30 Things I Hate

Okay:

I gotta be honest. Even though I don't celebrate Valentine's Day, it is a little depressing being single what with all the talk of nice dinners and all-night love-making. Because I'm not against either one of those things.

Yesterday I went home after work, told myself I was going to take a nap. Then woke up at 2 in the morning. All the black nationalist literature in the world can't take the pathetic out of that image.


So my goal is to be deeply in love by February 14th next year. And you, dear reader, are going to help me. Cool Cee Brown is officially on the market. If you have a friend, sister, cousin, co-worker who you think might be my type, hook me up.

In order to aid you in your search, I have compiled a list of Things I Hate:

1. Contemporary R&B
2. Straight to Video Low-Brow Black Comedies
3. Reality Television
4. BET
5. Pork
6. The Dallas Cowboys
7. Al Sharpton
8. Michael Baisden
9. Triple Crown Books
10. People Who Drink White Zinfandel
11. Bad Tippers
12. Republicans
13. Weaves
14. Colored Contacts
15. Ankle Socks
15. Christmas
16. Stack Heels
17. Mouth Piercings
18. Tattoos of Animals
19. Clay Aiken
20. Hanna Montana
21. SUVs
22. Feta Cheese
23. Tuesdays
24. Chocolate Ice Cream
25. Happy Waitresses
26. Turquoise
27. Lengerie
28. The Beach
29. Beauty Pageants
30. Cinnamon Chewing Gum

That's all I can think of right now. But if you know someone who also hates these things, ask them for their full name social security number. Send me those things and a color photograph and a hair sample if possible, and if you can, blood and urine.

You can never be too careful these days.

Thanks for reading.

GO OBAMA!

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Innocent Question: Ladies, would it offend you if a man put on two rubbers?

Die Hanna Die

Okay:

This weekend I took my daughter to see the Hanna Montana movie.

A few things.

Number one is I absolutely hate Hanna Montana. Second is those people over at Disney are geniuses. Gotta respect the hustle. Although I'm not sure if all of this is legal.

First there's the concert tour. From what I understand the ticket prices ranged from a few hundred to a thousand dollars. And they sold out everywhere they went.

Then they decide to do this movie. One week release. Shown in 3D.

Brilliant.

Then they extend the release another week. So I succumb to the pressure and take my daughter to see what I guess is her equivelant of Purple Rain or something.

We get to the movie theatre and I ask the teller for tickets. He then asks me for thirty-two dollars. I say, "No, there's only two of us. One adult and one child."

He says, "I know. The tickets are fifteen dollars."

"A piece?" a asked.

"Yes, sir."

"And you only get to see it once?"

I bought the tickets reluctantly and he handed us our 3D glasses, which, to be fair, were the nicest 3D glasses I had ever seen. They were made of hard plastic, not the red and white cardboard that I remember from the eighties.

We sat down in the near-empty theatre and waited through a half-dozen previews of 3D movies coming out later this year. A U2 Concert movie. A film version of Journey to the Center of the Earth starring Brendan Frazier, who hasn't aged a day since Encinco Man.

A woman walks in with two little girls and sits down right behind us. And believe or not, once the movie gets started and Hanna starts doing her thing, this woman starts heckling her.

A grown woman, with children, at a matinee, heckling Hanna Montana. I shit you not.

"Aw shut up girl, you know you can't sing!"

"She's lip-synching, y'all. You can't run around the stage like that and hit those notes!"

"She ain't no Beyonce!"

Shit like this would get on my nerves regardless, but the fact that I paid thirty-two dollars to see this goddamn movie...I wanted to cuss her ass out. But there were children present, including my own, so we just moved up a few rows.

I fell asleep at some point. After a while all of the songs started to sound alike.

Truth be told, as much of a Hanna Montana fan as my daughter professes to be, I don't think she was terribly impressed with the whole thing. In fact, she hasn't talked about it since. I probably could have saved my thirty-two dollars and got us a nice lunch or something.

Anyway. It has not missed me that today is Valentine's Day. So Happy Valentine's Day to you all. Enjoy your bullshit holiday. Get laid.


