The Darker Side

Okay:

Contrary to popular opinion, I am not an asshole. I can be an asshole, but under normal circumstances, I'm one of the nicest guys you'll ever meet.

Too nice, more often than not.

But sometimes...sometimes...people need to see your ass.

And I typically will oblige.

So, as my regular readers know, I moved into a significantly more expensive apartment late last year because at my old place, the teenagers had taken over the parking lot.

The last straw?

The little crew of teenagers who had made the parking lot their own private club had somehow gotten hold of an infant. This baby's nickname was..."Lil Nigga".

He'd be running around in his pampers while they smoked and drank and cursed at each other and blasted their music. Someone would say, "Uh uh, Lil Nigga. Don't do that."

When his "mother" came outside holding him on her hip everyone would get all giddy. "Whassup, Lil Nigga. What's going on, shawty?"

So, that was the last straw.

So here I am, paying an extra $500 a month so my daughter doesn't have to see all that every time she comes home from school. Things are definitely a lot nicer over here, but I did not realize until I was good and settled how many units are occupied by subsidizers. And apparently there's a program for people with disabilities that charters a few units for their clients.

Basically, there are a lot of retards and crackheads over here.

Now I don't have anything against retards. They need help. I'm just not so crazy about crackheads. And here's why.

There's a crackhead who lives in the unit above me. He's a tall, round guy. Can't be a day over 35. Looks like if he wanted to, he could clean himself up and go be a regular person.

But that crack rock be calling him.

So, what he likes to do, apparently, is knock on people's doors at night, asking for cigarettes. My neighbor warned me about this when I first moved in, but I didn't meet the guy until a few weeks ago.

Sure enough, around 9 o'clock at night, my daughter and I were watching The Wizards of Waverly Place when the doorbell rang. I answered the door and there will this scruffy, chubby, caramel fellow scratching his head and looking a little confused. "Do you have a cigarette?" he asked.

"No," I said, unsure of whether or not I was talking to one of the retards or a crackhead.

"Okay, thank you," he said, then moved on to another door.

I must admit, I was a little heated. I could have stayed in the hood for all this. I told myself that I would report him to the rental office the next day, but then thought better of it, considering the fact that I hadn't confronted him about it.

The next time, my mother was coming to pick my daughter up. I walked them to the door and saw my little friend sauntering down the stairs. I could see the look in his eyes, so I stood in my doorway and waited for my mother and child to make it to the car. He caught them before they hit the pavement.

"Excuse me? Do you have a cigarette?"

Well.

I didn't say anything that time. Didn't want any unpleasantness in front of the family. But I knew if I ever saw that guy again and he said anything other than "hello", we were going to have a problem. Retard, crackhead or whatever.

So, yesterday, as I was returning home from work, he was waiting in the parking lot. I knew what he wanted, and it was all I could do to contain myself and wait for him to speak.

"Excuse me, sir," he said.

"I don't have no damn cigarette."

He seemed a little surprised. I could see his brain working. "I wasn't going to ask you that. I was going to ask you if I had ever asked you for a cigarette."

Then I was confused for a moment.

"Yes, you have asked me for a cigarette before. You knocked on my door. But I don't smoke. And neither does anyone in my family. So you don't have to ask me anymore."

"Well, I won't then," he said, as if I was the asshole.

"Thank you," I said. Still trying to maintain some degree of cordiality.

I thought I handled it well. But when I relayed this story to an old friend of mine she said, "Claude, you are such an asshole."

It seems to me that, sadly, if you insist on living in a black neighborhood (like I do) then this is the type of shit you have to deal with occasionally. It's good though, because it doesn't allow me to forget how connected we all are.

But if that motherfucker ever knocks on my door again, I'm going to show him the darker side of my ass. Which certainly is not a good thing.


Thanks for reading.



GOBAMA!

Click here to download the new single: "No Fear" featuring Phonte and Asheru. It includes the Joe D remix, 2 b-sides and video interviews with Cool Cee Brown. FREE FOR A LIMITED TIME.

Confession: I used to have a thing for Jennifer Tilly. I don't know why. She's a pretty simple looking, pale white woman. But one day she was on Leno with this dress on, and she hiked one of her big juicy creamy thighs up to cross her legs and I literally started drooling. Can't call that one.

Watch Your Mouth!

Okay:

So what are the rules for dirty talk?

It's not exactly something you can have a detailed, frank conversation about beforehand. That kind of defeats the purpose.

It's supposed to be spontaneous, uncensored and, well...dirty.

However, as you may already know, every woman has her limits, and every woman's limits are different.

It came as a surprise to me when I learned how auditory women are, in terms of what may or may not turn them on. On the other hand, it makes perfect sense. They love to talk. They love to hear their own voices. Other people's voices. Your voice.

I think I was in college the first time a woman said something to me, during the throes, that blew my hair back. I'm almost embarrassed to admit it now because it seems so tame in comparison to the shit I've heard since.

We were right in the middle of getting it in when she growled/screamed a passionate, "Fuck me!"

Well, I was certainly taken aback.

I had never heard such a thing. Most of the girls I had been with before then had been relatively silent, save the occasional moan and groan. Young girls, for the most part, just learning their way around, as I was, and not quite comfortable with vocalizing their nasty little desires.

Well, I'm sure I don't have to tell you, her little comment really sent things into hyper drive for me. Then she kept repeating herself over and over again until it finally occurred to me that maybe I should say something. And so I did.

"I am fucking you."

It was the best I could come up with. I was unsure of how far I could take it. Experience has shown me that I probably could have said pretty much anything.

Another time, in college, I was on the receiving end of some hot mouth love. She lifted her head and whispered, "Talk to me."

So I said, "I had one hell of a day. Dr. Davis said the report I handed in last week was riddled with typos...ooooh...but I must have run, like...ooooh...three spelling and grammar checks."

Obviously now I'm a lot less shy, but still cautious. The truth is, there is little that you could say to a woman during sex, along the lines of dirty talk, that would be considered unacceptable. I used to date a woman who wanted me to call her "bitch" and "dirty whore". But they don't all go for that sort of thing.

I have learned that if encouraged, I can get really vocal during sex. But only if I feel like it's adding to the moment. It's not necessarily standard fare. But when I get going, I can really go.

What I really like to do is taunt a woman who made me wait too long for sex. "So, you wanted to make me wait, huh? You shoulda just gave it to me when I asked for it. Now ya gotta pay!"

