedroom and those push-up twisty disc thingies.

And a pair of red cowboy boots.

And some new suits. I'm over the loose fit. I want something that's gonna make me look skinny and well-traveled.

And I want a briefcase and a laptop with wi-fi.

And a pony.

Thanks for reading.

Tip of the Day: Never have sex in the bathroom at the Johnny Rockets in Georgetown. The management really frowns upon that sort of thing. Trust me.

Postscript: The Leak Continues later this week, so stay tuned.

A Short and Bitter Rant About The Album Leak Feedback or Lack Thereof, Musings on the Unsolicited Beejay and More Video Footage

2008-08-14T21:16:00.006-04:00

Okay:

So, no feedback on "The Leak", huh? I could interpret that as disinterest or indifference, which would certainly be discouraging. Or I could interpret as politeness. That is, the song was so horrible you all have chosen to say nothing whatsoever, as opposed to giving your honest criticism, which could cause irreparable damage to my fragile narcissistic ego. Or I could interpret your collective silence as awe. As in, the track was so good, you all are speechless, or typeless or whatever they call it when you don't have anything to say on the Internet.

Or maybe you just got distracted by the videos and all the other linkage in yesterday's blog.

So, let's take a moment to concentrate on the music.

It's called "Love's Holiday" and it's really good.

CLICK HERE TO LISTEN

Feedback is MANDATORY. Otherwise, I'll come through the Internet and get you.

In other news, I'd like to talk about something nasty. So, be forewarned.

Ladies, what's up with the unsolicited blowjob?

I'm not talking about your man coming home from a hard day's work and you serving him without him having to ask. I'm talking about some guy you know. The time was right. The wine was right. So, you felt compelled.

I've had one or two in my day. They're always surprising. I understand why we men do it (unsolicited cunnilingus, that is). We think if we do a good job we might get sex afterwards. It's kind of high school, but I think most men still employ the technique when trying to break the sexual ice. Even now, it still has about a 70% success rate.

But I'm curious as to why a desirable, intelligent woman would be so...aggressive, shall we say, as to initiate this unprovoked. Especially when everyone knows you could just as easily get sex without the foreplay from pretty much any man.

Now, I certainly don't mean to discourage you. If the mood hits you, feel free. Thing is, I just would like an explanation of this surprisingly widespread phenomenon.

Is it a self-esteem thing? Or is it a matter of passion? You find a man so incredibly attractive in that purely sexual way that you just have to, must, need to handle his business for him.

Again.

Glory, Hallelujah! I think it's a great idea. And I don't think a mature man would look at you differently afterwards. Not in a bad way, at least. I'm just curious as to what you think you're going to "get out of it", other than the obvious.

And now...more footage from the Dirty Water show at the Black Cat with The Els doing another rendition of a hip hop classic.

Thanks for reading.

Download the new Hurricane Katrina 3rd Anniversary Commemorative Single "WHEN THE WELL RUNS DRY" (featuring Heron Gibran, produced by Du)

GOBAMA!

Tip of the Day: Ladies, don't spit. It's disrespectful. Either go hard or don't bother.

The Album Leak Officially Begins, Stories About My Little Pecker and Faux Democracy

2008-08-13T23:41:00.004-04:00

Okay:

So, after hours of deliberation I have finally decided on an album title.

Drumroll, please...

"Ignorance & Confidence"

I know. I know. I know. This title was not in the poll at all. I assure you I did not already have this title in mind before polling began. But seeing as how only 20 people voted, 57% of which voted for "Claude Have Mercy", which was perhaps my least favorite title (sorry, Joe), I decided to brainstorm on some new ideas.

"Ignorance & Confidence" comes from a Mark Twain quote: "To succeed in life, you need two things: ignorance and confidence."

Twain is one of my favorite authors, gratuitous use of the "n" bomb aside, and this quote, I think, really speaks to my current state of mind.

And I finished the cover...

I decided to go with the Kanye photo (taken by my good, good friend Kelli Anderson of http://sojournals.com). The track listing is pretty upbeat, and I think this cover keeps in line with the overall feel. Metrosexuality reluctantly admitted.

This is despite the fact that most of you seemed to like the dark photo with all the forehead in it. So, I guess this is an all around, old fashioned fake me out. Sort of like the 2000 presidential election.

I apologize for this deception, but I did it in your best interests. In the interest of freedom, democracy and the preservation of American values.

And now for another very short, humorous anecdote.

Once when I was little I put cologne on my junk. My mamma had to wash it off for me.

That's all I have today.

Oh...and once, when I was very little, I slammed my pecker in the toilet lid. Which is impressive, I guess. If you look at it a certain way.

Okay, that's it.

Enjoy today's vlog. A short documentary on a day in the life of my 9 to 5 alter ego. Nothing interesting happens. But it is kind of funny.

And, as promised...The Album Leak.

This track is called "Love's Holiday". It was produced by Joe D, with some vocal assistance from my homegirl Moon of The Uninterrupted Band, and a guitar solo from my buddy John Lee.

Only half a handful of people have heard this track so far, including the people who helped me record it. So, this is an official exclusive.

CLICK HERE TO LISTEN.

Let me know what you think, but be gentle. As you know, I am very sensitive.

Thanks for reading.

Download the new Hurricane Katrina 3rd Anniversary Commemorative Single "WHEN THE WELL RUNS DRY" (featuring Heron Gibran, produced by Du)

GOBAMA!

Tip of the Day: If you're a teacher, never shit in the student bathroom. No matter what the circumstances. They'll catch you and make you pay.

A Preface to The Album Leak, Sparse Pubic Hair and More Video Footage

2008-08-12T21:16:00.004-04:00

Okay:

So, this is the last day to vote for your favorite album title. After today, I'm shutting down the poll and choosing a winner. Hopefully, it will be ready for download by the first of September.

After I make a decision on the album title, I'm gonna need you guys to help me choose a lead single. I'm going to begin "the leak" tomorrow, so make sure you give the new tracks a listen.

Also, I'm going back into syndication. I'll be posting on several Ning sites now as well as Blogger. Most especially, you'll be able to find me at http://blackbroadway-online.com (my label's site) and http://sojournals.com (my homegirl Kelli's social networking site) and http://liberatedmuse.ning.com (my BFF Khadijah's site). Among others. Time to spread these wings back out and get this thing cracking full throttle.

And now for a humorous anecdote from my traumatic childhood...

But first, an embarrassing confession. I'm not a hairy man. I do have extremely hairy legs, which is weird, but the rest of me is pretty smooth. And perhaps you see where this is going already.

So, I grew pubes kind of late.

I didn't have a full covering until I was fifteen or so. Before then it was like a chemo patient's head down there. Not even peach fuzz, you know. Just a few scragglies here and there, which was even more pathetic. I was very insecure about it. Not that I was going around showing everyone my pubes, or checking out everyone else's, but I was fairly certain that things were moving slowly for me down there.

So, one summer I went to see my pediatrician for a check up before school started. My pediatrician was a very pretty, older black woman. Now, I'm not sure if they do this to little boys anymore or not, but when I was younger your doctor would grab you by the balls and tell you to cough.

So, it was drop drawers time. Only, I was in no condition for a forty year-old woman to be seeing my junk. And perhaps the ladies need some explanation here. See, when you first start getting erections, they happen at random. You don't necessarily need to be aroused or anything. It just happens.

So my little soldier was at attention for whatever reason. I mean, my doctor was pretty, but I just don't think that was it. I think he was just, like, curious. Like, "I don't ever remember being in here before. This is new. What's going on in here, man. Let me check it out."

So, I dropped my drawers and there he was. Boing yoing yoing yoing!

I expected her to shriek in horror, and tell me to get dressed immediately, but instead she was like, "Well, hello there." Smiling.

"I see someone's wide awake today. Impressive."

I could've died. I could've bludgeoned myself to death with my own boner.

"Ohhh, and I see we have a little grass growing on the field too. Oh, that's gonna come in real thick and nice. Are you excited?"

If you've got a pediatrician story to top that, I'd like to hear it.

And my new vlog (8-12-08)...

I can fit a white grape in my nostril.

And part 2 of Dirty Water at The Black Cat...

That's my pretty white shirt that I was blogging about.

Make sure you read tomorrow when "The Leak Begins..."

Thanks for reading.

Download the new Hurricane Katrina 3rd Anniversary Commemorative Single "WHEN THE WELL RUNS DRY" (featuring Heron Gibran, produced Du)

GOBAMA!

Tip of the Day: Never braid your pubes. It could go bad.

Random Ramblings, A Short Double Eulogy and Video Footage

2008-08-12T06:46:00.004-04:00

Okay:

So, there's a few things to talk about today...and a few things to watch. Number one, I figured out what it is with the metrosexual thing. It's not that I'm a metrosexual. I'm just an elitist. Which fits better with my self-concept.

For example, my boss was trying to hook me up with our temporary receptionist. Cute girl. Body for days. So, I wasn't entirely disinterested. I was complaining to the two of them that I desperately need some new suits because I no longer like how the ones I have are tailored.

"Where do you shop?" asked the girl.

"Depends on how much money I have," I responded with a smile.

"I was just asking because Steve Harvey has a new line of suits out now. And, you know, he always looks nice," she said.

Well, I didn't hear anything she said after that. Any woman who thinks I'm the kind of guy who would be caught dead in one of those oversized geechie zoot suits must be out of her mind.

Big sis, if you're reading this, take note that if I die tomorrow and you guys go broke paying off my debt and can't afford to bury me properly and some sympathetic geechie reads about it somewhere and donates a Steve Harvey suit, bury me naked.

So that was that.

Then there was the Bernie Mac and Issac Hayes tragedies this weekend. Both of those brothers were immensely talented and will be sorely missed by the entertainment industry. But I guess I'm getting to the age where I can count on this shit happening more and more often. I'm sure it was happening when I was younger. I remember someone being, like, "Oh, my God, Miles Davis just died!"

And I remember being, like, "Who in the fuck is Miles Davis and why is everybody trippin?"

Of course, now I realize how inexcusable my blasphemy was, but I was young and innocent then and had not yet discovered "Sketches of Spain" or "Kind of Blue".

When I told my daughter that Bernie Mac and Issac Hayes had died this weekend, she was similarly unaffected and changed the subject swiftly by insisting on knowing whether or not we were going to make it to the playground before nightfall.

And in other news...

I've got video footage from the Dirty Water show at The Black Cat earlier this year.

I separated it into 6 parts, so this is just a teaser really. And this is my first attempt at vlogging.

The shadows are distracting, I guess. But I like shadows. You see me getting tech savvy over here, right? Respect my Geek.

If you're reading this at work and they've blocked YouTube or your computer sucks, you can see the footage at my YouTube channel when you get home or to a computer that doesn't suck. http://youtube.com/coolceebrown.

Also, the show I did a few weeks ago with my good friends the Motel band, at The Capital Hip Hop Soul Fest organized by my good friends Khadijah and Maceo of Liberated Muse Productions, someone shot a short feature story on it and posted it on http://think.mtv.com/

Isn't that cool? I'll post more soon.

Thanks for reading.

Download the new Hurricane Katrina 3rd Anniversary Commemorative Single, "WHEN THE WELL RUNS DRY" (featuring Heron Gibran, produced by Du)

GOBAMA!

Tip of the Day: When pissing in alleys, always piss downhill.

The Natural Escalation of Recreational Expenditures for Children

2008-08-10T16:44:00.003-04:00

Okay:

So, parenthood, as all you parents know, is full of shocking discoveries. Your child is constantly surprising you with the things they pick up, and my daughter, precocious little gem that she is, is certainly no exception.

I can remember riding in my father's car when I was her age. My mother had made it very clear that anything along the lines of toys and what have you, I was to ask my father. My father, a poor and rather old-fashioned man, was generally caught off guard by the kind of shit that came out of my mouth.

"Dad, will you buy me a Turbo Grafx 16?"

"A Turbo what?"

"A Turbo Grafx 16. It's a new game system. Miles has one."

"I don't give a damn what Miles has. Plus, I just bought you a Nintenduh last year."

My father was very good at waiting until the last possible minute to buy me anything pricey. When I asked him for a Starter coat, it took him almost a year to give in. By the time I got one, people had stopped wearing them. Which really pissed him off. "You mean to tell me that I bought you a $100 coat and now you don't want to wear it anymore?"

"Nobody wears Starter coats anymore, Dad. I asked you for this last year."

"Well, goddammit, a $100 coat ain't never supposed to go out of style. I never heard of such a thing. My father never bought me new coat, much less a $100 coat. I wore my older brother's coat when he outgrew it and it wasn't even up for discussion. I didn't really care either. Everyone had on their older brother's coat. Now put on the goddamn coat!"

"Yes, Dad."

I got used to it after a while and learned to expect these kinds of responses from him. I am similar with my daughter. Sometimes she'll begin a question then stop herself. "Oh, nevermind. I know you're going to say no anyways."

So, back to the Turbo Grafx 16.

"This system is different, Dad. It's got 16 bit graphics. It makes the Nintendo look like Atari."

"What the hell is a bit and why should I care?"

"The more bits you have, the better it looks."

"Mm hmm. You ain't had that Nintenduh a good year and already you want something else. If I had known this was going to happen, I wouldn't have bought it for you in the first place."