Thanks for reading.

GO OBAMA!

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Confession: Mark your calendar's, I've been technically single every Valentine's Day since I was a senior in high school.

To Queef Or Not To Queef

Okay:

First of all, I did vote yesterday. See, I'm not all talk. Made it to the polls before they closed on a cold, icy Tuesday evening. Barack, I've done what I could.

But that's actually pretty boring. I have a story for you. It has some nastiness to it though, so be forewarned.

So I haven't blogged about my Friday night regular in a while. I was hesitant to share the sordid details, but I suppose it could be cathartic to a certain extent. Here goes.

Last time we hooked up, something very bizarre happened, and then more bizzarity followed.

We were lying in the bed naked, or nekkit as they say in Texas. Kissing and whatnot. The plane was coming in for a landing, just looking for the landing strip. As it approached there was a loud noise that startled me, followed by a gust of wind.

I'm trying to be discrete, bare with me.

Now we all know that in that particular region of the female anatomy, funny things happen sometimes. I imagined that it was some sort of air pocket releasing as we changed positions. I think it's technical name is "queef". I'd heard one of those before and from my experience it generally means you're doing something right. So I gave a sensual, "ooooh".

Only the loud noise and gust of wind was soon followed by a foul smell.

Yes, ladies and gentleman. She farted.

Suddenly, the sensual "ooooh" that I had offered previously seemed a bit inappropriate. So I, being a markedly immature 28-year-old, laughed. Just a little bit. She said nothing.

Then we proceeded in our course of action because I'm just not the kind of guy to let something like that stop me.

Afterwards I hopped up, went to the bathroom, got a popscicle from the freezer, returned to the bedroom and continued working on my computer.

Pretty standard.

She fell asleep for a while.

Then when she felt like it was time for her to go she tried to kiss me. Now, I normally don't have this problem, but with this girl I just can't get excited about a second go-round. I just can't. I've tried. Usually we laugh about it. She calls me an old man and I call her a nympho or something and then she goes home. But this time she got really sad. Her feelings were hurt.

We walked about it for a little while and tried to explain to her that it wasn't her fault, but her mood didn't improve. While talking to her I realized that there was no way in hell we could continue this because it was obvious that she was developing an emotional attachment. I also realized that I had absolutley no desire to take this relationship of ours beyond the occassional and very casual booty call. No desire whatsoever.

As she was leaving I tried to explain to her that I, too, have feelings. She closed the door claiming that she didn't want the neighbors to hear what she was about to say to me. She looked me in my eyes, real serious-like, and said, "The only feelings you have, Claude, are in your dick."

Then she left.

The funny part about that is she's not the first woman to tell me that.

Oh well.

I think that she was really just feeling vulnerable because of the whole farting thing.

Thanks for reading.

GO OBAMA!

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Confession: I fart almost every time I have sex.

Tonight's The Night

Okay:

So today is the big day. Well, not really. It's not like I'm playing Madison Square or something. But it's been a while since I've done what would be considered a full set at this stage in the game. I'm about as ready as I'll ever be. I've rehearsed with the band and my backup singer. Everything sounds good and provided nothing horribble happens between now and then, it should be one hell of a show.

To be honest I've come quite a long way as far as shows go. Joe and I had some comically humble beginnings. Our first show together as Dirty Water, six years ago, was at a talent show at the Friendship House in southeast. A mutual friend of ours was working there and asked us to perform so we agreed. There was no sound system. Just a boom box and two microphones. The sound was so bad we ended up turning off the radio and doing the remainder of our set to handclaps from the audience, which included a lot of crying babies and old people. None of them were particularly impressed with us.

Afterwards there was nothing we could do but laugh. Joe looked at me and said, "It's all uphill from here."

Then there were the in-stores we used to do at mom and pop record stores that carried our CDs on consignment. Four or five people would show, at the most. And they were all usually friends and/or family. One time literally no one showed.