I don't know why, but that's my favorite line of shit. Invariably she will say, and it NEVER fails, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done it. You can have it whenever you want."

"You goddamn right," I say.

It all goes toward my theory of every woman having a secret "whore fantasy". Some women, obviously, embrace it more often than they should. But I think every woman desires to occasionally be hammered like a common street pigeon.

By her husband.

Boyfriend.

Some lucky schmuck.

Not all the time.

Occasionally, mind you.


Thanks for reading.



GOBAMA!

Click here to download the new single: "No Fear" featuring Phonte and Asheru. It includes the Joe D remix, 2 b-sides and video interviews with Cool Cee Brown. FREE FOR A LIMITED TIME.

Confession: I'm actually more interested in what a woman says before sex. If we're already having sex, I'm about as turned on as I'm going to get.

http://www.coolceebrown.blogspot.com

JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY MOVEMENT

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No Love In Baltimore

Okay:

So, maybe you're wondering how Friday night's gig in Baltimore went. To be honest, I've had better nights.

I've never performed in B-More before, so I was excited and hoping for the best. No such luck. The place was empty, save the performers, who all left after their sets were over. So, by the time Joe and I hit the stage, the only people in the crowd were our managers and the three people I invited.

Sad. I know.

Humorous observations? There are a lot of white thugs in Baltimore. You really don't see too much of that in DC, but the white boys were looking pretty scary out there. Doo-rags and backwards baseball caps sagging pants and what have you.

Also, a lot of interracial loving going on. Nothing wrong with that, of course. But one does take notice when it's so prevalent. Seemed like everywhere I turned it was the goddamn Willises.

So, eventually it was our turn to perform.

The funny part is, so much of our set depends on crowd interaction. And since there was none to be found, I ended up doing a lot of giggling.

"Say 'OH YEAH!'"

(*crickets chirping*)

"A little louder now!!!"

(*several crickets chirping*)

Of course, I had my fair share of scotch and cognac and beer, which helped lend the situation some levity. Before our set began I looked at Joe and said, "Another ten dollar rehearsal."

But, such is the stuff legends are made of. Maybe I'll be describing that night to Conan O'Brien one day. And he'll say, "Wow! You've come from such humble beginnings."

And I'll say, "It wasn't easy, Conan. It sure wasn't easy."

"At any point, did you ever think about quitting?"

"Of course. Sometimes I'd be driving home after a gig, and I'd just put on Sade and weep, y'know. I'd just be weeping."

"I hear ya man. I think I speak for the rest of America when I say we're glad you didn't give up."

(applause)

"Thank you, Conan. And thank you, America. All you special white people out there, searching for the next hip thing to exploit, I'm glad you chose me."

"On behalf of white people everywhere, you're welcome."

(applause)

"Yes, indeed. The cooperative exploitation of myself, with your financial backing, pimping and whoring as it were, has been of great benefit to my entire family. I have successfully moved all of my relatives into safe white neighborhoods where they will no doubt bring down the property value significantly and compromise the integrity of the local schools."

"Which is only fair because of slavery."

"I'm glad you know it, Conan."

(applause)


But I digress.

Baltimore was not good to us on Friday. Not good at all.

But I am sure it is a great town. And I hope they have us back some day.


Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

Click here to download the new single: "No Fear" featuring Phonte and Asheru. It includes the Joe D remix, 2 b-sides and video interviews with Cool Cee Brown. FREE FOR A LIMITED TIME.

Confession: I spent the $20 Drunk, Surprisingly-Passionate White Barack Obama Supporter gave me. Times is rough, and Barack is certainly not hurting for cash.

Some Shameless Self-Promotion

Okay:

In case you were wondering, last night was fantastic. I haven't had that much fun at a show in a long time.

Some background.

About two years ago, it seems like, I was contacted by this white boy named Matt Grason who said he wanted to do a jazz album with vocals from hip hop artists.

"Like a Jazzmatazz thing?"

"No. I want to do a jazz album with hip hop artists."

"I'm not sure what you mean."

He sent me the track and then I knew exactly what he meant. He meant exactly what he said. It was a real jazz track with a 3/4 time signature. "How am I supposed to rap to this, I thought?"

Everything turned out great, and little less than a year later Motel was released. And last night I performed with Motel live for the first time at DC9.

I was a little nervous, having never rehearsed with them before and having recorded the song more than a year ago. I did muffle one particularly important line, so I may or may not be posting the video footage (I'm anal that way) but it was a decent set. Pretty dramatic too. I arrived, literally, five minutes before it was my turn to perform. Matt didn't even know I was there. I just kinda walked up on stage. He was like, "Who's this guy just walking up on stage like this?" He almost called security.

And now, the funny part.

There was a freestyle session for all the artists in the middle of the set. I did my thing. A rather humorous two-minute nonsensical rant, including non-words, scatting and a few grunts. Then I ended with "Vote for Obama!"

The crowd went nuts. Three dozen or so white folks with a few specs of chocolate and caramel scattered about (most of them performing artists).

As I was leaving I was accosted by this very drunk white boy. "Are you the Obama guy?"

"Yes, I am."

"That was fucking awesome, dude. I've been working in politics my entire life. We've got to get that motherfucker in office, man."

He was standing close enough to kiss me.

"If I give you something, do you promise to give Obama 50%?"

"Sure, whatever you say."

Then the motherfucker gave me a $20 bill.

"You make sure you do it, man. We gotta get that motherfucker in the White House!"

Sure thing. Then I made a bee-line out of the door before his friends could talk some sense into him. But not before I got me a picture.

This, ladies and gentleman, is my new best friend: Drunk, Surprisingly-Passionate, White Barack Obama Supporter.


Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com

Important note: If you read this blog on a Ning social networking site, I'll be switching to an RSS feed on Monday. What does that mean, Mr. Fancy Computer Talk Man? It means you can still read the blog on the site, but instead of it being in the center column in the actual BLOG section, it will be in the left column. If that seems unnecessarily cumbersome, you can always check me out at my home site.

http://www.coolceebrown.blogspot.com

Also, you may or may not be receiving those annoying emails every morning anymore. I haven't figured out how to freak that yet. But this is a good thing because it's going to save me about a half-hour every morning. Stay tuned.