"Well, I still need it. Turbo Grafx 16 has different games. They don't have, like, Zelda or Ninja Gaiden."

"So now I gotta buy you a bunch of different games?"

"It only comes with one."

"Jesus Christ! Well, how much does it cost?"

"One hundred fifty dollars."

"So it costs more than the Nintenduh?"

"It's got 16 bit graphics. Nintendo is 8 bit."

"I don't wanna hear nothing else about no goddamn bits...and where the hell is that goddamn Atari anyway. I guess you don't play with that anymore either."

So, back to the present.

I'm riding along with my daughter in the backseat and she says, "Do you know what you should get me, Daddy?"

"What's that, honey?"

"You should get me a laptop."

"A laptop?"

"One with Internet access, so I can go to icarly.com."

"Internet access?"

"Yep. And a color printer, so I don't have to use my paints all the time."

I took a deep breath. "We'll see, honey. We'll see."

Thanks for reading.

Download the Hurricane Katrina 3rd Anniversary Commemorative Single "WHEN THE WELL RUNS DRY" (featuring Heron Gibran, produced by Du)

GOBAMA!

Postscript: My mother ended up buying me a Sega Genesis, which I had to have after I heard they were putting out the Michael Jackson "Moonwalker" game. It ended up being a far better choice. Turbo Grafx 16, as you know, went out of production less than 2 years later. But "Moonwalker", sadly, was the last video game my parents ever bought me.

A JPG Is Worth 1,000 Downloads

2008-08-07T20:50:00.009-04:00

Okay:

So, like, my homeboy and business partner Gill taught me how to use Photoshop earlier this year. I'm still an amateur, for the most part. All I really know how to do is doctor up a photo.

Yesterday, I posted about trying to chose a title for my new album. I put a poll in the right hand column of my BlogSpot page. So, if you're comment shy, but you have some suggestions, you can cast your vote here. If you're reading this on my MySpace page, make sure you visit me at coolceebrown.blogspot.com to cast your vote.

So, back to the Photoshop thing. I've posted some doctored photos as potential covers for the new album. I've airbrushed out blemishes, razor bumps and the like, added some diffuse glow and what have you. I don't look anything like this in person actually. I'm a lot uglier than you may think I am. I'm really into shadows and drama, so consider that when making your suggestions. There are only three here. If any of you are artists and want some pro bono work, feel free to snatch the pics up and work your magic or send me something original.

I took this photo myself, actually. At my house with my digital camera. I like the darkness, the mood, the shadows, but I think it may not necessarily communicate the tone of the music, which is decidedly upbeat this time around.

I liked it for a while, and so did Joe D. But now I can't stop staring at my nose, which takes up like 40% of the picture. Then my forehead takes up another 40%. And the shadows look really unnatural. But, I still like the overall feel.

I also took this photo myself. It's probably my least favorite of the three. It makes me look meaner than I actually am. I am mean. Just not this mean. This guy looks like a terrorist who got rejected by Al-Qaeda for being over zealous. I like the colors though. And the sweaty look.

But again, there's that schnoz of mine hogging all the light. Fucking thing is like a little fetus on my face. I tried to crop it out, but it just looked weird. But like I said, I love the warm hues here. I think I went overboard with pupil doctoring though.

This is my personal favorite right now. My good, good homegirl, Kelli, took the picture. Visit her at sojournals.com (shameless plug). It best represents where I am emotionally right now. Despite my very serious money problems, I'm still in a great mood for some reason.

But it almost looks too happy. Which I'm not sure is a good look for me. I don't wanna be the happy rapper. Those guys don't get any respect.

You may hate all of these, but it's all I have for now. Let me know which one captures your eye. Again, if you want to lend a helping hand, it is much appreciated.

Thanks for all your help guys. Your comments have been great.

Thanks for reading.

Download the Hurricane Katrina 3rd Anniversary Commemorative Single "WHEN THE WELL RUNS DRY" (featuring Heron Gibran, produced by Du)

GOBAMA!

Postscript: I will be posting some of the new tracks next week, but you all will have to promise to keep it under your hat. It's some exclusive shit.

What's In A Name?

2008-08-06T22:13:00.003-04:00

Okay:

So, like, I have a home recording studio now. I bought a new computer back in February, as my regular readers know, and then I went out and bought ProTools software, an interface, a set of speakers, and a microphone. Which, low and behold, is all you really need. There are other fancy amenities that will improve your sound quality, but I'm satisfied with what I have for now. And considering my current financial situation, I don't think I'll be upgrading in this decade. For that matter, I don't plan on buying any new underwear any time soon either.

So, I hooked up with a handful of producers who have been emailing me beats and I have been recording at break-neck speed. We're talking Pac status here, ladies and gentlemen. Well, not quite Pac status. I'm told that in his last days he was recording at least one song a day. Stockpiling, basically. I'm at about one or two songs a week, which puts the total at well over 20. Closer to 30, actually.

I only know one other person, personally, who records compulsively like this. And that's my good friend, W. Ellington Felton, who puts out 3 or 4 albums a year.

It's a weird little affliction, I think.

As you know, I've been researching Narcissistic Personality Disorder for the past few days. Granted, I'm hardly qualified to make a diagnosis, but I think I've got that shit bad. One of the "symptoms", if that's what they're called, is compulsive productivity. Someone with this disorder feels the need to constantly create, risking quality for quantity, because they crave the instant gratification of a finished product. That would also explain how I've been able to keep up with this daily blog.

This may or may not be a good thing, guys.

I was talking to a friend of mine the other day, who reads my blog regularly. She was like, "I love your blog. One or two times I actually laughed out loud."

The average person probably would have taken it as a compliment. But I was thinking, Just one or two times? Does that mean the rest of them sucked? There's almost 200of them!

Another symptom is the need for acceptance from peers. I can't tell you how disheartening it is to wake up in the morning to check on my blog and find my comment box empty. (hint-hint).

Long story short, I am planning on releasing a new album soon. Possibly next month. Because of my money woes, it will only be available here for a while, and then I'll see if I can get me some digital distribution. I am expecting you ALL to download it. Even you "lurkers" who never leave comments.

In all seriousness, lurker or active participant, I am requesting your help with something very important. I need a title. I came up with some pretty cool names for my last two albums, "Sinnerman" and "Magnificent Bastard". I'm looking to continue in the same theme, but more cleverer.

I have a few ideas in mind.

A GORGEOUS KILLER. I like the dichotomy, but I'm worried about the connotation. I don't want anybody thinking I'm some sort of gangster rapper or something.

THE DEVILUTION OF CLAUDE NADIR. I liked the Robin Thicke album and loved the title. It's kind of my own creative twist on that concept and a commentary on my social, emotional and spiritual regression over the years.

THE BASTARD RETURNS. I plan on including a few remixes of tracks from my last album "Magnificent Bastard", which would make it kind of like a sequel.

That's all I've got for now. Maybe you like these and maybe you have some ideas of your own. If you are so inclined, post a comment with your vote or original title.

You'll be helping me out a bunch.

Thanks for reading.

Download the Hurricane Katrina 3rd Anniversary Commemorative Single "WHEN THE WELL RUNS DRY" (featuring Heron Gibran, produced by Du)

GOBAMA!

Postscript: I was also considering "The Fight in the Dog" for a while, but I eventually decided against it. But if you dig it, I'll throw it back in the pot.

What Did You Call Me?

2008-08-05T23:27:00.002-04:00

Okay:

So, the other day I got into an argument with a friend of mine. As you know, I am an asshole, and it's not entirely uncommon for me to get into arguments with my friends. But this time, it was different. Usually I'm just bored and I feel like being confrontational or contrary. But, I think I may have been truly insulted.

She called me the "M" word.

For the record, I've been a snazzy dresser for a while. Back before Andre 3000 and Kanye West made it trendy, I had my own style. Ask anyone who's known me for a while.

Also, I have always taken great pride in my grooming. I'm not what I would call meticulous, but I do pay attention to things like facial hair and nail length. You know. The basics. What kind of dirty motherfucker doesn't?

And I have eclectic tastes in art. I love musicals. But I do not plan on seeing Mama Mia. Looks cheesy. I have fastidious tastes in furniture. I wouldn't be caught dead with a black leather sofa or a glass coffee table. Even if someone was giving it to me for free. I'd rather have no furniture at all. Lawns chairs and a trunk with a mud cloth draped over it would be more charming.

I once went to pick a woman up from her house and realized after looking at her furniture that we could never be serious. She had a nice home, but it looked like a goddamn furniture store show room. You're not supposed to buy the fucking knick knacks and shit. You collect those things over time, with intent and care. You don't just buy a fucking living room starter kit from Marlo. Everyone knows that.

But I digress.

These days all this means I'm what they call a Metrosexual.

If you ask a woman she'll tell you that a Metrosexual is a straight man with taste. But we men know it means closet fag.

When I look at Kanye West, or Diddy, I can see how the term can be justifiably applied. Not that I think either man is gay. But the difference between them and me is, they are vain, almost to an effeminate point. I'm not vain at all, actually. I'm neurotic and narcissistic. To the untrained eye, it seems similar. But there's a huge difference.

I, for example, could very easily slip into I-Don't-Give-A-Fuck mode if some other aspect of my life is taking precedence over personal appearance. As long as it's about me, it can hold my attention indefinitely. I could go weeks without shaving or cutting my nails or getting a haircut, which, I imagine, would be a big no-no for a true Metrosexual.

So I told her to go fuck herself.

Thanks for reading.

Download the Hurricane Katrina 3rd Anniversary Commemorative Single "WHEN THE WELL RUNS DRY" (featuring Heron Gibran, produced by Du)

GOBAMA!

Postscript: Let's try to come up with a better label for me. Any suggestions?

In The Beginning...

2008-08-04T21:46:00.003-04:00

Okay:

So, when did you realize you were a freak?

If you are, that is. But I'm imagining that if you read this blog on a regular basis, you probably are. I can't really recall when I figured it out. All I know is that I woke up one morning and I could not stop thinking about sex. Then I got my first taste, and it was all downhill from there.

Perhaps I can trace it back to when we first got cable and I discovered a program called "Red Shoe Diaries" on Showtime. It was a soft-softcore drama. At any rate, before the episode was over someone was going to end up fucking. And I used to stay up late to catch it, sitting on the edge of my bed, waiting for the raunch to begin with a blank VHS tape in the VCR ready to go.

Then there was "Real Sex" on HBO. Sometimes they would have really good episodes with exposes on strip clubs or Vegas call girls or whatever. Most of the time it was old people trying to put the spice back into their lives. Going on all nude island retreats and whatnot. It was hit or miss with that show.

Then there was Video Music Jukebox and those wonderful Luke videos. "You Go Girl", "It's Your Birthday", "Pop That Coochie", etc. I may have ordered a video or two, but I was always able to convince my mother that the phone company had made a mistake. For the most part though, I just waited for some other sucker to spend his dollar, with my finger on the record button.

And then there was a show specific to the DC area called "Metro World". It came on public access, and there may have only been a half dozen episodes. Anyways, for you out-of-towners, it was a very popular show that showcased local go-go bands and videotaped their shows. Not that I didn't enjoy the music, but I certainly found the dancers far more entertaining. Most of the bands performed with strippers. And not the I'm-working-my-way-through-college exotic dancers. I'm talking freaked-out whores here. You heard about the Rare Essence Splash Party tape. It was on Oprah.

Northeast Groovers were my favorite at the time. They had a dance duo called Sunshine and Juicy.

I was a little obsessed. If you know any brothers from DC, ask them about Sunshine and Juicy. They'll probably stare off into the distance in nostalgic bliss. They were goddesses!

I would make video mixtapes of my little erotic snippets, using an extra VCR and the pause button. Most hip hop producers will tell you they made their first beats using this method with audio tapes. But I wasn't interested in making beats. I needed jerk-off material.

But I suppose I was ruined before all this, if I'm honest. When I was still in elementary school I went to a classmate's sleepover. He was a white boy and his mother's boyfriend drove a Lamborghini.

Anyways. When it got good and late he put in a video tape. The label, if I'm remembering correctly said, "Indiana Jones". But there was no Harrison Ford in this flick. The music started playing. Some stereotypical eighties porn jazz-funk. Then the title flashed across the screen: "In The Jeans".

Then there was a woman with a dick in her mouth.

I couldn't believe it!

I was in complete shock. Though I tried not to show it. I almost couldn't watch. I was filled with the funniest feeling. I didn't understand it then, but later I learned that it was called "horny".

And I've been all fucked up ever since.

What about you?

Thanks for reading.

Download the Hurricane Katrina 3rd Anniversary Commemorative Single "WHEN THE WELL RUNS DRY" (featuring Heron Gibran, produced by Du)

GOBAMA!

Postscript: I wouldn't own my first hardcore pornographic film until 8 years later. I don't remember what it was called, but Ron Hightower and Kira were in it...Yes, I know their names.

Three's A Crowd

2008-08-03T22:38:00.004-04:00

Okay:

So, I went to my homeboy's baby shower this weekend. He found out he's having a boy a few months ago, and he is literally beaming with pride. The motherfucker was glowing.

His lady is beautiful and pregnant, due in couple of months.