Those places also did not have sound systems. We used to rent big stereos from Rent A Center and use our own mics. I remember after one show at Revolution Records (now out of business) I was so depressed after the set that I found a dark corner to cry in. I was in the middle of a big custody battle, losing literally fifty percent of my net income in child support and immersing myself in hip hop. Those were dark times.

Once we did a show at Rose's Dream on H Street. A small cramped bar in the "middle" of the hood. The stage, if you could call it that, was so small that Joe and I were almost standing on top of each other. At the foot of the "stage" was a card table where four heavy sisters were playing a game of spades. During our set they began arguing and cursing at each other. "Stop reneging you fat bitch". It was as if we were not there. Then they made an announcement that someone had broken into all the cars across the street.

Again, we felt as though we were being prepared for something.

Then there was the release party at the Zuchabar in Adam's Morgan. Parking was so bad that most people ended up going home after driving around in the freezing rain for a half hour.

There were other fiascos, like the ill-conceived album cover for our first attempt at a love-themed record. We called it Love, Lust & Everything in Between. I wanted us to rent white tuxedos and buy a white rabbit. The tuxedos were supposed to represent committment and the rabbit was supposed to represent lust, two opposing forces in my mind.

I thought that I might be able to rent a rabbit but apparently the pet store people frown upon that kind of thing so I had to buy the little fucker out right. I was insistent upon having an all white rabbit. They only had one but he was sickly. I bought him anyway, took him home and booked a photographer for the next day.

During the night he was struck with a bad case of diarrhea. I took him to the bathroom to wash the doo-doo off his fur, but he had a heart attack in the sink and died. I rushed back to the store to get a replacement rabbit, but the only other white one had grey ears. I contemplated painting him but apparently that is also frowned upon so I settled for an almost white rabbit. Then I didn't have any money left over for the tuxes so we wore white waffle shirts. The cover ended up looking like this, a far cry from what I had envisioned.

People were more confused than anything else. I'm almost ashamed to admit the whole set up cost me a few hundred dollars. And I think Joe is still a little pissed at me. "What the fuck is up with the rabbit?" they asked. Still, it's a pretty funny story.

So, if for no other reason than pity, make sure you come out tonight. Bar Nun (I think they may have changed the name last week to Pulse or something like that) 1326 U Street, NW. Doors open at 8. $5 cover. I'll be the handsome fellow in the back wringing his hands and nursing a glass of scotch.

Make sure you pick up a copy of Romance Revisited, my second attempt at a love-themed album. It's a collection of love songs I've recorded over the past few years. I'm listening to it right now and it's pretty good so I think you'll like it.

Thanks for reading.

GO OBAMA!

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Factoid: No animals were harmed in the making of this new album cover.

See You Next Monday

Okay:

It's Friday and I don't have much left to say. I've already ran the gamut this week. Sex, politics, hip hop and gas. What I have not blogged about, however, is the fact that I have a gig this Monday (Feb. 11th) at Bar Nun. I know you've all been noticing the ubiquitous flyers (which I desgined myself, thank you), but I haven't written about it yet.

At any rate, on Monday February 11 I'll be performing at Bar Nun (1326 U St, NW) with the Els and Ginger Bleu. The show is called "I Still Love H.E.R." in reference to my favorite emcee and yours (read sarcasm) Common's 1995 ode to hip hop. It's a Black Broadway Valentine's Day celebration and I'll be performing a thirty minute set of Cool Cee Brown love songs. Only I don't really write love songs in the traditional sense, so it should be an interesting night.

It's funny though because this event almost never happened. We were going to do it at another venue, big budget style. I had investors lined up and everything. I was going to have decorations and lengerie models and a sex toy merch table in the back and porn projected on the wall, but then the venue owner backed out. Something about not wanting to offend his clientele with anything lewd or obscene and can I review all the lyrics and the music before the performance? I kind of lost interest for a while after that.

But a few weeks ago I visited Bar Nun and asked the open mic host, Jabari, if I could take over for one night and he agreed, not knowing what he was getting himself into.

I think a few free drinks come with the deal, which is also a bad idea.