Shameless Plug: I'll be performing live tonight at Penguins with Dirty Water. If you're in the Baltimore area, come check us out. (Penguins - 1065 Maiden Choice Lane Baltimore, MD)

Dream On Dreamer

Okay:

So, I recently noticed that I haven't been dreaming lately. I used to dream all the time. I once read somewhere that you dream every time you go to sleep, but you don't remember most of them.

Most of my dreams are recurring and deal with my anxiety issues.

There's the one where I get to school and realize that I forgot to put clothes on. Funny thing is, no one else ever notices. I'm not surrounded by a circle of laughing, taunting classmates. I'm just sitting there in class in my draws and I have to go find clothes before anyone realizes. I guess that has something to do with my fear of being unprepared or something, or my insecurities about having been such a terrible student and, for a long time, socially awkward.

I have often wondered why I am never completely naked. I've always got my draws.

Maybe my clothes are a metaphor for my social facade. Maybe I'm afraid that if I was ever truly myself, no one would notice me.

As a side-note, I think we are only a few decades away from it becoming socially acceptable for young people to walk the streets in their underwear. Liberalism is progressive. You gotta be thinking, "what's next?"

After that I don't think it will be altogether uncommon to see people having sex in public. A park bench. A metro train. We'll be the old fogies who think it's inappropriate and crude. The kids will be like, "Shut the fuck up old man and mind your business!"

But I digress.

Then there's the one where I get into a fight, but I can't lift my arms to throw a punch. This faceless bully-type is chasing me and wailing on me but I can't defend myself. My arms are too heavy. I try to run, but I can't do that either.

Maybe the bully is me, I think. Maybe I'm tired of the internal struggle and I'm giving in to the lower part of my nature.

Or maybe I should take boxing lessons.

I also think that because of the culture of violence we've all been steeped in, it will soon be no more than a misdemeanor for you to kick someone's ass. As it should be.

Then there's the one where I've committed some kind of horrible crime and gotten away with it. Robbed a bank. Killed someone. And I spend the entire dream trying to cover up my misdeeds. It eventually becomes this huge cluster-fuck, and I wake up grateful that it wasn't real.

Then there's the one where I discover that I have been unconsciously stealing material from other artists. I hear a song on the radio that sounds like one of my songs only it's not me singing it. But they haven't stolen the song from me, I have stolen it from them. Very embarrassing actually.

And finally, there's the sex dream. It usually involves me getting ready to have sex. I never actually get to do the deed. The woman is never faceless. It's always someone I know. I just may never have realized that I wanted to sleep with her. It generally involves the woman making some sort of overt proposal for some extremely casual, unbridled romping. Which I generally can't resist even when I'm awake. Predictably, I always wake up right before I'm about to get some. Which sucks.

You may have noticed that none of these dreams are particularly pleasant, save the last one. Except there I'm always robbed of a happy ending. I think this is a reflection of my generally pessimistic outlook on life. Or, perhaps, these sorts of dreams are more common than I think they are.

Post a comment. Share a dream of yours or offer an interpretation of one of mine.


Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com

Shameless Plug: I'll be performing live tonight at DC9 (1940 9th St, NW WDC) with Motel, a jazz/hip hop fusion band. If you're in the DC area tonight, come through.

The Sex Spectrum Theory

Okay:

Today's blog is going to be about sex again, so be forewarned.

So, what's up with women not wanting to have sex? What's going on there?

As a teenager, I had been totally comfortable with the fact that there was never any guarantee of sex, that it was something you earned through hours of coaxing and being "sweet" or something you simply lucked upon. As I got good and settled into my twenties, however, it became a foregone conclusion. Getting laid, after a while, was no longer a big deal. It was inevitable, in fact, and happened far more frequently than I had ever dreamed it would.

Now, unfortunately, as I approach thirty, I am noticing a trend shift. More and more often, I'll be expecting to get some and won't get any at all. I'm sixteen all over again.

I'm still trying to figure out whether or not this is a good thing. Of course, you don't want to be a whore forever. But in some situations, dare I say, I think it's a reasonable expectation.

I was talking to a lady friend of mine on the phone the other day and she mentioned something that clicked a dim light on in my primitive male brain. While she does not mind being single, and has no plans of becoming celibate, she has realized that there are certain rules and guidelines to the game of casual sex to which a woman in her thirties must adhere if she plans to protect herself from a rather juvenile case of broken heart.

Single, intelligent, sexually active women do not have casual sex with men they consider to be in the "candidate pool". This "candidate pool", I have learned, consists of men that a woman knows who have presented the requisite traits and attributes for being considered for an exclusive, progressive relationship.

In short, a woman should not "fuck" a man she considers "lovable".

Not "lovable" in the casual sense of the word, like a puppy or a friendly midget, but in the practical sense. That is, a man they could fall in love with.

I know, fellas. Absurd.

Apparently, the logic goes as follows:

"If he's cute and he turns you on and you think he might be good in the sack, give him some. If he's all those things, maybe even to a lesser degree, but is also atypically kind and sensitive, cultured, mature, intelligent and ambitious, then make him wait."

Preposterous, right? But I shit you not, this is the way they think. And it's mostly our fault for being so callous in our kind of seek-and-destroy approach. They have adapted and evolved as a gender. Our covers are blown. They have figured us out.

So, if you want sex from a woman, but you're not interested in anything beyond that, here is the trick. Be "just nice enough". Don't be a prick. That won't get you anywhere. Be nice. But just enough. Occasionally you must do something assholish to remind her that she could never be with someone like you. Something that will remove you from the candidate pool.

See, if you look at it like a spectrum consisting of four overlapping "zones" or "pools", then it makes sense.

It begins with the dreaded "friend zone". Here you have no chance of getting any because you have somehow trained her to regard your penis as an afterthought.

Then there is what they call the "yummy zone". Here she is planning to give up the draws just as soon as the opportunity presents itself because she finds you so "yummy".

Then there is the bittersweet "candidate zone", or "pool" as it were. Here sex is a possibility, but only under the "right" circumstances. And if it does take place, things will only get more complicated from there. This is my least favorite place to be.

Then there is the "asshole zone". There are many ways to get here, before or after sex. Ironically, there is a strong possibility of sex here. She hates you, and for women, that is intoxicating. Fortunately, this is reversible. It's far better to be here than in the friend zone though. You're more likely to get laid.

So, there you have it.

Fellas, I know. You're welcome.

Ladies, I challenge you to apply this theory to every man you know and see if it doesn't hold water.