I was sitting there with my daughter, peeping out the scene. At one point I leaned over to him and said, "There are a lot of fine women in here, man."

He laughed. "What about that one?" I asked.

"Married," he said.

Then his lady leaned in. "Happily married," she said.

"Well, what about that one?" I asked.

"Also, married," he said.

Once again I had found myself in that most curious of worlds where everyone is either married or pregnant, or toting around a newborn. They all look tired. But happy nonetheless.

Thing is, I don't want any parts of it. None whatsoever. In fact, for the past few months I've been seriously considering having a vasectomy. I don't like the idea of an unexpected pregnancy, me being completely out of the loop and subject to the whims of another person with a different agenda. I'd probably try to drive off a bridge or something.

If I got the bread and I can find a doctor who'll do it, I'm getting myself fixed. End of story. I've got to do my research though. If it's going to change my situation in the nether region in some negative way, then fuck all that.

I guess what I really want to know is whether or not it's going to change the consistency of my spunk. Is it going to go all clear and watery? I feel like that wouldn't be a good look. Like, a chick might me all, "What's wrong with your love gravy? It's a little on the thin side."

But suppose if that's the only negative side effect, I could live with it. Long as I still have projectile action. I don't want the leaky faucet or the dry heave. Like a gasping fish or something.

Don't get my wrong. I love my daughter. She is the best thing that ever happened to me. Without her, I'd be an even bigger mess than I am right now. But I'm clearly not cut out for this shit, and we both know it. Sometimes I catch her shaking her head in pity, like, "Poor guy. He's trying."

But another one? That'd be like John Kerry making another run at the presidency. He was all we had at the moment, but everybody knew he wasn't up to the task.

My whole life was flashing before my eyes in that place. I started getting claustrophobic. I wanted to leave, but I was there to support my man and share in his joy or whatever. So, I stayed put.

Then it was time to play games. The coordinator had written out a series of parenting questions. "How long should you wait before you leave the baby with someone else?" "How long should you wait before you have sex?" "How can you tell why the baby is crying?"

Everyone picked a random question out of the jar and we had a big discussion. I was surprised at how much I knew about this shit. I wouldn't call myself an expert, but I suppose once is all it takes.

One thing I did not know but found interesting was how to stop a male child from pissing all over the place while your changing him. Not so much an issue with the girls. As it turns out, there is something called the pee-pee tee-pee. It's like a cone that you sit on his junk until you're finished handling the business.

Then they made their godparent announcements. It was very touching.

Of course, he was smart enough not to choose me. Not that I felt like I was really in the running. I guess we aren't that close. But for a moment there, I wondered.

I guess you don't really want the reluctant godparent thing though. I'd be all like, "Make sure you wear your seat belt." "Maybe it'd be smarter for you all to take separate flights." "Have you been monitoring your sodium intake?"

Then it was time for everyone to offer their wisdom and encouragement to the expectant parents. People had inspirational tidbits about spirituality and consistency and the like.

Then, for some reason, I was possessed with the desire to say something.

I lifted my Long Island Ice Tea and said, "Good luck. This shit is rough and rugged."

And then I went home and watched iCarly with my little youngin. Which is a damn funny show by the way. A lot better than that fucking Hanna Montana.

Thanks for reading.

Download the new Hurricane Katrina 3rd Anniversary Commemorative Single "WHEN THE WELL RUNS DRY" (featuring Heron Gibran, produced by Du)

GOBAMA!

Postscript: Family Matters is on Nick At Nite now. When I was her age they ran Mr. Ed and Car 54, Where Are You?. My black ass is getting old. Pretty soon I won't have to worry about the consistency of my spunk. The motherfucker'll be spitting out dust.

Sleeping Dogs

2008-07-31T22:09:00.003-04:00

Okay:

Am I the only one who feels like the older they get, the less integrity they have?

When I was younger I was really big on telling the truth. Of course, I lied to my parents constantly. No, I'm not high. That knife isn't mine. I didn't realize it was two in the morning. Etc.

I also had no qualms about lying to the police. And still don't.

And maybe in my teens, I had a tendency to exaggerate the truth to make myself seem cooler. Or sometimes if I was bored.

And I told a few girls I loved them so they would have sex with me.

But other than that, I was a boy scout.

Particularly in my late teens and early twenties. I once told a girlfriend of mine that I had met someone new. She wasn't suspicious. She called me one day thinking everything was normal and I gave an unsolicited confession. The events that followed were less than pleasant.

I talked to my mother afterwards and explained the situation. I was looking to be affirmed. "Son," she said, shaking her head. "That was so fucking stupid."

She explained to me that in certain situations the truth can do more harm than good. She told me that I should always measure out the benefits versus the potential negative consequences for everyone involved before I get all noble and start telling people shit they don't already know.

My mother has given me a lot of advice over the years. I don't remember most of it. But that particular gem has always stuck with me.

That is not say that I have always followed her advice, but lately I have been putting it to very good use. Particularly with women.

The thing about telling the truth is, more often than not, it only makes the person telling the truth feel better. And I'm not talking about "Honey, does this dress make me look fat?" Every man knows the answer to that question.

I'm talking about "Honey, where were you last night?"

If the answer is, "I was at a strip club and ended up having sex with one of the dancers in our backseat," someone please explain to me how it would benefit anyone to confess?

For the sake of being honest? Give me a break.

You tell the truth. She's furious. Heart-broken. Relationship over. And maybe she's scarred for life and can never trust another man. Who wins?

Nobody, that's who.

So, what should you do?

Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie like a fucking rug. Lie like your life depended on it. It may. Some women don't go for that kind of thing. Some of them have a strong sense of justice and may try to do something to you, or, God forbid, your car.

It's just not worth it.

Lie. You'll feel better. She'll feel better. Everybody's happy.

And isn't being happy still a good thing?

Thanks for reading.

Download the new single "In The Kitchen"

GOBAMA!

Postscript: I also don't see anything wrong with lying to your boss. They don't really even deserve the truth.

The Second Sexual Revolution

2008-07-30T22:16:00.003-04:00

Okay:

So, being a rapper myself, as much as I deplore the term, I often find myself defending the current state of affairs on the hip hop music scene today. I'm a bit of a snob when it comes to hip hop, but not to the extent that you might think. I actually liked the "Crank Dat Souljah Boy" song. I even got my students to teach me how to do the dance. It's just a whole lot of fun. There's no denying it. Like "The Humpty Dance" only less clever, and he's not necessarily oozing with talent, from what I can tell.

My point is, I can see the value.

I'm not always in the mood for introspective soul music. Sometimes I just need to get myself psyched up for work in the morning. In which case, Souljah Boy certainly serves a purpose.

I'm also a closet Lil' Wayne fan. He's a bit on the weird side, and usually doesn't have anything substantive to say, but he's brilliant. I thoroughly enjoyed Tha Carter 2 and kept it in heavy rotation for months. Right now it's sitting in my CD case between Nina Simone and Carlos Santana.

I don't really have anything bad to say about him. However, I am sometimes tempted to shake me head and say, "If only he would use his powers for good."

But that's mostly because he's, like, a god to the kids I teach. If he would just drop a gem or two, like Pac, here and there, it would do a lot of people a world of good.

But he's an artist. And being an artist myself, I certainly respect his right to say whatever the fuck he wants to say.

But that's not really my point. My question is to the ladies. A friend of mine and I were having a conversation the other night, (and, yes, I did get her permission to mention this) and the song "Lollipop" came up.

As a Wayne fan, I must say this is not one of my favorite songs. A little fluffy for my tastes. She asked me, "Do you feel like its misogynistic or an erotic love song?"

"But, man, I ain't never
Seen an ass like hers
That pussy in my mouth
Had me lost for words"

Shit like this, she said, really puts her in the mood. I'm editorializing to a certain extent. Her language was a bit more graphic.

She went on to explain that sometimes a woman wants to know that she can be as freaky as she wants to be with her man and he won't look at her differently. And so apparently, songs like "Lollipop", as opposed to "Between The Sheets" or "Adore" for example, have their place.

Honestly, I wasn't really surprised. But it did make me think. Has the straight forward, no sugar-coating hip hop approach to sex changed our generation's sexuality?

For example, I distinctly remember it being a lot easier to get some head after the Lil Kim album came out. Maybe it was because I was reaching the age of sexual maturity around that time. But I'm pretty sure there was some sort of correlation. I think artists like Adina Howard, Foxy Brown and the Queen Bee made women feel a lot more comfortable doing the kinds of things that would have quarantined you to your own private lunch table previously.

It's just not taboo anymore. Part of the average woman's second date sexual repertoire.

So, I guess, in a way, I have hip hop to thank for this rather quiet second sexual revolution.

Which makes artists like Hurricane Chris and DJ Unk even more tolerable. Next thing you know they'll make it cool for the woman to pay for dinner.

And that, as my man Barack would say, is what they call Progress.

Thanks for reading.

Download the new single "In The Kitchen"

GOBAMA!

Postscript: My daughter, on the other hand, absolutely hates Souljah Boy. Apparently, he's got nothing on the Jonas Brothers.

An Ugly Scene

2008-07-29T21:10:00.003-04:00

Okay:

So, I was out today with a friend of mine having drinks when I saw something I felt was worthy of discussion.

We were sitting there minding our own business when a couple at the end of the bar started arguing.

Well, I wouldn't necessarily call it argument. He was just screaming at this chick. They were a nice looking couple. She arrived before he did. Looked to be in her mid-thirties. He came some time later. Khakis. Rugby shirt. Clean cut.

A few drinks later all hell broke loose.

He was so loud that my friend and I stopped talking and turned in our chairs to see what was going on. And when we did, I noticed that everyone else was doing the same thing. It was like a waiter had dropped a platter of dishes.

Now, those of us who have been in "troublesome" relationships probably wouldn't raise an eyebrow at this sort of thing. Not at first, at least. It happens. There was no telling what brought about the outburst. It was just loud. He might of caught her cheating and this was their "let's talk about it" dinner. So, when the outburst was over and it seemed like he had calmed down, everyone went back to minding their business.

But there he went again. "Don't tell me I ain't go no reason to be upset!"

You couldn't even hear her voice. He screamed, "And, no I'm not going to be quiet. Just don't be doing shit that I don't like!"

Behind us was a large party, twenty or so, of young black women. They looked like they might have been sorority sisters or something. They were all tuned in like it was reality television.

And they weren't the only ones.

As I listened, I learned that the argument was apparently about her taking a sip of his drink when he went to the bathroom or something. "How would you like it if I just spit in your drink?" he yelled.

I was taken back to my younger, more emotional days, when loud outbursts such as this one were common. I'd be out with a young lady who wouldn't do what I wanted her to do or kept doing what I didn't what her to do, and I would just flip. Have a tantrum. Whatever.

But never like this.

Eventually, my friend and I began wondering whether or not he was going to hit this woman. Not that I planned on doing anything about it. I learned a long time ago that in a situation such as this, there's not much that you can do. If she was interested in avoiding being hit, she would have left before it even became a question. Obviously, she was used to this sort of thing.

I felt sorry for her though. I also know what it feels like to be on the other end of this sort of spectacle. Caught in the web of an emotional lunatic who turns every little thing into a slight against them. Someone who lives in a perpetual state of victimhood. Still if he hauled off and slapped her, I think I would have stayed right on my little bar stool, shaking my head. Can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped.

Eventually she went to the bathroom while he screamed, "Fuck you!" repeatedly. Some of the ladies from the large party followed her. He stayed on his stool, looking disarmingly calm. She came out a few minutes later with three other young ladies and walked out of the door.

My imagination tells me that they probably gave her a good talking to and convinced her to leave. And good for them.

Some time later a few police officers came in but they went straight to the back. They passed right by him. He took the cue a walked out casually past another wave of officers before they could find out what was going on. By the time they figured it out, he was long gone.

I wish that I could say that this poor woman had rid herself of an undeserving abusive man, but I know better. I know that as soon as he left, he called her on her cell phone and cussed her out some more. And as I type this they are probably fucking.

Hot, sweaty passionate fucking too. Not your garden variety Tuesday night hump.

Such is the way of love.

And that's why I do my best to steer clear of it.

Thanks for reading.

Download the new single "In The Kitchen"

GOBAMA!

Innocent Question: If any ladies would care to comment, why is it exactly that men like this always seem to be able to find attractive women who will put up with this kind of nonsense?

It Ain't No Fun If The Homies Can't Have None

2008-07-28T21:56:00.003-04:00

Okay:

So, folks. Let's lighten this place up a bit, shall we?

Here's a sticky situation that I'm sure more than one of you have experienced first hand. What should you do if your significant other's best friend makes a pass at you?

It's never happened to me actually. But a friend of mine once came to me with the dilemma.

It's tricky, isn't it? If you tell your boy/girlfriend, you run the risk of splitting up a friendship over what may just be a momentary lapse in judgement. Also, if the pass wasn't made explicitly, perhaps you doubt whether or not you're interpreting things correctly. Maybe when he said, "I sure would like to get me a piece of that!" he was actually asking for one of your chicken wings or something. Maybe you're just imagining things.

Then there's the possibility of the old switcheroo. You turn him/her down cold then they run and tell your honey that you were the one who made the pass. Sort of a preemptive measure.

Have I ever been so crass as to make advances at one of my homeboy's ladies?