I got The Els, a hip hop band that normally performs with Asheru, to agree to back me up. And I got Ginger Bleu, a wonderful young lady from Texas to agree to be my backup singer.

Also, I'm printing up a special Valentine's Day Mixtape called Romance Revisited with all of my "love songs" on it. But I'm only printing up a few copies so you'll have to be there Monday night to get your hands on it.

Five dollars to get in. Show starts around nine-thirty-ish.

There will be free giveaways for the ladies, condoms and lube dube and the like. And lots of eye candy for the fellas. No porn or dildos though, unfortunately. Apparently you have to get, like, a permit for that sort of thing. Would have been dope though.

See you there. Bring your dancing shoes cuz we will be jammin!

Thanks for reading.

GO OBAMA!

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Factoid: Michelle Obama was once quoted having asked, "How are you supposed to run the country if you can't run your own house?"

Fighting Words

Okay:

WARNING-this blog is riddled with shameless plugging.

So I almost got into a fight the other night.

Gill and I went to Bar Nun to promote for the February 11th show (1326 U St, NW $5. Doors open at 8). It's the longest running open mic on the east coast. The talent ranges from phenomincal to pathetic. This past Monday a drunk man forgot his poem and started softshoeing. But, before he got big, Raheem Devaughn used to perform there a lot. Next Monday, I'll be there.

I say all that to say this. I had a few drinks at Bar Nun.

Then we left the club and went to WPFW where Gill co-hosts Ill Street Blues (every Monday night at 11 on 89.3 FM WPFW).

Being a single parent, I don't get out much. Especially on Monday night. But when I can, I always go support my homeboy. He's actually quite the radio personality. Very good at what he does.

At any rate, when I do get out during the week, I like to make it count. That typically involves offending someone.

This Monday, however, someone offended me. The topic of conversation for the show was Big Pun. Why is he not considered the best rapper of all time? Gill's theory is that he was Peurto Rican and he died a non-violent death. I'm sure that has some merit. I'm just of the opinion that at least Andre 3000 and Jay Z are both better lyricists. Although they have larger bodies of work so it's hard to judge.

That's beside the point.One of the cohosts suggested that Common is a better emcee, an opinion with which I vehemently disagree. Gill knew there would be trouble.

I've got a hard-on for Common. He used to be my favorite until he started dating Erykah Badu and went soft. It worked for Andre. It didn't work for Common. My theory: Erykah Badu's pussy is CRAZY! Although Common has managed to "ressurect" his career, he will never regain my respect. One reason above all others...Electric Circus.

I've never been more disappointed in my life. What a horrible album! Especially as a follow-up to the genius that was Like Water For Chocolate. Of course, the same prick who said he thinks Common is better than Pun, also thinks that Electric Circus was an excellent album. When I disagreed he tried to insinuate that I somehow had rudimentary taste in music.

"You probably don't even listen to music like that. What kind of music do you listen to?" he asked, believing that he would lead me into validating his preconception.

"Hold on, man," I said. "Don't even try it. I listen to all kinds of shit. You, on the other hand, look like a fucking nerd to me. Are you a nerd?"

He giggled.

"You look like you probably have a computer in your bookbag," I said.

"I do actually," he said.

"You can probably work the shit out of that motherfucker. You could probably take over the world with your super duper backpack computer. You're a nerd. And you're opinion doesn't count."

I continued. "Fuck you, Fuck Common, Fuck Dilla and Fuck Lupus."

The heated exchanged was diffused by the laughter of the other hosts.

No blows were exchanged but I think I could have taken him.

And, for the record, Electric Circus did SUCK ASS.

We'll also be at the Velvet Lounge (915 U St NW) tomorrow and possibly Bohemian Caverns (2003 11th St NW) promoting for the Monday February 11th show.

Thanks for the reading.

GO OBAMA!

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Confession: Last night I had gas so bad I had to run to the CVS for Mylanta. I've never been so happy to fart.

Repost: "Dingelberries"

(Overslept. This is a repost of a blog from Wednesday July 18, 2007. Like a re-run.)