I invite your comments.


Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com

Postnote: This spectrum theory does not take into account the "indifferent zone", the category into which most men a woman knows would fall.

Mind Your Business

Okay:

One thing I do like about America is its fostering of the entrepreneurial spirit. In America, everyone is a business man. Perhaps that's overstating it.

In America, everyone wants to be a business man.

I don't think I have any friends who haven't made at least one failed attempt at starting a business. They all start of so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. So American. So confident and self-assured that they refuse to acknowledge even the most basic fallacies in their well-intentioned endeavors.

Myself included.

"So, Cee Brown," you say. "What kind of business did you try to start?"

I did what most black men my age with any sense of style would do. I started a record label.

Correction. I started 4 record labels. In 4 short years.

And, surprise, surprise, I never made a dime.

In fact, I lost thousands.

I lost sleep.

I lost time.

I lost friends.

And, eventually, I lost hope.

So, I did what I always do when I lose hope. I called the only person I know who will give me a straight answer when I ask for it.

You guessed it. I called my sister.

Just a little background here. My sister is Wall Street stock broker with an MBA from Wharton. (That's Trump's Alma mater). She has an opinion about everything, but her opinion in this arena is particularly valid, wouldn't you say?

It was a long and revelatory conversation, but only one key phrase stood out.

"You ain't no Puff Daddy."

I told my business partner about our conversation the next day. His response was a solemn, "Goddamn."

The thing about starting a record label is, people don't buy records anymore. Music is, for all intents and purposes, free. So selling CDs is like selling VCRs or, like, tap water. And a business cannot thrive if no one will buy its product or service. That's kind of, like, the point.

The truth is I am an artist. But growing up watching guys like Puff Daddy, Master P, 50 Cent, and Jay Z become multi-multi-multi millionaires by mixing a little business savvy with their artistry makes you want to believe that you can do it too.

But you can't.

Not because you don't want to, and not because you don't have the talent, but because you don't have the capital. None of those guys walked into somebody's office with their pockets turned out and started talking shit then turned up on the Forbes list five years later.

One of the first things they teach you in business school, apparently, is that you need money to start a business. Skimming off the top of your monthly income ain't gonna cut it.

It would also help to have a plan written out.

And it wouldn't hurt to do some market research.

And accurate records of expenditures and earnings.

Yeah. Sounds like homework, right? It's a lot more fun to dream up clever names and cute little logos and buy your own postage meter. Yessiree, those crocheted draws will be selling like hot cakes in no time. Then you could spin that into a talk show or some kind of pseudo reality sit com jump off 'cause your family is so funny and kooky and you think people would enjoy watching you all just do stuff and then you could put out a record because your true passion is music and, of course, you'll go platinum and get nominated for a Grammy and then be invited to co-star in a movie opposite Will Smith and get a surprise Oscar nomination and win and get caught on the way home driving drunk--'cuz who needs a driver?--with cocaine in the armrest and become a national sensation/scandal and then no one will hear from you for a while until your long-awaited comeback five years later when you're all seasoned and respectable and you'll finance and star in a cute little independent film that critics hail as "the most touching film of the year" or "gripping" and and you end up at the Oscars again, but it's all old news now and when you don't win it's even cooler than when you did win because you don't care now and the Academy's full of shit anyway.

And all this from selling crocheted draws on your social networking page with the money you were going to spend on grad school.

Now that is the American Dream.

Pun intended!


Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com

Factoid: Successful or not, having a business is great at tax time. But every time I do my taxes and the lady asks me what kind of business it is, I'm always kind of embarrassed to say it's a record label. Then she looks at me sort of funny as if to say, "You the third nigga today."

The Agony Of Da Feet

Okay:

Everyone needs to have someone in their corner, egging them on, telling them they can do it, telling them when they're loafing and telling them when to throw in the towel.

Carl Weathers had Tony Burton.

I've got my big sister.

It's a little different. I'm about three inches taller than Carl Weathers, but we do have a similar physique. My sister has more hair than Tony Burton, and a vagina. But other than that, we ready for the stallion.

Most of the time she's coaching me on life's basics: parenthood, financial planning, relationships, career choices, etc. and what have you.

Sometimes the topics are slightly more superficial. However, this does not suggest that she is less passionate in her opinion. Quite the contrary actually.

Although my sister is a real and pure alpha dog, she is also quintessentially feminine and loves nothing more than being a girl. It's a crazy little dichotomy, but she works it. Thus, the topic about which she is most passionate...is grooming.

So, yesterday we spent a little over an hour on the phone talking about, you guessed it, my feet.

It started like this. The other day I asked a young lady to rate my feet on a scale of 1 to 10. After I assured her that I wouldn't get mad or hold it against her, she gave me her answer.

5.

I know. I was expecting a 6, at least. After all, it's just the nails really. And she agreed, "Your feet themselves are fine. It's just the discoloration of the nails. It's really gross."

"Exactly, Claude," my sister said upon hearing this. "Why don't you go to the podiatrist?"

"The podiatrist is gay."

Then she got angry. "No, the podiatrist is not gay, Claude! Jesus!"

"But---"

"But nothing. 'Cuz that shit is gross. Don't nobody want someone lying next to them with crusty ass toenails. Tearin' up your nice, pretty sheets."

"But---"

"No, Claude! Like, crustiness is not cool. Like, what's up with your crustiness?"

"I'm sayin---"

"You can minimize your crustiness. You can put the podiatrist on your insurance. It'll cost you a couple bucks. They'll look at your nails and, like, take off the dead ones. It won't even hurt. Then new ones will grow. And you'll have, like, a perfectly good not-dead nail."

"But---"

"Say no to crustiness! You live a crusty ass life. And you deal with crusty bitches."

"But---"

"Like, the other day...[humorous anecdote removed at big sister's request]..."

"Okay. I'll make an appointment."

"Thank you."


Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT:
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com

Confession: I am making a podiatrist appointment because I plan on wearing sandals and flip flops this summer.

The Making Of A Freak

Okay:

So, I lost my virginity when I was thirteen.

People I meet from other places are sometimes shocked to hear this. And transplants who have lived in DC for a while say that this is unique to our region. We screw early.

She was twelve, I think. It makes me shudder to think that my little darling will be twelve in five short years. Hopefully, I will have instilled in her a desire to wait until she's old enough to handle the mammoth responsibility of being sexually active.