Emphatically, no.

I have, however, given it some serious thought on more than one occasion. I'm only human. But I have always been able to keep those kinds of lustful desires at bay. Just doesn't seem worth it. Then there's the whole karma thing.

I've seen variants of this scenario though.

I once had a homeboy who was dating this young lady. Beautiful girl. But it didn't last long. Apparently, she had taken my number down once when he called her from my apartment. One day, after they were long since over, she gave me a call. The rest, shall we say, is history.

But that's hardly the same, I think. That is what we men folk refer to as sloppy seconds. And it's usually no big deal. Especially in college. It's a small campus. Everyone knows everyone. Yadda yadda yadda.

I suppose a more polite way to put it is "having friends in common."

It certainly wasn't the last time it happened.

Women appear to be more sensitive to the whole idea. Once they sleep with a man, even if it was casual, he's off limits to all her friends and acquaintances. But, take it from someone who knows, ladies. That little code of yours is rarely honored.

My experience has been that there's nothing a woman finds more attractive than a man who someone else wants. It's like catnip or something. If he was good enough for you, she's figuring there must be something going on there. That curiosity kicks in, and things just sort of happen.

I'm willing to wager that most of you ladies out there have taken your fair share of sloppy seconds. Trying to figure out what all the fuss was about.

But in response to the original topic. I think that if you think your sweetheart's homie is sweet on you, you should address it candidly. If there's ambiguity, get some clarity.

"Are you coming on to me?"

If the answer is yes, assuming you're not interested, make it plain. "This is not cool. If you keep this up, I'm going to have to say something to _______________. I don't want to have to do that, but you're making me uncomfortable. If you're cool though, we can keep this between us."

Unless you're dealing with a crazy, that should work.

If they keep it up, then you've gotta do what you gotta do.

Let's say for the sake of argument that you are curious, however, and you're afraid that if you address it, one thing may lead to another. Well then, as my sister once said to me, "You're fucked."

Especially if you're a woman. Men keep the same best friend for life. Women go through buddies like panty liners. A man could wait that kind of thing out until his lady and her BFF have their inevitable fall out. As a woman, you're stuck having this dude around indefinitely.

I had a homeboy once who caught his best friend and his lady in the act.

Can you imagine?

If he had killed them both, he probably would've gotten off. At least in Texas.

So let that be a lesson to you if you are currently screwing your wo/man's best friend or thinking about it. It's not worth it. As my uncle used to say, "Curiosity killed the cat...and it fucked up the dog too."

Thanks for reading.

Download the new single "In The Kitchen"

GOBAMA!

Postscript: I'm being reviewed in this month's edition of Music Connection. If you're at a Border's or Barnes & Noble, pick up a copy.

All Apologies

2008-07-27T21:38:00.003-04:00

Okay:

So, I guess this was bound to happen.

When I started this blog, almost a year ago to the day, I did it to get back in the habit of writing. I am a writer, and as a friend reminded me recently, a writer writes. I didn't set out to become the male Karrine Stephans or anything like that. I've just got a nasty mind and a sarcastic sense of humor.

In the beginning, I felt like I was taking great measures not to violate the privacy of those close to me by obscuring identities with altered details, times, locations, circumstances, etc.

In retrospect, it seems silly. But that's what I thought.

Maybe at one point I was doing a pretty good job of it, but I guess I got lost in sauce as they say. As the popularity increased from a dozen reads a day to hundreds, I started to feel like finally, at least one of my artistic endeavors was getting the kind of attention it deserved. It felt good. Still does.

But coming up with something clever, humorous or thought-provoking to write about everyday became increasingly difficult. So, somewhere along the line, I forgot my boundaries.

Subsequently innocent people got hurt.

I am a narcissistic, arrogant prick. I've never claimed anything otherwise, but everyone has a right to their privacy. And I'm not so large of an asshole that I don't understand that.

I also understand that if you're going to make a public mistake, you must also make a public apology. And what better place to do it.

And, no, I'm not going to name names or direct you to the specific posts where lines were crossed. Most of them have been deleted, and I'll be spending at least the remainder of the week, fishing through every post to see where else I have made this mistake.

There's nothing cool or funny about hurting people's feelings.

I considered taking down the site and discontinuing my blog altogether, but I thought better of it. This is not a political blog, or a gossip blog or a trade blog. This is supposed to be about real life here. My life. And what could be realer than this?

I simply have to be more careful and considerate. And the truth is, this is all just a symptom of a larger problem. I gotta grow up.

This does not mean that things will be any less real, any less entertaining, or funny. I'll still be talking about the same kinds of shit. But a shift in focus is necessary.

I'll be 30 in a year. Time to start acting like a man.

I hope those of you who read this blog on a regular basis understand and respect where I'm coming from on this. I hope that those of you who know me personally and feel that I have violated your privacy in any way can find it in your hearts to forgive. As Jesse the Castrator said at the 1984 Democratic National Convention, charge it to my head.

My sincerest apologies.

Also, I'd like you all to join me in offering condolences to my partner Joe D, who recently lost his brother. He was a good friend and an enthusiastic supporter of our endeavors. He is missed.

Thanks for reading.

A Guilty Pleasure

2008-07-24T22:03:00.003-04:00

Okay:

I hate reality television.

I love reality television.

I can't make up my mind.

I got hooked on The Real World when I was in high school. I remember the very first season. Heather B went off on that white boy. Then he ended up hosting The Grind. Which was also a great show. Eric was his name, I think.

Strange that it didn't seem to help Heather's career any. Kevin ended up doing some television and print journalism. Published a book or two. Then he ran for Congress. He lost though.

Then there was The Real World 2 in Los Angeles. David got kicked off for ripping the blanket off of Tammy and dragging her around on the floor in her under draws. Beth, the white virgin, called him a rapist. Then they voted to kick him off and replaced him with the very boring second Beth, right? She was a lesbian with short blond hair.

Then there was Puck, my favorite reality star. I loved that guy.

Then there was Road Rules, which I couldn't keep up with. Entirely too much shit going on. So I stopped paying attention for a while.

Then I went away to college and didn't have cable for, like, 7 years. But I heard about shows like The Osbournes, Being Bobby Brown, and Growing Up Gotti.

Apparently, while I had my back turned, all hell broke loose.

As my regular readers know, I just got cable again for the first time since 1997, this past November. All I've got to say is Holy Shit.

The sit com, the cop drama, the comedy sketch show--none of that can compete with a good juicy reality show. Six white yuppies in a coffee shop can't fuck with a five-foot-tall, bi-sexual Filipino stripper! No contest.

This shit is out of control. I've been trying to fight it since I got my shit connected, but Lord help me, it's everywhere. Every fucking channel. All day long. There is no escape. No wonder the writer's strike went on for so long. They don't need the motherfuckers anymore!

It's gotten so bad, they've got spin-offs now. The Flavor of Love was a spin-off of The Surreal Life. I Love New York. Then Charm School. Then I Love Money, my new favorite.

In the last episode they tried to make Chance kiss Mr. Boston. Of course, Chance wouldn't do it and his team lost the challenge. So Heat threw a towel at him and Chance got all upset and tried to fight him. So, Destiny jumped in it and Chance screamed on her but Heat didn't stick up for her. But The Entertainer's got a thing for Destiny, so he slid right in and picked up the pieces. Then he voted Heat off so he could have her all to himself.

And this all happened in one half-hour!!!!

David E. Kelly, eat your heart out.

I missed a lot in the middle of the evolution of the reality show. Seems like they're more pseudo-reality now. They put all these psycho attention whore chain smoking alcoholics in a house together, give them a bunch of crazy things to do, draft up some cockamamie loosely-scripted drama and turn the cameras on. How can you not watch it?

But it certainly makes David's little blanket stunt look really timid. The rules were really strict back then though, remember? Any act of violence or erratic behavior could get you sent home. And no one ever hooked up, now matter how likely it seemed. Now it's a bloody free for all. Midgets and strippers and former porn stars all in the mix together.

And people don't have names any more, I see. No more Brians and Susans and Tyrones. Everyone has, like, an American Gladiator name. Nibblz. Pumkin. 6 Pack.

It makes real shows look silly and contrived. Like, Look at them up there acting. That's so nineties.

Still, I long for old-fashioned shows like The Cosbies. Only now I have Run's House. And instead of Lisa Bonet, I've got Angela Simmons to drool over.

She is legal now, right?

Thanks for reading.

Download the new single "In The Kitchen"

GOBAMA!

Postscript: I auditioned for The Real World once in college. Obviously, I didn't make the cut. But I had a friend who was invited for a call back. But she didn't make it either. And I had another friend who was on some short-lived BET reality show. And another who was a reappearing friend on Real World Hawaii. As I'm told, shit's realer than it looks. But a lot less exciting in real time.

He Works Hard For The Money...Kind Of

2008-07-23T20:36:00.003-04:00

Okay:

So, I've been thinking. My current financial situation, as you know, is dismal. Quite depressing actually. On my coffee table is a pile of bills that I cannot pay. And if I take my sister's word for it, and I do, with my current salary, I'll be forty before I see my way through this mess. And that's if I never go to another happy hour and eat tuna fish for dinner every night.

Seeing as how the whole rap thing doesn't seem to be working out, and for whatever reason, the Internet won't pay me to write this blog everyday, I need to find me some money somewhere. My sister suggested, and suggested is a mild word, that I get a bartending gig in the evening. However, upon further consideration, and a rather thoughtful comment from one of my readers yesterday, I have decided that it might not be the best idea in the world. I've already got two jobs and I do a lot of contract writing. "Burning the candle at both ends" can indeed be dangerous. I'm almost 30. A 70-hour work week at 3 different locations may be pushing it.

Or maybe I'm just a lazy middle-class American.

Plus, as the saying goes, one should worker smarter, not harder, right?

So, today I googled "The Highest Paying Professions". Here goes:

=== Highest paid job = Mutual-Fund Manager: $500,000-$1,000,000/yr ===

1. Surgeons: $65.89/hr; $137,050/yr

2. Investment Banker: $64.42/hr; $134,000/yr (entry level)

3. Obstetricians and gynaecologists: $64.15/hr; $133,430/yr

4. Anaesthesiologists: $63.31/hr; $131,680/yr

5. Internists, general: $61.03/hr; $126,940/yr

6. Actuaries, certified: $57.52/hr; $119,680 (base salary only)

7. Pediatricians, general: $56.03/hr; $116,550/yr

8. Psychiatrists: $54.60/hr; $113,570/yr

9. Family and general practitioners: $52.89/hr; $110,020/yr

10. Dentists: $53.28/hr; $110,820/yr

11. Pharmacists: $53.00/hr; $110,240/yr

12. Chief Executives: $51.77/hr; $107,670/yr

13. Airline pilots, co-pilots and flight engineers: (N/A); $99,400/yr

14. Podiatrists: $45.43/hr; $94,500/yr

15. Lawyers: $44.19/hr; $91,920/yr

16. Optometrists: $42.35/hr; $88,100/yr

17. Computer and information systems managers: $40.33/hr; $83,890/yr

18. Physicists: $40.26/hr; $83,750/yr

19. Air traffic controllers: $40.07/hr; $83,350/yr

20. Petroleum Engineers: $39.33/hr; $81,800/yr

21. Nuclear Engineers: $38.56/hr; $80,200/yr

22. Judges, magistrate judges, and magistrates: $38.24/hr; $79,540/yr

23. Marketing Managers: $37.70/hr; $78,410/yr

Unfortunately, I don't want to do any of this shit. And I don't even know what the fuck an Actuary is. Plus, most of these professions would require anywhere between two and six years of full-time post-graduate work. Which is not really an option for me at this point.

So what of my current profession, Education? If you've got the credentials, the smarts and the savvy, an educator can do quite well. But the income potential is finite. Even with a doctorate and decades of experience, you're topping out in the very low six figures. And as you can see, they're nowhere to be found on this here list. Although, I did read somewhere that educators are the only people immune to a recession.

But, trust me. That's a big hot, heaping crock of shit.

So, what shall I do? I've got a few entrepreneurial ideas that I haven't attempted yet. But experience has shown me that I have all the business savvy of a one-armed buss boy.

So, again. What shall I do? I dreamed up some options during last night's Shiraz-induced coma.

1. Stripper: I don't really have the body for it, but I'm oozing with delusional confidence. Chicks dig that more than anything as I understand it.

2. Drug Dealer: I've met a lot of clientele in my current profession. I think I could flip a brick pretty fast on Parent-Teacher Conference Night.

3. Politician: I'm an extremely talented bullshit artist. But up until now I've just been using my gift to get laid.

4. Hitman: I've never killed anyone, but if the price was right, I think I could do it. Especially if it's a Republican or an Evangelist.

5. Pimp: I'd be the nice kind though. I wouldn't beat my bitches.

6. Pornographer: I've watched enough of the stuff to know the good shit when I see it. I'd make mine with less man-ass and/or balls in the shots though.

7. Gigolo: I've got a lot of love to give. But it's only fair, I think, that I get something back.

So, that's all I could come up with. If you have any suggestions, drop a comment.

Thanks for reading

Download the new single "In The Kitchen"

GOBAMA!

Postscript: I may be getting my boot taken off tomorrow. That's if they'll accept partial payment. Wish me luck.