Okay:

I had this young lady at my apartment for the weekend. She was a cutie. Petitie with legs to die for. I spent the whole weekend wining and dining her. She seemed like the classy type and I wanted her to know she wasn't hanging with no slouch.

So eventually we ended up in the shower. I was soaping her down and we was getting real grown up in there. Then she turned around, and as I was admiring her shiny backside, I saw what I thought was a mole. But the mole was kind of inching its way around as the water splashed. Upon closer examination I saw that this mole had a short curly hair sticking out of it. Assuming it was a lint ball or something I tried to wipe the thing away. But instead of wiping it away, I left a thin chocolate smear across her butt cheek. Still, it took a moment to register.

A fucking dingleberry!

Dingleberries are leftover shit turds that get stuck in your butt hair. Unless you have no butt hair, you've probably had your fair share of dingleberries and didn't even know it. You may have a dingleberry right now.

I had a few choices. I wasn't drunk enough to block it out. But I didn't want to embarrass the girl for something that I'm certain is fairly common. So, I wiped off the smear and made like the thing never happened. With some effort I was able to suppress the image of the smeared dingleberry long enough to endure the remainder of the weekend, but we were pretty much done after that.

My first question is for the fellas. Would this turn you off enough to drop someone?
My second question is for the ladies since I imagine you all encounter this issue far more than men. See, you all do a lot more grooming down there, kind of eliminating most of the foliage where a dingleberry might take refuge.

Would you cut a guy off after a similar encounter? What about a skid mark? Is a skid mark as bad as a dingleberry?

Thanks for reading.

Justice at Happy Hour

Okay:

The following is a true story...to the best of my recollection. I was drunk.

Last week I was at happy hour with Gill and Our White Homegirl. This drunk clinical therapist came and sat down at our table. A homely looking white woman with a hook nose and strawberry blond hair.

"You strike me as the insecure type," she blurted after a few minutes of causual conversation. "Always bragging and putting on a show to hide how inadequate you feel."

"Oh really?" I said. "And are you as adept at psychoanalyzing yourself?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact," she said. "Especially after three or four martinis."

"So tell me something about yourself."

"Well, I love black men."

"Is that right?"

"So why do you like black men so much?" I inquired. "Is it the penis thing?"

"Actually, no," she said. "The first black guy I was with had the smallest dick I had ever seen."

"So what is it?"

"They treat me better," she said. "More respectful. Nicer in general."

"Wow," I said. "I know some women who would disagree with you."

"It's not my fault if black men treat me good," she said. "They like my fat ass."

"Is that right?"

"Yep. I got me a fat ole ass, but my stomach ain't all big like most of the black girls."

Our White Homegirl's jaw dropped. Gill looked up from his glass of Patron. "Has anyone slapped you yet?" he asked in earnest.

"Not yet," she said. "But they get downright nasty. Call me all kinds of white bitches and whatnot. That's why my new rule is No Baby Mamma Drama."

At this point, I must admit, I was a bit offended. So, I decided to amuse myself at her expense. And as you know, I have a truly sick sense of humor.

"Well," I said, feeling sadistic, "Gill and I are both black men. Can we get some?"

"No way," she said. "I'm not fucking either one of you."

"I don't see why not," I said. "It's not going to get much better than this for you. We're studs."

"Well, I don't have no garauntee that I'm gonna be satisfied."

"Neither do we," I said. "You may have some mediocre pussy. In fact, you look like you have mediocre pussy."

"Honey, ain't nothing mediocre about my pussy."

"Well, you don't have to do both of us. You could pick one. The other one won't get jealous." Then Gill and I broke into a chorus of "Ain't No Fun (If The Homies Can't Have None)".

That's when she picked up her martini and left the table.

So, sisters. I was able to crush a stereotype, defend your honor and have a good hearty laugh at someone else's expense, all in the same breath. You're welcome.

That could only mean one thing. I should continue drinking and talking to strangers.


Thanks for reading.

GO GIANTS!!

GO OBAMA!!

JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY

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Confession: I once made out with my cousin.

Last Will and Testament

Okay:

I'm sick. I can only breathe out of one nostril and my face hurts. I'm so doped up I don't know if I should drive, but I'm going to work anyway. So if you see me out there on the road, give me some room. Honk your horn if I start to drift.

Should this horrible affliction overtake me before Monday morning and make this my last blog, I, being of sound mind and body, offer you, my dear reader, my Last Will and Testament.

To my sister, I leave my debts, because you've got an MBA and you'll know what to do with them.

To my mother, I leave my brand new computer because the one you have is old and dumb, and you don't even know it or care but having a good computer can make your life so much easier.

To my stepfather, I leave all the jazz CDs I "borrowed" from you because they're yours and you should have them.

To my father, I leave all of my bibles because they've never been read and you can re-gift them.

To Gill, I leave my porn because you'll put it to good use.

To Joe D, I leave all the boxes of CDs we never sold and my shoes because we wear the same size, don't we?

Bury me with my clothes because none of you will wear them right.

And give my books to Goodwill because poor people should read too.

When cleaning out my apartment, do not look in my nightstand. And don't touch the towel under the bed.

Should I recover miraculously from this illness over the weekend, it is further proof that I am destined for greatness and, therefore, cannot be held accountable for my actions or words in the meantime.


Thanks for reading.

GO OBAMA!!!!!

JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY

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Confession: I am the man in Vivica Fox video.

Laid and Confused

Okay:

Casual sex is great. It's like a free hobby. I've become quite good at it, actually. I am completely capable of having a purely sexual relationship with a woman without eventually wanting more. Yes, ladies. It does happen the other way around occasionally. It used to happen to me all the time, in fact. All the time. But that was years ago and I'm a different person now. I know the rules, so now the game is fun.

There are some little parts that I haven't quite figured out yet though, and I want to try and open up a community discussion so I can iron out the kinks over here.

One problem I'm having is the issue of friendly phone calls. It seems to me that if you have a purely sexual relationship with someone, by definition there should be something resembling a friendship underneath. That is, if she were in a near fatal car crash, you'd definitely visit her in the hospital. If she decides to get married, you'll attend the wedding. So the problem is, how often should you call just to say "hey". Call too often, it may imply that you want more out of the relationship. Only call for sex and it cheapens the whole affair, doesn't it?

So you say, "If it's just sex, then it's just sex. The occasional friendly call is unnecessary, phony and may give the wrong impression."

I say, quite the contrary. Being rigid in your insistence that things remain surface-level practically guarantees that the other person will catch feelings. If you give a little, everyone relaxes and things stay cool a lot longer. The trick is finding that official friendly call to booty call ratio. Per week, I'd say 1:3. That is, for every 3 booty calls you make, make one friendly call, just to say "hey".

What do you think?

Then there's the issue of when you should leave.

She comes over, or you go to her place. You have the sex. What's an appropriate amount of time to wait before you leave or she leaves? Leave immediately and, again, it cheapens things. You can't just get your issue off, hop up, get dressed and roll out. There's no class in that. If she's at your spot, and you're like me, you don't have enough balls to tell her it's time for her to go. You may drop some hints but they're not always very good at reading those hints, are they?

I think twenty minutes to a half-hour is a decent amount of time to wait before leaving. Anything less is like brothel status. Anything more, well, you'd definitely be over-staying your welcome at the Hotel Nadir.

What do you think?

And finally. What should you do if you meet someone nice and it's time to cut her back. Should you play it passive-aggressive and just let things phase out. You don't return a few of her calls and she gets the message. Or should you call her and have a "talk"?

I'd say it depends on how long this relationship has been going on. Anything past six months and I'd say she deserves a "talk". Anything less than that and she can figure it out on her own.

But what do you think?

Thanks for reading.

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GO OBAMA!

Correction: According to my sister, yesterday's blog was riddled with typos. Mostly homonym errors. "These are the details that set apart your brilliance," she said. So, apologies my dear readers. I'll be more careful next time.