She was not an unattractive girl. Though I can't say I can clearly remember exactly what she looked like. I do remember that she had a really big butt for a seventh grader.

It went down like this.

I was a scruffy little fucker. I only bathed about three or four times a week. Yes, I was one of those funky kids. I got over it in the ninth grade but for a couple of years there, I was not the freshest fruit in the basket. My hair was a matted Amistad mini-fro (chic for the times, by the way). My clothes were dingy and a few steps outside of what would be considered fashionable. In retrospect, I was a school shooting waiting to happen.

I say all that to say this. It is a miracle that I lost my virginity at all. But you know girls. They find the strangest things attractive.

This girl was well-to-do and lived a half-hour outside the city in a Virginia suburb. Her father picked me up from the metro station, further away from home than I had ever been on my own, and dropped us off at their house. Then he went off to go see someone or make an appointment or whatever.

That's right.

He picked my dirty ass up from the train station, then left me in the house alone with his twelve year-old daughter.

Amazing, right?

As is often the case with pre-teen "love", we had thoroughly discussed exactly what was to take place. There was no spontaneity. There was no begging or pleading. This had all been planned. With little opposition on her part.

Once alone in her spacious basement bedroom, she disrobed. I did not.

Again. She disrobed but I remained fully clothed. I never even took off my jacket.(A knee-length, hooded, indigo-blue denim Corniche.)

You may be pleased to hear that we were very careful. I had brought the necessary equipment and had never imagined proceeding without such. Though, obviously, I haven't always been as careful since then.

So, I mounted her, so to speak, fully clothed, jacket included. It was over, predictably, within seconds. I don't remember it being particularly enjoyable for either of us. But I do remember being quite proud and relatively sure that I was the first among my small circle of friends to lose his virginity.

I don't suppose, therefore, that I was satisfied after that. And this is where, I guess, things got bad for me. I don't want to give you all the nasty little details because, after all, this is the Internet. I may want to run for mayor one day. Let's just say this. Anything I have ever done sexually, freaky-wise, I tried it out the day I lost my virginity. Literally.

It was more like an experiment than an exercise in unbridled carnal passion.

"Let's try this."

"Okay."

"And a little bit of this too."

"All right. You aren't going to tell anyone, are you?"

"'Course not." (I told EVERYBODY!)

A few hours later, as the sun was setting, her father arrived and drove me all the way back to DC. I shit you not! You can't make this shit up.

Predictably, she was pregnant before she finished junior high school. I assure you I had nothing to do with that. She was passed around and around and developed what might be the worst reputation any pre-teen girl has ever had. Isn't that sad? She was a social outcast. Kids are cruel. But I'm not sure adults would have treated her any differently.

I've often wondered whether or not I was the catalyst. Malcolm X expressed similar regrets in his autobiography about his first girlfriend, who went on to become a hard-living lesbian prostitute.

I don't know whatever happened to this girl, but I imagine she turned out all right. They were pretty well-off. And money can fix just about anything.

What was your first time like?


Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com

Confession: We had one follow up encounter in the woods. To this day I have a woods thing. Some people like elevators and bathrooms. But to me, nothing beats a log in the forest (pun intended).

Silence Is Golden

Okay:

So, apparently I tend to rub people the wrong way. Women in particular.

While this may not be surprising to you, it is certainly disheartening to me. I kind of fashion myself as a gentleman. The kind of guy that women use as a point of reference.

"See, Nadir really knows how to treat a woman." Like that.

Or like this.

"He's all right, but he's no Nadir."

But the older I get, the less it seems to work out that way. This may have been true when I was in high school, college, even five or four years ago. But these days I seem to be getting in a lot of trouble for, you guessed it, my big fat mouth.

But it wasn't until I had a conversation with an old friend yesterday that I was able to wrap my brain around the why of it all.

I was telling her all about this argument I had at work with these two sisters. I had offered an anecdote and posed a pedagogical/philosophical question. Student A is a graduating senior but reads on a second grade level. Student A does not want to do his reading assignment. Student A asks to go see his therapist. And Mr. Nadir says, "Hell no. Read your goddamn book."

Was Mr. Nadir wrong?

I won't bore you with all the educational theory and child psychology embedded in that question, but in the end these two women both agreed that I was unqualified to work with children with special needs. One suggested that I go find another job. The other suggested that I go back to school. Then they made some slightly veiled hints that I might do with some therapy myself.

After relaying this story to my old friend she said, "Can I ask you a serious question without you getting offended?"

"Sure," I said.

"Why do you think women dislike you so much?" she asked. "And don't just give me a quick, superficial answer. I want you to really think about it."

"Well, I'm not disrespectful, I don't think."

"I'd agree with that."

"I'm not overly flirtatious when I don't feel it's welcome."

"Definitely not."

"So what is it?"

"You tell me."

"Hmmm."

Then it hit me. "I'm too opinionated. Women don't think men should have opinions. They'd prefer it if we'd keep our mouths shut and sit there looking masculine. Holy shit! That's so sexist. It's, like, the reverse of the traditional paradigm."

"I don't think that's it at all. Most women prefer a man with an opinion."

"No-ho-ho. I'm dead on with this one. Women don't want to hear shit you have say about anything if you don't agree with them. They don't know how to handle your difference of opinion without personalizing it. So, when I tell a co-worker that I think the kids abuse their clinical therapy, she's insulted because she's a clinical therapist. So, her response is to tell me I'm unqualified to teach. You see? I express an opinion, she makes a judgement."

"But that's just one scenario."

"No, it happens to me all the time. I'm always getting laid out by some woman. Then my boys say to me, 'Why do you talk so much? Just don't say shit. You know they don't want to hear anything you have to say. If you don't agree, just nod and shrug your shoulders. Like we do. It's easier that way.'"

"You might have a point."

And I do, don't I?


Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com

Innocent Question: After the clinical therapist told me I should find a job elsewhere I said, "You know you kind of hurt my feelings. I didn't know you had such a low opinion of me."

So, she said, "I was just keeping it real."

So, I said, "That's cool. Now I have a low opinion of you."

Was that nasty? It just kind of came out.

Badd Daddie

Okay:

If you don't have kids, this may not be funny. But if you're planning on having them, it surely is educational.

So, my daughter and I had a little episode this weekend. Sometimes I worry that if I reveal too much about my kid in this here blog of mine, and I through some bizarre twist of fate become successful one day, and these writing are unearthed and made truly public, then she will hate me for the rest of her life.