This Boot Was Made For Walking

2008-07-22T20:36:00.005-04:00

Okay:

Today was a dark and overcast one. Perhaps I should have stayed at home. But I pushed out of my apartment against my better judgement in the hopes of having a positive and productive day.

Part of my new job is to be the liaison between the Department of Employment and our student/employees enrolled in the city's Summer Youth Employment Program. The program was started by Mayor Marion Barry back in the eighties. I worked one summer through the program. I even lied about my age so they'd let me work longer hours. That's another blog in and of itself.

Anyways. A few years ago, they tried to get all new-age and electronic by giving all the kids debit cards. Their checks were to be electronically deposited every other Thursday at midnight. Of course, that shit never worked. Now every summer one of the leading stories is the thousands of kids in the program who receive partial or no pay. They flock to the Department of Employment in droves, demanding their money that they worked so hard for. Truth is, most of them end up playing Uno at some summer camp, which could hardly be considered work. Unless you're playing Deluxe Uno with all those new and fancy rules.

It's poorly disguised welfare at the end of the day. But part of my job is to raise sand when our kids don't get paid. So, today I went down to headquarters to see what was going down. But before I went I put $20 in my tank, which had been empty for two days.

I went in, asked some questions, got some answers, and got out of there within 20 minutes. When I rounded the corner where I had parked my car, I saw a District government van. Oh no, not another ticket, I thought. If that had only been the case.

You guessed it. I had been booted.

How much do I owe in unpaid parking tickets?

A whopping $980.

How much money do I have in my checking account?

Let's just say I've already spent some of this week's paycheck.

But let's look at the bright side. This is a pay week. And I've got some contracting money coming in some time soon. The proverbially ironic icing for my bitter bad luck cake is that I put $20 in the tank. I could've used that $20 to buy a bottle of cheap scotch in which to drown my sorrows.

In another twist of irony, I had just had a Come-To-Jesus talk with my sister, the stock broker, last night about my finances. I laid out all my debt. Student loans, car loan, personal loan, credit cards, backed up utilities, back taxes, and, of course, those unpaid parking tickets. Her professional opinion?

"You're fucked."

It was a productive conversation. We created a plan for my long road to financial recovery. 10 years, she estimates. Long story short, I'll be getting a third job soon. Bartending or something. I'll keep you posted as always.

In the meantime, I'll be catching the train to and from work. Not really a big deal. Except it's a fifteen minute walk to the train station from here.

Okay, pity party over.

I am, however, accepting donations to the Help Cool Cee Brown Get His Shit Together Fund. It's tax deductible.

Thanks for reading.

Download the new single "In The Kitchen"

Catch up with me at Twitter

GOBAMA!

Postscript: Also, I was under the impression that it was Wednesday for most of the morning. I hate it when that happens!

The Sex Incentive Theory

2008-07-21T20:12:00.003-04:00

Okay:

So, as you all know, I am a staunch opponent of Sex Rationing. A woman gets upset with you, withholds the good stuff until you listen to her intently as she explains how whatever you did hurt her, express understanding and regret, make amends, etc., etc.

I think it's silly. You're begging for trouble, ladies. Just begging for it.

Perhaps it has the appearance of working. "It's the only way he'll address the issue," you say. "I turn the cold water on, he shapes up, then everybody's happy."

Of course there's also the make-up sex to consider. Which certainly has its charms. But you should know that eventually your plan will backfire, and he will come to the conclusion that if he wants sex on a regular basis, without conditions, he's gonna have to get him a Side Piece.

The Side Piece doesn't ask for much. She enjoys the cloak and dagger aspect of being the other woman. She giggles when you call, unawares that someone else is getting your man's good stuff. It's a game. You're losing and you don't even know it.

Obviously this sort of thing can't continue indefinitely. Feelings develop and good things must end lest they turn into bad things. And then everyone loses.

Bottom line: if you're in a loving relationship, don't make submission to your will a condition for regular sex. It gets old. Men are weak. Don't tempt them.

"I'm not that kind of girl," you say. "Even when I'm mad the playground stays open."

Bullshit, I say. You will all resort to Sex Rationing eventually.

You can't help yourselves. When you're mad it interferes with your desires and whatnot. We, on the other hand, are animals.

But Sex Rationing is actually not the topic of the blog. No, ma'am. Today I want to talk about a far more effective way to get your man to do what you want him to.

I call it, The Sex Incentive. I've been in the education field for my entire adult life, and I've read my fair share of theories concerning behavior modification. Best practices say that incentives are far more effective than punishments.

That is, if your man comes home late without calling, don't get mad and deny him sex. Instead, every time he comes home on time or calls when he's going to be late, reward him with a sloppy blowjob.

This is the way they train dogs.

Instead of spanking your puppy every time he shits on the rug or rubbing his nose in it, give him a doggie biscuit every time he goes poo-poo outside.

It's science, ladies. Science.

Smart women are already implementing this new theory and enjoying the results. A co-worker of mine was talking to me today about her man. They've been talking marriage, but she's hesitant because he's not a college graduate. She told him that if he goes back to school, she'll give him three blowjobs for every B he earns and anal for each A. This is not say that he won't get sex whether he goes back to school or not. But you've got to admit, she's far more likely to get the desired results with this course of action.

Give it a shot ladies. Let me know how it goes.

Thanks for reading.

Download the new single "In The Kitchen"

GOBAMA!

Postscript: You're welcome, fellas ;-)

The Day I Met America

2008-07-20T20:39:00.003-04:00

Okay:

So, it's Sunday night and I'm on my way to a gig. I would've told you, but the guy just emailed me Friday morning and I had already posted that day's blog. I'm a little nervous because I've only performed with this band [Motel] once, and I'm a little afraid I might forget the lyrics. We'll be running through the entire set for our performance at The Capital Hip Hop Soul Fest next Saturday, July 26 in Marvin Gaye Park, Washington, DC. (shameless plug!)

Getting prepared for this gig, nervous as I am, reminds me of how much I dislike getting prepared for work every morning. It's like rolling over for a prostate exam. You don't want to do it, you know it's going to be uncomfortable and possibly painful, but it's necessary.

This nervous feeling I have right now is exciting, however. I love it. Always have.

When I'm finished writing this, I'll go figure out what to wear.

That is not say that I have some aversion to work. I'm actually quite the workaholic. If I could match up a little frugality with my work ethic, I'd probably be pretty well-off by now. But one feeds the other, you know.

This guy I know who was recently let go of his job realized after sitting at home for a week or so that his former employer was withholding his last check for some reason. He made some phone calls, sent some emails. And when all else failed he went up to the building, stormed into the CEO's office while he was meeting with his directors and demanded his check.

The CEO replied, "Can you wait outside? I'm in the middle of a meeting."

He replied, "Fuck your meeting. Give me my check."

Some words were exchanged, the f-word in particular got thrown around quite a bit. In the end, he got his check and no one was harmed.

It seemed a shame that he had to go through all that to get what was rightfully his.

I've cussed-out/threatened a supervisor or two in my day. When I was working in the loading docks at the Wal-Mart in Durham my boss was a real bitch. All she did was scream and holler at us all night until the trucks were clear. Apparently she had been given the job because of her uncanny ability to control the unruly loading dock worker-types. Who were usually ex-cons and crackheads. Me being one of the few exceptions.

Anyways, one night she caught me at the wrong time and started laying into me. So I laid right back into her. I may have called her a bitch amongst other things. I'm not really sure. Then I took off my back brace, quit and stormed out of the docks.

She smiled and screamed, "Well, go the fuck home then, you bitch ass nigga!"

So, before leaving the store I stopped at the general managers office and demanded a meeting. When we were all sitting in there he started asking the basic questions. "What happened?" etc. He seemed truly concerned.

"He got mad, called me a bitch, took of his back brace and quit," said my boss.

"He quit?" asked the general manager.

"Yes sir," she said,

"Did you quit?" he asked me.

"Yes," I answered.

All of a sudden his face changed. His accommodating smile was replaced by a confused frown.

"Then what the fuck are we doing here? You, get the fuck outta my store, and you get back to work."

And just like that, the meeting was over. That was the day I met America.

Thanks for reading.

Download the new single "In The Kitchen"

GOBAMA!

Innocent Question: When was the day you 'met America'?

Holler If Ya Hear Me

2008-07-17T22:18:00.003-04:00

Okay:

So, I'm sick of pretending. This single shit is getting old. I'm going to marry the next pretty woman I meet who is not an absolute nut job.

This came to me while I was brushing my teeth this morning.

I guess the seed was planted the other day while I was out running. I was running along, jamming to my iPod (Q-Tip's new mixtape is off the fucking chain!!!!), when I saw my homeboy's wife and kids. I stopped and talked for a while.

I was awe-struck by how beautiful his family is. Jealous, in fact. His children are intelligent, well-spoken and delightful. His wife is just as sweet as can be. I wondered for a moment whether or not I have been missing the big picture here. Maybe this is what it's all about. Maybe the thing I have been running from all these years is exactly what I need in my life. Commitment. Responsibility. Companionship. Love.

That sounded gay while I was typing it.

I am a loner. There's no denying that. I'd prefer to spend roughly 80% of my day alone. But maybe that's just because I haven't met someone who I'd like to share that time with.

More gayness.

So, I'm driving home from the track contemplating all these big questions. Trying to fight the feeling. I went to the crib, knocked back a few cold ones, wrote a misogynistic blog and went to sleep. But when I woke up I was still thinking about it. Then it occurred to me.

I grew up in a single parent household. My first prolonged exposure to a married couple was with my mother and my stepfather, whom she married my sophomore year in college. I don't even know what love looks like. All I have to go on is the movies. And rap music, to a certain extent. Neither of which are good points of reference.

Things started clicking. My stepfather is well-to-do. That explains why I think I can't get married until I'm financially stable. My mother never brought any boyfriends around when I was young. That explains my aversion to introducing women to my daughter.

Independently, neither is a bad idea. But I have gone one step further and developed a general antipathy towards relationships, using pragmatism as window dressing for what is essentially a love phobia.

So gay.

If we go deeper, maybe one might infer that I intentionally overspend and ignore debt to postpone financial stability, which, based on my current salary, is quite attainable.

Deeper still. Perhaps I use my daughter as an excuse to not invest in potential partners.

Super gay.

To be sure, I have not been with a woman who I felt like I could be serious about in years. Maybe I never have been. And maybe that's not an accident. Maybe I seek out women I know I could never commit to, and then complain about them in a tongue-and-cheek blog to hide my tracks from myself, but in reality it's all just a thinly veiled cry for help.

Clay-motherfucking-Aiken!

Or maybe this is all bullshit too. Maybe it's not me. Maybe it is all you crazy women out there with your storybook romance bullshit that make me wanna be a bachelor for life.

Who knows?

Who cares?

I'll tell you knows and who cares. I do. That's who.

And I have figured out how I'm gonna land me a woman who won't drive me crazy.

It's a step program. Here goes:

1) Get back in shape.

2) Get my toenails fixed.

3) Get my credit in order.

4) Buy a home.

5) Learn sign language.

6) Find me a gorgeous, childless, barren, deaf-mute woman and marry her.

Problem solved.

Thanks for reading.

Download the new single "In The Kitchen"

GOBAMA!

Postscript: I am more serious than you think I am.

So I'm A Hypocrit...And?

2008-07-16T23:24:00.003-04:00

Okay:

Yes, we're all hypocrites. I am perhaps the biggest of them all. And, for whatever reason, it doesn't really bother me. I'm just funny that way.

But today my glaring hypocrisy was brought home in the most unusual of ways.

And before you ask, yes, I was watching porn.

I've been very honest and upfront about my fascination with porn in this blog. I personally don't see anything wrong with it. It's legal. And I don't go for none of that super duper freaky shit. I like my porn straight up. No chaser.

I am peculiar in the sense that I really don't like interracial porn.

This is an extension of my black nationalist idealism. I think black folks should date and marry black folks and make black families and raise their children to do the same.

I don't have anything against white people.

Well, that's not entirely true. But I wouldn't consider myself prejudiced.

I've got white friends and I have them over for dinner all the time. Well, actually I have one white friend. But she does come over for dinner sometimes.

See? I'm progressive.

But the interracial porn thing really bothers me. I just don't like it, man. It's creepy. Something about watching some white boy pound away on one of my sisters, whore that she might be, makes me uncomfortable.

Same thing with watching brothers humping on white girls. I'm always thinking, You shouldn't be doing that, man.

In the real world, of course, I don't have these same qualms. Although I am very serious about finding myself a good black woman, I have dated/slept with white women and I don't really hold any judgement against others who have done the same. We're all people, man.

Is my hypocrisy making you dizzy?

So, I'm coming to the point.

Today I was surfing the net for porn and found something that looked like it was worth watching. White girl/black guy. Not really my thing, but I figured I'd give it a chance.

So the name of this video was "Monster Cock" and the theme was white girls going to town on well-endowed black men. It sounded entertaining. Vaguely racist, but entertaining.

So they found some freak of nature with a twelve-inch schlong and some giddy blond and put them in a room together. Pretty normal at first, and disappointingly boring. Then she started talking and things got...well...interesting.

I'm used to the usual fare, but this was different. Close to the end of the scene, with some encouragement from the director, she started screaming out, "Fuck me with your big nigger cock!"

Then he smacked her.

And she kept saying it. "Big black nigger cock. Fuck me, nigger!"

And so he started choking her.

Then she said, "Give me some of that good nigger cum."

And that's when I turned it off.

I'm not sure why I'm so indignant about this. But something inside of me, for a moment, entertained the thought of writing a letter. Something along the lines of, "I was deeply offended by the racially offensive language in your pornographic film."

But then I caught myself. It's a pornographer's job to meet the needs of any niche market with a ready credit card. And apparently, there are people out there who go for this kind of thing. Not my cup of tea really, but who am I to judge?

I'm fairly certain Al Sharpton or Jesse the Castrator wouldn't want anything to do with this, but still, it just doesn't seem right.

Your thoughts?

Thanks for reading.

Download the new single "In The Kitchen"

GOBAMA!

Innocent Question: I'm considering bringing an end to my porn-watching days. Any suggestions as to how to make a clean break? (I'd prefer to hear from people who have done it already).

Now What?

2008-07-15T20:29:00.003-04:00

Okay:

Well, today is Hump Day. And, so, appropriately, I have composed a blog about humping.

Today I'd like to talk about what to do after sex.

Out here in The Casual Sex World, it's always kind of awkward, I think. Those of you in committed relationships probably have it down to a science, or at least a routine.

Women typically want some closeness after the deed is done. A little cuddling, some petting, light banter, etc.

Most men, I think, would prefer a nap.

Back when I had a girlfriend, I never had to address this problem. I was blessed to have met someone who would usually fall asleep before I did. Sometimes I would try to hurry up and fall asleep so I wouldn't have to listen to her snore. But you can't really hurry up and fall asleep, now can you?

But like I said, things are different in The Casual Sex World.

The obvious difference is that there is the condom to dispose of. And like they told you in Health, it is imperative that a condom be disposed of immediately. You gotta jump up out that thang and run like hell to the bathroom.

Now here's the thing. 'Jumping up out that thang and running like hell to the bathroom' right after you bust a good one is easier said than done.

Ladies, imagine for a moment, if every time you had an orgasm, right afterwards you had to jump up and go change your socks, lest you get pregnant or contract a venereal disease.

Doesn't sound like fun, now does it?

No. You wanna lie there and enjoy the moment for a while. Sophia from The Golden Girls called it "after-glow".

So, more than once, whilst in the bathroom disposing of the condom, I have taken the extra measure of running water through the rubber to make sure it maintained its integrity. Particularly if I was experiencing Post-Ejaculation Regret.

Post-Ejaculation Regret is a very real phenomenon in The Casual Sex World. You meet a woman, you have a few drinks, you take her home, get her in the bed, and as soon as you finish you are overcome with dread.

Oh My God! It would be a complete disaster if she were to get pregnant. I don't even like her. She was getting on my nerves all night. She looks like the type that would want to keep it. She'd probably take me to court for child support. Get me for everything I got. Oh my God. She's pregnant. I know she is. I am so stupid. What was I thinking. She doesn't even have a real job. Let me run some water through this rubber just to be sure.

Once you get over that, it's back to the bedroom, or kitchen or whatever. She's lying there looking...well...not quite as good as she looked before you had sex. Her hair's all over the place, her fake eyebrows have sweated off, etc. What am I thinking?

Do I want another or is it time for her to go home?

My favorite is when she makes the decision for me. Nothing's better than returning from the bathroom to find her already getting dressed, mumbling something about needing to get home.

I say, "Awww, so soon?" Then I hug her from behind and kiss her neck.

I think, YES!!!!!!!!

The worst is when she's lying there wide awake. This essentially means, Ready for round two whenever you are. Which is presumptuous to say the least. Most men, myself included, are far too polite to tell a lady caller when it's time for her to leave. So, we have our cues.

Little hints we drop. Like...

"Wooo. It's late."

"Man o man. I'm about to pass out."

"Jesus, I've got to wake up early tomorrow morning."

Or my personal favorite.

"Which side of the parking lot did you park on? They start towing around this time of night."

That last one is one hundred percent guaranteed to work every single time. You can use it if you like.

On occasion, I meet someone I actually like. Then she can stay as long as she likes. She can get a round two, three, four sometimes. She can get cuddling, petting and light banter.

But if all that is cool, the question is, How casual is this?

Thanks for reading.

Download the new single "In The Kitchen"

GOBAMA!

Innocent Question: Ladies, do you experience the same difficulty with your casual gentleman callers?

It's All Relative

2008-07-14T20:11:00.003-04:00

Okay:

So I'm on a roll with this embarrassing childhood memory bit. I've got a million of 'em.

And here goes another.

My cousins and I (there are five of us, all boys) were raised like brothers. All of our mothers were single, and there was only eight years difference between the oldest and the youngest. I fell right in the middle.

Our mothers are from a fairly large family in South Carolina. Throughout our childhood there was the occasional family reunion, several of which we attended. One of my aunts, a closet stage mother, decided it would be a great idea for us to choreograph a dance routine to perform for our relatives.

The first time we performed I believe was the summer of 1990. I don't have any cognizant memory of life before believing Michael Jackson was the coolest motherfucker on the planet. Then my father took me to see Purple Rain and old MJ all of a sudden had some competition. After all, Prince was getting pussy.

Then I discovered Kool Moe Dee, Run DMC, NWA and Slick Rick.

And then there was Bell Biv DeVoe. Me and my cousins were fairly certain that they were the best thing that ever happened to anybody.

We choreographed our routine to "Poison". The only song worth dancing to.

Choreographing might be a strong word. We did The Running Man, The Roger Rabbit, The Reebok, The Robocop, The MCM, etc. You get the picture now.

The grande finale? A simultaneous half-split.

And the crowd went wild!

The second year, I wrote raps for us all to perform. (Yes, I've been at this for a while!)

Then there were cookouts and wedding receptions. And although no one ever seemed to be requesting it, if there was room and time, my aunt made us dance. One time there was no music and we had to do the routine to hand claps.

There is a video floating around here somewhere.

But the dance is not the embarrassing part because I could never put into words exactly how embarrassing it was. You would have to see the video to feel my pain.

No, this is about something else.

The fourth or fifth family reunion came around when I was a freshman in high school. Before we left for Charleston, me and my cousins all agreed that under no circumstances whatsoever were we going to be doing "The Dance" as it had come to be known.

I had instead prepared a few raps to perform over an instrumental of Dr. Dre's "Smokin' On Blunts And Drankin' Tangueray". I would have been the highlight of the talent show had it not been for my blind Aunt's "Blind Granny Rap", complete with a call-and-response chorus from her four grandchildren.

The grande finale? She took out her dentures!

The crowd went wild!

Cheap! I thought. Bunch of bozos. Well fuck 'em if they go for that sort of thing.

Back at the hotel we all piled into one room, over a dozen of us. Cousins. Someone ordered some porn. There was food. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. But I, for one, could not take my eyes off of my sixteen-year-old cousin from Chicago with the flawless asymmetric. Let's call her Heather.

Heather was a serious cutie. And to be fair, we were very distant cousins. I don't even think we were blood relatives. But, dammit, it was a family reunion.

Through some strange course of events, we ended up in the bathroom alone.

Pause.

Now, like I said yesterday, I really did take Papa Smurf's advice to heart. I am a very impulsive man, and always have been. I generally don't wait for anyone to tell me its okay. I just do it.

Fuck it. I just do it.

And so, the next thing I knew, my tongue was halfway down her throat and we were doing some pretty serious making out in that bathroom while the rest of our cousins were watching porn in the next room, shockingly unawares. There were no words. We never spoke, and I never told anyone. Until today.

Say what you want.

Ewww.

Nasty.

Freak.

Pervert.

That shit was one of the hottest make-out sessions I have had to date! Period.

We maintained contact through letters (remember those?) but it didn't last long. Chicago seemed like it was a whole world away.

In retrospect, I was probably acting out some hostility toward my family. Like, This is how I feel about all this blood crap everyone's raving about. A little tender from having lost the talent show to a blind geriatric.

Perhaps I was a victim of over exposure. Or maybe it was like how sit com actors are rarely able to make the successful transition into film.

Michael J. Fox. Tom Hanks. Robin Williams. Everyone else tanked.

Maybe all they wanted to see me do was "The Dance".

So that's the story of how I came dangerously close to fucking my cousin.

Thanks for reading.

Download the new single "In The Kitchen"

GOBAMA!

Innocent Question: Ever had a crush on/fantasized about/kissed/made out with/fucked a blood relative?

Stand Up Or Lay Down

2008-07-13T21:10:00.004-04:00

Okay

So, Cee Brown, have you ever considered stand-up?

If course I have. I tried it once. Big disaster. Very interesting story.

I was away at camp for a week the summer after sixth grade. It was a wilderness/technology camp. We slept in a log cabin, went for hikes, then had "computer time."

This was before the Internet. All of the computers were the size of wall-unit air conditioners with black screens and green letters. They were loud too. The instructor had to raise his voice to be heard above the electronic hum.

That was the technology part.

There was actually a lot of down time though. And during this time, I took it upon myself to entertain my classmates. By Wednesday, I had developed quite the reputation for being the camp's funnyman.

Our group's counselor was a short, chubby, flamboyantly gay man who insisted we called him Papa Smurf. In retrospect, I'm fairly certain that he may have taken a liberty or two, here and there. Call me a homophobe, but I don't know what kind of man works at a sleep-away camp and tells all the kids to call him Papa Smurf. I mean, come on.

Clearly a homo.

He'd walk into our cabin first thing in the morning, holding his arms at ninety degree angles, limp-wristed with hands dangling, "Good morning, boys. Rise and shiiiiiiiiiiiiiine!"

Anyways. Papa Smurf came to me one day and asked if I wanted to do a stand-up comedy routine at the Camp Finale. Every group had fifteen minutes to perform. He wanted me to open up for our group with a few jokes. With some strong encouragement from the rest of the group, I finally agreed.

I was beyond nervous. Especially when plans changed, making me the headlining act. We were now to open with a skit/practical joke. The assistant counselor was a young guy who didn't talk much. I don't remember his name. But I do remember it seeming like he and Papa Smurf did not get along. Let's call him Jim.

In this skit, Jim was a wise man who could answer any question, but all of his answers were wise cracks. Kid after kid would come to him seeking advice, only to leave the butt of his wicked sense of humor. I was supposed to be the last kid to ask a question, but before he could answer, I was to smack him in the back of the head.

That was the punchline.

Sounded funny at the time, so I agreed. I was more concerned with my routine though. What exactly was I going to talk about? Where was the best place to stand? Was there going to be a microphone? What should I wear?

I was taking it very seriously.

But mind you, I was only eleven.

"Papa Smurf?"

"Yes, honey."

"Am I allowed to curse?"

"Like the 'f' word? I don't think so."

"What about 'nigga'? Can I say 'nigga'?"

"I'm gonna give you some advice that I hope you always remember. If you don't ask for permission, no one will have the chance to tell you no."

Understanding what I understand now, that was some pretty scary shit. I probably should have slept on my back that night. But back then, it was like someone turned the light on for me. It was a real a-ha moment. I've lived by that advice ever since.

The night of The Camp Finale came. I wore my lucky white wool Mickey Mouse boxers. I was as nervous as I have ever been. I had decided that most of my routine was going to be about how gay Papa Smurf was. I thought that would be really funny.

It was time for the Wise Man routine. Things were going well and the other kids were laughing. I thought, Great! They're not a tough crowd. My routine is way funnier than this stupid skit. I'm gonna kill 'em.

It was my turn to talk to the Wise Man. I was brimming with confidence, and I could tell Jim was none the wiser. This was actually going to be pretty funny. I asked him some silly question. He looked up to the sky and stroked his goatee. I cocked my little arm back as far as it could go and socked him. SMACK!!!

Well.

He lept up and pounced on me. Wrapped his big man hands around my neck and started shaking me so hard my brain rattled. I was beginning to lose consciousness when I saw the other group leaders rushing to my aid and pulling Jim off of me.

As it turns out, Jim wasn't too keen on this kind of thing. I overheard him scream, "I don't give a fuck how old he is!!!!"

This little fiasco ended The Camp Finale prematurely, and I was not allowed to do my routine.

So that it is why I do my comedy from the safety of my own home, via the Internet. I get the occasional angry email or the slightly more frequent anonymous judgemental comment, but I have yet to be bitch-choked.

Thanks for reading.

Download the new single "In The Kitchen".

GOBAMA!

Postscript: After it was all over and I regained consciousness, Papa Smurf asked me in a whisper, "Why'd you hit him so hard, honey?"

A Fine Product

2008-07-10T21:52:00.003-04:00

Okay:

So, when I was a teenager my mother sent me away to reform school. My regular readers already know about this. All 12 of you. But for the newcomers, I suppose some exposition is in order.

So, I was a bit of a bad ass and ended up getting shipped off to Front Royal, Virginia the summer of my ninth grade year.

Exposition over.

Away from home for the first time, I discovered I had a rather peculiar neurosis concerning toilets. That is, I cannot take a shit just anywhere. If something ain't right, I just cannot do it. Push come to shove I can make some compromises, but I absolutely cannot, will not, shit with someone else in the room. No fucking way.