But this was just too funny to keep to myself.

So, it's my theory that every parent has his or her area of expertise. Something that you have to offer your child that no one else can deliver. Mine is an unwavering insistence that she do things on her own.

I don't know what kind of pathology is behind it, but I'm really serious about it.

Anyways, she wanted to play Monopoly. Now, she's only 7 and the box clearly says from 8 to Adult, but I figured what the hell. In case you've forgotten, Monopoly is a horribly complicated game. The instructions are, like, eight pages long with subheadings like "Mortgaging Properties" and "Purchasing Utilities". But, fuck it, right?

So, we start playing and the kid decides she wants to buy, like, Vermont Avenue, or something. $260. So, I tell her to count out $260 and give it to the bank. She looks at her stack of play money, the different colored bills, and shrugs her shoulders.

"You know how to count money, sweetheart. Count out $260."

She got really frustrated after a while and said she didn't want to buy Vermont Avenue anymore.

"Well, now you have to buy Vermont Avenue. Either you buy Vermont Avenue or there's no dessert for you, young lady." Then I left the room to give her some privacy.

Eventually we sorted the money thing out. As it turns out, she didn't have enough small bills to come up with exactly $260, and that's what was confusing her. She did, however, have 2 $500 bills. So I had to explain the whole concept of change. But by the time we got through all that, she really didn't want to play anymore.

And neither did I.

So, she said she was hungry. I told her that I had bought a bag of Honey Dijon Kettle chips just for her and they were sitting on the kitchen counter. She went and got them and brought them to me.

"I'm not opening them for you. If you want some chips, open them yourself."

She gave the bags a few light tugs, then shrugged her shoulders. "You can open that bag of chips yourself, honey. I wouldn't tell you to if I didn't think you could do it."

She gave the bag a few more tugs then bust out crying.

"Jesus," I exclaimed. "What's the problem?"

No answer. Just sobbing.

"Well, can you go to your room until you finish crying? I'm trying to watch The Godfather."

She came back a few moments later with a letter she wrote to her grandmother. It read:

"I am a dethly scard sad kid. and I'm hungry/starving. My Dad won't help me with enything hes beyeng sellfish and mean"

It was followed by another letter.

"My Dad is beying unrispectfull unfayr and meen"

This one had pictures. There were two hearts. One had a smiley face that said "befor". The other had a sad face that said "now".

I know. Isn't she adorable?

My sister said I should have them framed. Of course, this is the kind of thing school counselors report you to child protective services for these days. So, I "processed" with her. (It's a fancy word I picked up in teacher education class. It means that after you discipline a child, you should talk to them about why they were disciplined so that they understand it wasn't personal.)

I tried to explain to her that the chips and the Monopoly money are like the world. You can't just sit there and wait for someone to do it for you because you're a little intimidated. You have to take initiative and give it a go on your own. "If you believe in yourself, you can open those chips!" I exclaimed. "Now if you're not strong enough to open the chips with your hands, then how else can you open them?"

She thought for a moment. "Can I use scissors?"

"Of course you can."

She cut open her bag of chips and went in the next room to watch Hannah Montana. And things were back to normal, for a while.

Next stop. Menstruation.


Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT:
http://blackbroadway-online.com

Factoid: She beat me twice in Uno this weekend, fair and square.

Portrait Of A Blogger As A Young Man

Okay:

So, maybe you were wondering what I was like when I was a kid. Maybe you weren't, but if you were, that's what today's blog is going to be about.

According to my sister I was "the sweetest, cutest little boy" but I was also "very sad."

I'm constantly telling people that my childhood is a big blur. And it was, to a certain extent. I don't remember my first anything. The only things I remember vividly are moments of extreme discomfort.

Those times my sister remembers me looking sad, I was probably just uncomfortable.

Nothing made me more uncomfortable than being asked to participate in sports.

I just could not make myself give a damn what happened to the ball. It was a game. So by definition, it's nothing to get terribly excited about. There was nothing tangible to again by winning. If you won, the most you got was a fleeting sense of pride. Then it was over. Thanks, but I'll pass. Masturbating is far more productive. At least you have something to show for your efforts when you're finished and you don't have to listen to all that goddamn positive encouragement.

This diatribe makes me wonder what it would have been like to have my old gym teacher, Mr. Patty, as a masturbation coach. "Come on, son! You can do it! STROKE!"

My daughter is the same way. No competitive spirit whatsoever. We had her in soccer last spring. Every time the coach put her in the game I was reminded of myself. The other kids, and we're talking about first graders here, instinctively were invested in the outcome of the game. But not my kid. You could almost hear her thinking, "Wow. Everyone is so excited. This is really intense."

Then she would invariably get distracted by a flower or a bumblebee.

"Go get the ball, honey!" I would scream from the sidelines.

"But that other little girl is playing with it right now, daddy!" she would say.

Everyone else thought it was hilarious, but it made perfect sense to me. Why would she want to infringe on her happiness when she was perfectly happy where she was?

But, truly, it was torture for me as a kid. Little boys always want to play sports. It's their default social activity. And I never wanted to be exposed. So I learned some clever little coping techniques like, you guessed it, making people laugh.

Imagine if you lived in a society where the thing you were worst at was the sole measure of your worth.

What are you really bad at? Cooking?

Imagine if when you were a kid all anybody ever wanted to do was cook. Cook, cook, cook, cook, cook all the live long fucking day. And when the other kids discovered that you didn't know how to crack an egg properly or your pie crust was too dry or you kept burning the fucking goddamn biscuits or whatever, they treated you like a leper.

I was, however, relieved to learn later that there were other socially acceptable activities like drugs and sex. So, I spent most of high school getting really good at those things.

So, that was me a kid.

It kind of sucked.


Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com

Factoid: I was pretty good at dodgeball though. I got to throw things at all the people I hated. Now there was a game. Did you know that there is a national movement to eliminate dodgeball from gym class? We're turning into a nation of sucker-for-love-ass tricks.

A Funny Thing Happened

Okay:

Funny things are always happening to me. Funny things probably happen to you too. And if they do you should share them in the comment box thingy.

Today I will share three amusing anecdotes with you because they made me laugh and they may do the same for you.


Anecdote 1: "The Blackout"

My White Homegirl and I have this ongoing thing. I have a really hard time paying attention to her when she talks. I'm not like that with everybody though. Just her and, like, math teachers. It's not that she's boring or anything. She's actually one of the more interesting people I know. It's just that sometimes when she talks it's like I can't hear her voice or something. I totally miss everything. It's as though she said nothing at all.

She gave a presentation to the staff yesterday afternoon on "summarizing text". I sat right up front to show my support, and I tried extra hard to pay attention. About forty minutes into the thing she got to the part about synchronizing information and asked the group how they thought this skill might be helpful in the classroom. No one was responding to her question though. They all just kind of sat there silently, which I thought was rude. So I raised my hand.

"I think this would be good for helping kids to learn how to filter out important events in a story," I said confidently.

She paused, then her face turned bright pink. "Right," she said smiling a forced smile. "That's kind of like what we were just talking about a few minutes ago."

Then I looked around and everyone was looking at me funny, kind of shaking their heads like "that's a damn shame".

I mean, the entire room.

It took a while to register, but apparently, I had missed about a ten minute block of the presentation. I was sitting right there. I wasn't reading or writing or engaged in some other activity. I had simply zoned out and missed it all. Like an alien abduction. Except without the aliens and the anal probe.

The punchline is, I did it again a half-hour later.


Anecdote 2: "Man Loses Foot In Mouth"

I was in the cafeteria eating breakfast with a colleague. A brother in his early thirties, teaches English a few doors down from me. We're in the cafeteria eating Eggo's or whatever when this kid walks in. He's a really small guy with pretty low cognitive skills. He presents well though. You'd have to get him in the classroom to figure out how slow he is. You'd also have to read his file to find out how old he is. He's 16 or so, but he looks 12.

Because he's so small people are always picking on him and because he's so slow, he doesn't understand that he can't fight everybody. It's actually quite annoying. He can't sit through an entire class period without trying to fight someone.

So he's mildly retarded (which is still a clinical term, by the way) with a severe Napoleonic complex. And that's certainly not a good thing.

Let me preface this by saying that I possess no filter. I am almost completely incapable of censoring myself. If you think my blogs are offensive, you should hang out with me for a day or so.

So the kid walks in and says something stupid, then he leaves. My colleague looks at me, shaking his head and says, "I worry about that kid."

Then I say, "Why? Because he's so fucking stupid?"

Then he says, "No. That's my nephew."


Anecdote 3: "My Jogging Pants Don't Have Pockets"

I went jogging this morning.

I know. You're proud of me. I can feel your pride through the Internet.

Anyway, I come rounding this corner. I got my iPod jamming and I'm catching my second wind. The endorphins are pumping and I feel great. I look across the street and there is this cute woman walking to the bus stop. I notice her, but I keep on jogging. Then, out of the corner of me eye I see her looking in my direction and mouthing some words I can't hear.

It took a split second for it to register that she might be talking to me. Here was this pretty lady on her way to work and I'm out in a decidedly unflattering sweatsuit and a second generation iPod and I need a haircut and I can't remember if I brushed my teeth or not. I took one ear piece out.

"Good morning, honey!" she screamed from across the street.

Wow. Last week some lady gave me her number at the bar and this week I'm being flagged down during my morning jog. I must really be aging well, I thought.

"Good morning to you!" I screamed back.

"How are you?!" she screamed.

"I'm fine and yourself!" I was just about to cross the street and see if we could exchange numbers or something when she screamed...

"Can I have 50 cents?!"

"I'm sorry?!!"

"50 cents?!"

"I don't have any money on me!!"

"Well, do you have a quarter?!!"

"Just my house keys!! My jogging pants don't have pockets!!"

"Oh. Well, thanks anyway!!"

Believe it or not, part of me thought briefly that I should start bringing spare change out of the house so I wouldn't miss anymore opportunities like this. Then my better reasoning conquered. I'd have to buy a new pair of pants to do that.


Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com

Confession: I just realized yesterday that my favorite suit no longer fits. It was sad.

8 Things I Would Change About Me

Okay:

I'm totally against plastic surgery, for the record. But if I were somehow made to get plastic surgery, here's a list of imperfections I would have corrected.

1. My Nose: It's a little on the swole side. I wouldn't mind so much except I read somewhere that a man's ears and nose keep growing until he dies. My Uncle Beau had a really big honker. It was ridiculous. Bumpy too. If that's what I have to look forward to then I may actually consider this if money permits. I don't need some cute little button. I just need, like, to get the bitch under control. I can already fit my thumb up there and I'm not even thirty yet.

2. My Height: I read somewhere that Michael Jackson had his shins elongated. I'm not sure if it's true, but, if it is, this is another procedure I'd consider. I'm about five foot six. Give or take. But I feel taller, y'know. I feel like I should be at least five-ten. People are always surprised to find out how short I am. I think it was some kind of mistake. Whenever I find myself standing next to someone who's a lot taller than me, I'm always thinking, "I could kill you with a karate chop to the adam's apple."

3. My Penis: Don't get me wrong. I think it's impressive. But in a perfect world, there are some things I would like to alter. I'd like more girth for one thing. It's not skinny, but it could be thicker. I'd like to have some of that baby arm action going, y'know. And I'd like my curve straightened. I just think it looks funny, kinda like a coat hook.

4. Hair Plugs: The baby face thing would be cool if it meant that people thought I was younger than I actually am. But most people think I'm somewhere in my mid-thirties, which used to be a compliment when I was a teenager. Now I think it's just the hard-living catching up with me.

The other day a kid said to me, "Nadir, you gotta be at least thirty."

And I was like, "I'm only 28."

And he was like, "Well, you're old enough to be thirty."

I'd like a beard though. Not a big bushy, non-profit director beard. Something classy yet rugged. They could take some of my leg hair and use that.

5. Ab-Etching: I've decided that I'm just too lazy to get rid of this gut of mine. I heard LL Cool J and Brad Pitt had it done. All I know is that the chicks really go for six packs. I'd walk around absent-mindedly lifting my shirt. Not showing off or anything. Just kind of scratching stuff. And if some lucky lady sneaks a peak, it's on her, y'know.

6. My Toe Nails: I'd like to have them all removed and replaced with new ones. I don't know if they can do that yet, but as soon as they figure out how, I'm on it.

7. My Shoulders: They're a little of the soft side. I'd like to get, like, a shelf thing going on. Like, built-in shoulder pads.