But seeing as how this was a reform school, there were no luxuries like private bathrooms. The dormitory was almost one hundred years old (a fact that they bragged about for some reason) and the cement floors were glossy red and ice cold. The paint was peeling all over, exposing the even uglier institution gray from the previous paint job. There were three toilets, separated by iron stall partitions, painted glossy green, and rusting at the bottom from all the splattered piss.

Now I consider myself to be a down-to-earth brother. Not as bourgeois as people might think. But there was no way in hell I was ever going to take a shit in that bathroom. No fucking way.

So I didn't.

For six weeks.

I know.

You don't believe me.

And I don't care.

It's the truth.

Six fucking weeks.

And you know what? I rarely thought about it. I think my mind had basically told my body that there was no way we were going to be discarding any solid waste any time soon, so things adjusted themselves accordingly. I wasn't in any pain or discomfort. It helped that the food was awful.

Then I made my first visit home, and all I could think of was having a good, hot meal from my mamma's kitchen. And she obliged.

Well.

Before I went to bed that night, I made a rather large deposit in our very clean, very private bathroom.

I hadn't realized how backed up I was. It's difficult to describe. It wasn't like diarrhea. It was the normal consistency. But there was oh so much of it. So, so, so much.

And now for the bad part.

While cleaning myself up, I noticed that I was experiencing some sharp pains in my you-know-where. So, curious, I checked the paper to see what was going on.

I almost fainted.

Certain colors you expect. And other colors might be considered unusual, but not worthy of alarm. There is one color, however, that you never want to see whilst wiping yourself.

But there it was. Bright as day.

For days I dealt with the uncomfortable burn. I could barely sit. It was almost a week before I made the shocking discovery.

I had a fucking hemorrhoid.

Being more than a little embarrassed and not knowing where to turn, I called the only person I knew who I felt comfortable telling.

My father.

"How was reform school, son?"

"It sucked."

"Well. What did you expect?"

"I think I got a problem, dad."

"What's up, son?"

"I got a hemorrhoid."

"A hemorrhoid?" [long pause] "You wasn't playing around with the boys, was you?"

"No dad."

"Don't get defensive. It's a legitimate question. Well, you're gonna wanna get you some Preparation H and try to avoid moving around too much."

So I went to Peoples and found the stuff. There are few moments in my life where I can recall being more embarrassed. The lady cashier, mercifully, ran the yellow box over the scanner without looking at me. But I knew what she was thinking.

Fag.

Thanks for reading.

Download the new single "In The Kitchen" and the new Freestyle of the Week FOR FREE!

GOBAMA!

Confession: Preparation H was an absolute God-send. There is not one over-the-counter product on the market today that is better at doing exactly what it says it's going to do. Of course, I kept the tube. Still have it today. In case it happens again, I won't have to go through the embarrassment of buying another one.

A Shameful Confession

2008-07-09T22:35:00.003-04:00

Okay:

So did ever tell y'all I used to have an S-Curl?

I do plan on being famous one day, and I'd hate for the pictures to surface somehow, so it's better to be forthright, I think. Like the blind black governor of New York who cheated on his wife. Just admit the shit before the bastards have a chance to expose you.

For those of you who don't know, an S-Curl is like the nineties version of the Jheri Curl, but for men. For the record, I never had a Jheri Curl. A certain member of my immediate family, who shall remain nameless, had one, and a little bit longer than she should have.

To be fair, I did want one desperately. I wanted to be like my hero, Michael Jackson. I begged and begged but my pleas were summarily disregarded. And, in retrospect, I must thank my mother for her wisdom.

As a young man, I had a complex about my hair. To me it was boring. Nappy and dry, like a Brillo pad. I wanted my hair to be exciting, like Ralph Macchio. Now, that kid had some hair.

As I aged, I realized that there was nothing that could really be done about my boring nappy hair, short of a chemical process. It wasn't going to do anything but sit there unless I did something about it. So, sometime in the very early nineties I went to Peoples and bought myself a Duke Texturizer Kit.

It's not that I wanted to look like the guy on the box. He was obviously gay. I just wanted something I could comb. A little curl. Some shine.

I went to my father's house for the weekend, and his girlfriend agreed to apply the chemical for me. I had done my research. I knew it was going to be a bit uncomfortable, but I was prepared to pay the price for beauty. It wasn't so bad though. Nothing dramatic like the scene from Malcolm X. But in the end, I was disappointed.

My hair is about as nappy as it gets. I can't imagine anyone having nappier hair than mine. It is unruly and unmanageable and unrelenting its sheer willfulness to remind me of who I am. Of course, I have come to accept and love my hair with age and I insist that whatever woman with whom I keep company feels the same. But back then, I thought that it was a shame that I was so handsome with such ugly hair. I thought I was correcting some oversight on God's part.

So, like I said, I was disappointed. The top of my head lay limp and shiny, close to what I expected, but the sides...good Lord, the sides. Around the temple area. Things just refused to cooperate. My father's girlfriend sighed, "Oh dear. The sides didn't take. I probably should've left it in longer."

I could've smacked her. But I kept my cool.

They left to go run some errand while I mourned over my half-processed head. "You should probably cut if off and start over," she had said. Out of the question. The thing about thick hair is it takes forever to grow. It had taken me months to grow my little bush in preparation for this experiment.

So, I'm sure you can already guess what happened next. After they left, I reapplied the chemical to the sides and left it in as long as I could stand it.

The ladies already know what kind of huge no-no this was. To clarify for the fellas, a relaxer is diluted lye. A destructive chemical that kills anything with which in comes in contact. In it's pure form it would burn the skin off your bones. Even diluted, it's nothing to be played with.

After one chemical treatment, you should wait at least two weeks before applying another one. I waited about thirty minutes.

The pain was indescribable.

And what's worse, it still didn't take.

Feeling extremely foolish afterwards, I kept the fiasco a secret and suffered in silence. But it was Fourth of July weekend and later on that day we were to attend a pool party at my uncle's house.

And so, as not to arouse suspicion, I got in the pool.

Lord help me.

I thought I was going to die. Apparently, chemical burns and chlorine don't mix.

But soldier that I was, no one was the wiser.

In the end, I kept my S-Curl for a few months, but eventually abandoned the experiment when I realized that my hair would never accept such an affront to its integrity. My naps were there to stay and there was nothing I could do about it.

Since then I have become a staunch opponent of chemical treatments and/or weaves for either sex. And I won't have a woman who feels differently. But I had to see for myself, you see. And experience is most certainly the best teacher.

Thanks for reading.

Download the new single "In The Kitchen" and the new Freestyle of the Week FOR FREE.

GOBAMA!

Confession: Of course you know I made the same mistake twice and burned the skin off the side of my head once more for good measure. It's a habit of mine I haven't been able to shake. I don't believe shit stinks until I smell it at least twice.

Top 5 Things You Do Not Want To Hear During Sex

2008-07-08T20:47:00.003-04:00

Okay:

I've been on a bit of a tangent for the past few days. I'm surprised none of you mentioned it. Too much heavy shit, and too much shit about me. I mean, this is my blog, but my personal life isn't that interesting. I'm just a schoolteacher. I assume most of you come here for explicit sexual humor. I've got a Google Analytics page (every Blogger should have one) that shows I get the most reads when my titles suggest something sexual. Introspection and politics not so much. So here goes.

Today's blog topic came to me today whilst taking my afternoon siesta. I have written similar blogs before, but I don't think I have ever addressed the issue of bad sex talk.

That is, things you absolutely do not want to hear while you're having sex.

See, I'm the kind of person who likes to put on a good show even when I'm not really enjoying myself. You speak things into existence, right? Especially during sex. Women are auditory. You can enhance the experience with your words if they're chosen carefully and catered to your partner's desires.

For example. If you've been courting a woman for several weeks, months, whatever, and you finally get her into bed after a romantic candlelit dinner with Reverend Al playing softly in the background, you probably shouldn't yell out, "Take it, whore!!!"

Although "Take it, whore!!!" certainly has it's place (you'd be surprised), in this particular situation, some sensual moaning may be just what the doctor ordered.

In contrast, if you've got something extremely hot and casual going on, with no explicit commitment, you probably don't want to say something corny like, "Your skin is so soft."

I wouldn't call it contrived. Just considerate.

If I'm not really into it, for whatever reason (it happens), I'm not just going to hump on her silently until I finish. That's whack, right? I'm gonna fake it til I make it, as they say.

So, for shits and giggles, I have compiled a countdown list of the top 5 things you don't want to hear while having sex. Of course, this was written from the masculine perspective. If any one of my lady readers want to chime in with lists of their own, please feel free. If the brothers want to make additions, this is also welcome.

5. The Wrong Name: In general, I think it's a bad practice to say someone's name during sex. Baby, honey, sweetheart, freak, bitch, whore. These are all acceptable depending on the nature of the relationship. But screaming out someone's name, you're just asking for trouble. Because I'm a fool I'd probably laugh if a woman called me by the wrong name. I'd probably say something like, "Open your eyes, baby. This is Claude's dick." Of course, it'd be a different story if we'd been dating exclusively for a while. But I think most women would end the sex promptly, get dressed, leave and never call again.

4. "Is It In?": Of course, I've never heard this one before. *wink*. But I imagine it could be fairly soul-crushing for the soft-hearted man.

3. "I Want You To Cum!": This one I have heard. I used to date a woman who said it all the time. At first, it was a turn-on. But then I realized that it translated roughly to "I am no longer enjoying myself and I need you to hurry up and finish." Which is not sexy at all. The thing was, I wanted to finish just as badly as she wanted me to finish, but just telling me to wasn't really helping the situation. If you're ready for it be over, ladies, there are a few things you can do to end things quickly if you're skilled and not the squeamish type. But ordering me to hurry up is not going to cut it. I'm tempted to respond, "I want to cum too, but what are you gonna do about it?"

2. "What's Wrong?": There's a time and place for candor, ladies. The bedroom isn't always one of them. If I seem like I'm struggling to get things started and you want to help me out, actions certainly speak louder than words. Of course, I could be candid too. "Actually, you're a pretty bad lay so I was thinking of Serena Williams to maintain my erection. Please be quiet, I'm trying to concentrate."

And number one on The Top 5 Things You Do Not Want To Hear During Sex...

Drum roll, please...

*drum roll...rim shot*

1. "Uh Oh": I've heard this more times than I care to remember. And it's always bad. I won't gross you out with the details, but there are only about three reasons why a woman would say this during sex. There's usually Clorox involved afterwards.

Enjoy the rest of your Hump Day.

Thanks for reading.

Download the new single "In The Kitchen" and the new Freestyle of the Week FOR FREE!

GOBAMA!

Honorable Mentions: "I want to have your baby!" and "What's the matter? Afraid of a little blood?"

Good Better Best

2008-07-08T06:10:00.003-04:00

Okay:

So I might have a small problem at my new job.

Maybe not so much a problem. More of an issue.

One of my new co-workers, who is technically an old co-worker (we worked together two years ago) confessed to me yesterday. "You know, everyone hates you here."

"Hates me?"

"Maybe hate is a strong word. But they really don't like you very much."

"Did I say something rude to someone?"

"No. You haven't said much of anything to anyone. That's part of the problem, actually. They think you're a bit standoffish."

"Standoffish?"

"And stuck up."

"Stuck up?"

For a moment there I was concerned. I have always prided myself on my down-to-earthy approachability. A kind of everyman who's comfortable in almost any social situation. And I think that's how people who know me well would describe me. But the older I get, the more I hear this "standoffish/stuck-up" business. Or even more often, "He thinks he's better than everyone else."

Jesus.

Now there's one thing I don't understand. Actually, let me rephrase that. There's lots of things I don't understand, and that's one of them.

Maybe I do. Sometimes I get the feeling that Africans and West-Indians think they're better than Black Americans. But not me specifically. Know what I mean?

Like, I'm never in a situation with someone, having a conversation or whatever, or simply observing them, and come to the conclusion that they think they're better than me. It just never occurs to me.

Now I can be judgemental. Which I guess is pretty obvious by now.

But there are very few things that I person can do that would make me turn up my nose.

I don't have a lot respect for drug dealers, gold diggers, braggarts, politicians or television evangelists. But everyone else is cool as far as I'm concerned.

Oh, and color-struck people and people who say things like, "she got that good hair."

That will make me not want to talk to you at all.

I was with a friend this weekend and she suggested that I might make a good match with a friend of hers. "She's really nice," she said. "And she's light-skinned."

I almost threw up in my mouth a little bit.

And she's light-skinned? Like, And she's a dancer. Or, And she graduated from Yale.

Like it's an accomplishment.

But I'm reasonable. Since I hear it so often, I'm inclined to believe that there must be some truth to it. Or at the very least, I inadvertently give off that vibe. But I also believe that in order for you to think that someone else thinks they're better than you, you must have a pretty low opinion of yourself.

See, my experience has been that the same people who say things like "he thinks he's better than everyone else" are also the kind of people who are constantly juxtaposing what you do against what they do. It's a kind of soft-snootiness, with a built in disclaimer because they position themselves as the victim. In the end, they end up thinking they're better than you.

So you can't win for losing.

But after talking to my co-worker for a while, I realized that I really didn't give a shit. It's too hard making friends these days.

Maybe they'll come around and maybe they won't. Either way, I still have you guys.

Thanks for reading.

Download the new single "In The Kitchen" and the new Freestyle of the Week FOR FREE.

GOBAMA!

Postscript: My daughter, however, is better than all of them.

She Hate Me

2008-07-07T06:12:00.002-04:00

Okay:

So my holiday weekend was a little dramatic. Of course, I can’t give you all the details seeing as how it’s technically family business and slightly inappropriate to blast all over the Internet but I’ll give you the gist.

As you might already know, I get cussed out for one reason or another fairly frequently. I’m just one of those kinds of people who draw heat. I can’t help it really. I’m not malicious. I don’t set out to hurt people’s feelings, but somehow or another I end up pissing people off. And for whatever reason, they’re rarely shy about telling me so.

The past few months have been particularly eventful. I guess I’m in the zone or something.

The most interesting thing I heard this spring was, “You are the reason black women have such a hard time finding a good black man.”

An honorable mention goes to, “The only feelings you have are in your dick.”

It’s a popular misconception, however, that I don’t have feelings. I may not give a fuck about most things, but I’m not completely heartless. I care about the breast cancer and Darfur and the goddamn polar bears and that cute little one-eyed dog in the ASPCA commercial.

I have a heart.

Up until recently, I never really got The Big Fuck You from family though. My sister and I get into it occasionally, but we know each other very well so it usually doesn’t escalate to anything serious.

This Fourth of July though, I got The Big Fuck You in a major way.

Technically I got The Big “Fuck you, you fraudulent motherfucker. Stay the fuck away from me.”

Then “someone” hopped over the bar, in three-inch heels no less, and tried to attack me.

Well.

You know, someone asked me a short while ago if I ever gave any thought to why so many people seem to dislike me so intensely, women in particular.

And, honestly, I haven’t given it much thought. Until this weekend. And now I believe I have the answer.

I am, ladies and gentleman, a “Masculist.”

And, yes, I am coining a new term, yet again. You can also thank me for “sexting” (sending sexually explicit messages via text) and “rollover minutes” (sex first thing in the morning). If you’ve heard them any place else, remember you heard them here first.

As you know, I love women. They’ve got soft skin and they’re great conversationalists and they’ll squeeze your blackheads for you. But most importantly, they have vaginas. And vaginas are incredibly lovely and useful.

What I have discovered will burn my butter more than anything else, however, is being subjected to the will of a domineering woman. If she thinks that by sheer virtue of the fact that she’s a woman, I’m going to suffer in silence while she corrects, scolds, redirects or “sets me straight”, she’s got another thing coming.

If she’s never changed my diaper, I think she’s overstepping her boundaries a bit.

The thing is there are so many suckers out there who pull the whole “yes dear” crap and got women thinking that they’re supposed to be constantly asserting themselves on us over bullshit. I, for one, am not having it. I may let you get away with it once or twice, if I like you like that, but eventually we’re going to bump heads. And then you’re not going to like me anymore, and eventually you will give me The Big Fuck You.

And I think it’s because they expect you to sit there and take it.

And, I don’t think they expect you to be smart enough to defend yourself verbally. When you start pointing out the holes in their logic and showing them how silly they sound, they start cussing you out.

Fellas, try it out if you think I’m wrong. The next time your lady or friend with a vagina starts laying into you about something stupid, instead of being sensitive and listening and apologizing, just laugh and say “Honey, that makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.”

Then no matter what she says after that, just keep laughing and telling her that she sounds like a teenager. The angrier she gets, the harder you laugh.

I guarantee you’ll get The Big Fuck You.

I’m not saying men should dominate over women. I’m also a feminist in that regard. We should be equals, chivalry aside.

But I’m not going to sit there on some Cliff Huxtable shit. Like, “I’m just happy she still lets me hang around.”

Fuck that.

So I’m a Masculist.

If I can get some of you brothers on the same page with me, we can take our balls back and stop dealing with this madness. Post a comment if you’re with me.

Thanks for reading.

Download the new single “In The Kitchen” and the new Freestyle of the Week FOR FREE.

GOBAMA!

Innocent Question: Am I the only one who is amazed that this word doesn’t already exist?

Here Comes The Bride

2008-07-03T06:05:00.004-04:00

Okay:

And so the ladies ask, What exactly is 'Wifey Material'?

You hear rappers talking about it all the time. "I might wife her" etc. Not that we should be listening to rappers for relationship advice. Present company excluded, of course.

Well, ladies, I am here to tell you what that's all about. We men, believe it or not, are indoctrinated with just as much bullshit as you all are about what we should be looking for in a spouse.

Women are taught to be far less discriminating, however. Your goal is to get married. Who exactly you are going to marry is a very flexible concept. The When and the How are far more important.

But for us it's all about the Who.

For women, you're basically looking for a handsome, kind, financially stable man who's willing to commit. That's about it. Just four simple requisites. And most of you would settle for three out of four.

The Jesus Freaks are gonna want a man who's into The Lord and all. That will trump the other four.

If she's just a plain old Freak, she's gonna want a man who can satisfy her in bed. And that may trump the other four.

Barring those two exceptions, that's it in a nutshell. And I think you'd be hard pressed to find a woman who would disagree.

As far as men go, it's a whole 'nother story. See, the misconception is that men don't want to commit, don't want to get married. Not it at all actually. We're just a lot pickier than you all are.

You say your man is dragging his feet. You've been together for years and he hasn't proposed? Newsflash! He's not afraid of getting married, per se. He just doesn't want to marry you.

So how do we decide who is 'Wifey Material'? Those of you ladies with kind, loving and involved fathers know exactly what it is. He's been molding you from the day you were born. He may not have said the words, "If you do that, no one's going to want to marry you." But, trust me, it was the motivation behind almost everything he ever said and did for you.

Even us progressive fathers who teach our daughters that marriage is not a life goal but something that some people are blessed to experience, also do not want our daughters to become the kind of women who are unmarriable.

So here it is, in list format, in order of importance, for easy reference:

1. Sexual History: I know. I know. Hypocritical. Silly. Whatever. We don't necessarily want to discover your vagina, we just don't want to feel like we're signing in at Ellis Island.

2. Beauty: Sure it's relative, but only to a certain extent. Only those creeps from Divorce Court marry ugly women.

3. Projected Weight Gain: Nothing wrong with a heavy woman. I like something to grab. The question is, how much heavier is she going to get? It's important to know. A married couple should have a well-balanced weight ratio.

4. Temperament: Is she going to cut your dick off while you're sleeping or suggest counseling?

5. Personality: Most men find a reserved shyness a good indicator. I know I do. We can't have two hams in the house.

6. Domesticality: If that's a word. But you get my meaning. She doesn't have to do everything, but she should be able to. Nothing worse than a woman who couldn't cook you a meal even if she wanted to. Except, perhaps, a woman with a dirty bathroom. Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

7. Intelligence: Most men, I would say, would prefer a woman who is slightly less intelligent than they are. That way when we cheat we are less likely to get caught.

8. Sexuality: And, yes, this is always last on the list. Only a truly silly man would make it of primary concern.

And here is the logic.

If one of the main reasons you marry a woman is she satisfies you sexually, you are in for a big surprise. The woman who is fucking your brains out nightly and giving you unsolicited blowjobs in movie theaters is going to cut the water supply off just as soon as you say "I do". Now that's a fact and I don't care what anyone has to say about that.

You, my friend, are a victim of the oldest known form of manipulation: The Old Bait and Switch.

An experienced, mature man knows that it's better to settle down with a woman who isn't trying to pretend like your dick is the cosmic center of the galaxy.

Slow and steady wins the race.

And that's it basically. As you can see, we have twice as many criteria. And, men, despite what you may think, are far more thoughtful and complicated than most of you give us credit for.

Conduct yourselves accordingly.

Thanks for reading.

Download the new single "In The Kitchen" and the new Freestyle of the Week FOR FREE.

GOBAMA!

Postscript: And, oh yeah. A lot of women, of course, would settle for good old financial stability and/or wealth. And who could blame them with the price of gas these days?

Ladies, We Can Rebuild Him. We Have The Technology.

2008-07-02T06:26:00.005-04:00

Okay:

Today we shall talk about the duality of men.

It's a frequent complaint. One of the ones that goes in one ear and right out the other.

"Why don't you trim your pubes?"

"Why are there always dishes in the sink?"

"Do you have to go to sleep right afterwards every time?"

"Why are you so different around your friends?"

Blah. Blah. Blah.

Of course, all of these questions have very simple answers.

Trimming your pubes is gay. Period.

Because I'm lazy. But I will wash them right before you start doing this cooking thing that I keep hearing about it.

You should try it. It's actually quite gratifying. We could do it together. Like a couple's hobby.

And, finally...Because they don't want me to be anyone but me. If I say or do something they don't like, which is seldom, they call me an asshole and we keep things moving. We don't have to drop anchor and discuss why I did what I did and how it made them feel. There's no crying and there's no silent treatment. And they don't go commiserate with their other friends about me so that they can prepare what amounts to a prosecutor's opening statement before addressing an issue. I can just be me. No conditions. The posturing, my dear, is actually for you.

And so the women say, A real man is the same around his boys and his woman.

I say, How in the fuck would a woman know what a real man is? And how come when women talk about 'real men', it's always within the context of how they feel they should be treated.

It's never, A real man would try to find the cure for cancer.

Or, A real man watches his sodium intake.

It's always about them.

I say fuck all that. If you want authenticity, ladies, embark on your search with the understanding that it is, by definition, the antithesis of perfection.

And so you say, I'm not looking for perfection, I just want a man who's willing to work on himself.

And I say fuck all that as well.

I want a partner, not a life coach. If there are so many things that need fixing around here, maybe you made a poor choice.

I've got a theory on this.

It's like buying a car.

When a man buys a car, he goes to the lot, picks out the car he wants, writes a check and drives it home. He keeps it clean, makes repairs when he needs to, and he's proud of his purchase. He wouldn't have bought it if he didn't like it.

Women on the other hand, in keeping with this metaphor, will go to a lot and buy the first hunk of junk that catches their eye. Not because it's a particularly good car, but because they like something about it. They don't check under the hood or kick the tires, they just go with the feeling. Thinking to themselves the whole while, Whatever's wrong with it can be fixed.

So they spend years pouring money into a piece of shit that, no matter what repairs they make, will never run properly.

It's this way with relationships.

You can't go into it thinking you're making repairs on this motherfucker. That's how you end up with the whole duality thing. You've got the silhouette of the perfect man in your brain and you're trying to hammer this motherfucker into the mold. And because he wants to be with you, he's trying to fit the mold. But it ain't natural. It's all for you.

His friends could give two shits. They'd rather he stayed the same as the day he met them.

And you know what? When you're long and gone, off trying to groom and train some other poor sap, his friends will still be there.

"Where's that girl you were dating?"

"Oh, she broke up with me months ago. Said she couldn't take it anymore."

"Couldn't take what?"

"All kinds of shit."

"Like what? Did you cheat on her? Giver her something? Hit her?"

"No."

"So, what?"

"Just a bunch of shit. I don't even remember most of it."

"Well, good riddance. Sounds like the bitch was crazy."

"She asked me to trim my pubes once."

"That's so gay. You didn't do it, did you?"

"Fucks no."

"Jesus. A bitch'll turn you into a completely different person if you're not careful."

"Like Steven Austin."

"Exactly. A motherfucker wouldn't even recognize you."

"Amen."

*clinking of beer bottles*

Thanks for reading.

Download the new single "In The Kitchen" and the new Freestyle of the Week FOR FREE.

GOBAMA!

An Inspired Suggestion: Men, we should start beginning our gripes with "A real woman would..." Let's see how that works.

Getting Stronger

2008-06-30T08:52:00.003-04:00

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?

Sick And Tired

2008-06-27T07:59:00.003-04:00

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?

Kids Say The Darnedest Things

2008-06-25T22:01:00.003-04:00

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?

If I Should Die...

2008-06-24T22:06:00.004-04:00

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.

Go To Hell, Little Girl

2008-06-23T22:04:00.004-04:00

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.

America's Got Talent

2008-06-23T06:32:00.006-04:00

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.

Talk Amongst Yourselves

2008-06-20T06:22:00.003-04:00

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!!!

While You're Down There...

2008-06-19T05:49:00.002-04:00

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?

Graduation Revisited

2008-06-18T06:10:00.006-04:00

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.

Cut Da Check!!!

2008-06-17T05:47:00.003-04:00

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?

Just Another Day

2008-06-15T20:52:00.003-04:00

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.

A Fond Farewell

2008-06-13T07:55:00.003-04:00

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?

Victoria's Secret Revealed

2008-06-12T06:18:00.003-04:00

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?

The Pitfalls Of Do It Yourself Porn

2008-06-10T18:57:00.003-04:00

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?

Fully Loaded Question

2008-06-09T22:52:00.004-04:00

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

2008-06-09T06:16:00.004-04:00

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.

About This Weekend's Show...

2008-06-05T19:33:00.004-04:00

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!

The Price Of Gas

2008-06-05T06:13:00.003-04:00

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?

And The Winner Is...

2008-06-03T22:17:00.008-04:00

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?