8. My Head: I'm pretty sure they don't know how to do this yet, but I want to get on the waiting list if there is one. See, I'd like to have a couple inches shaved off the circumference of my head. My head is abnormally large. I am blessed in that it is well-shaped, so it's not very noticeable. Most people with heads as big as mine have these misshapen cranium domes, but mine is nice, round and symmetrical. But it's huge. I wear the largest size in any fitted hat. I'd just like a smaller, peanut-type deal.

And that's about all, I think. I'll let you know if I can think of anything else.

If you're not shy, post something about yourself that you would have altered.


Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com

Confession: I'm quite satisfied with my arms. I think that for my build they're about as good as it gets.

Those Who Teach...

Okay:

So, believe it or not, I am the dumbest member of my family. The runt of the litter.

This does not make me dumb, so to speak. See, everyone in my family is super intelligent and well-educated. My sister is an MBA. My stepfather is a CPA. My mother has 2 MAs. I'm the only moron with out any initials after his name.

I tried grad school. Wasn't a good fit for me.

The going theory is that I did too many drugs in high school and college. "I think you may have smoked your brains out, Claude," my mother says.

"Are you trying to say I have brain damage or something?" I ask.

"Well, it's just that sometimes you make the stupidest decisions. I think maybe you lost some important things along the way while you were going through your rebellious phase," she says.

Well.

So, then I call my sister. "Hey, guess what ma said. She said she thinks I smoked my brains out in college."

"Well, there may be some truth to that," she says.

"Are you trying to say I'm stupid?" I ask.

"No, it's just that you were so smart when you were little," she says.

Well.

I try to keep things very superficial with my stepfather. He's 60 and he's from Harlem and he's done very well for himself. All that put together means he says whatever the hell he wants whenever he wants. That is not to say that he never practices restraint. He probably censors himself more than anyone will ever know, but when he lets it out, you better brace yourself.

"Hey, Ron," I say. "How's business?"

"I work hard, Claude. That's how business is. If a nigga wanna get ahead in the world, that's what he gotta do. I'm a nigga who understands that. Most niggas don't. You kind of understand it, but not really. Me and you gotta talk one of these days. So I can tell you what the fuck is really going on."

"Sure thing, Ron. Catch ya later."

Then there's my father. God bless him.

"Dad," I say, "You think I may have lost some brain cells in college?"

"Boy, ain't nothin' wrong with you. Everybody 'round here trying to act like they ain't never smoked no reefer before. I used to smoke reefers with those same niggas, back when I used to do that kind of thing. That's what young people do. What else you gonna do? You wasn't sniffin' no cocaine, was you?"

"No."

"Well, what is the big deal? You quit eventually, like everybody with any good sense does. You are the average American. Them Jew boys do the same thing, but they daddies give them little nest eggs to get things started so don't nobody notice that little Irving is kind of fried. Yo daddy ain't have nothing like that to give you, and neither did my daddy..."

Eventually I have to cut him off. He's 70, and believe me he can go on and on. Especially on the topic of Jews, to which all conversations eventually deteriorate.

This issue of my intelligence, however, is what has made leaving the education field difficult for me. I'm sure it's no secret, but the education field is full lazy morons. I mean, chock full. So, in a school building I stand out as a shining star.

"Nadir, you're so smart," people say.

"No, I'm not," I say. They think I'm being modest, but I'm not.

Maybe I could work for the government, become a bureaucrat. They've got plenty of retards in those buildings downtown. I could be, like, Lord of the Retards. Get it? Like Lord of the Rings, but Retards instead of rings.


Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT
http://blackbroadway-online.com

Factoid: While I may be the least intelligent member of my family, I do have the best singing voice. I am not, however, the best writer. That award would have to go to my sister, who reads this blog regularly and sends me emails about my spelling errors.

Unmarried With Children

Okay:

So, it's the new thing now. Everybody's running around here popping out babies with no spouse in the house. It's not the same as teenage pregnancy, where the likelihood of a shotgun wedding at a distraught father's behest is becoming increasingly less likely. I'm talking about grown folk with mortgages, car notes and decent health benefits, having children out of wedlock...on purpose.

Well.

To be fair, I think it's generally the woman's idea. I have heard a few of my homegirls say, "Married or not, when I'm thirty I'm having a baby."

No shit. I've heard variants of this statement from women who don't even know each other. So it's not like they're sitting around creating a consensus. Smart women. Dumb women. Fat. Tall. Ugly. Pretty. Most women I know feel like it's their civic duty to procreate. What a crock of shit!

I was raised by two very strong, extremely intelligent women. So, when I say things that could be interpreted as sexist in this here blog of mine, I try to imagine whether or not either of them would be offended. If I think they would be, I tone it down or I don't say it all. But this right here is the gospel. It is dumb to insist on having a child simply because you can.

Dumb.

So, you say, "Claude, didn't you have a child out of wedlock?"

Yes. And my daughter is the best thing that ever happened to me. And it's no accident that I never write about the circumstances under which she came into this world. That little piece of my life and hers will remain private. But suffice it to say, my biological clock was NOT ticking.

My theory is that women want babies, not children. Babies are cute and cuddly. Babies are warm and fuzzy. Babies will love you unconditionally. Babies smile when you walk in the room and cry when you leave. They're like puppies with no legs.

Listen to the way they talk when other women bring their babies around.

"Oh, he's so cute. I want a baby."

See? It may be an issue of semantics, but I think there's something to it. They never say that when some woman has to bring her attitudinal 12 year old to the hair salon. They don't say, "Oh, he's so cute. I want a hormonal pre-teen who's going through an I-only-shower-twice-a-week phase. Can I hold him?"

And then there's the men.

Yes, I have heard of a few men who desperately want to have children before they reach middle age, married or not. But the difference is that men generally do say they want to have "children." I don't think I've ever heard a man say that he wants a "baby."

When Johnny has to bring his baby to the cookout in one of those gay ass blue chest harnesses, the fellas don't all go, "Oh, he's so cute." They go, "Damn, bruh. Looks like you got caught out there. Got good to you and you didn't wanna pull out, huh?"

I must admit, however. I am slightly envious of my homeboys with sons. Just slightly. Not enough to go out and procreate. I can just visit them.

And so the women say, "Y'all don't be saying that when we having sex. But when we get pregnant, all of a sudden y'all don't want no children. Don't y'all know that's what sex is for?"

No, we don't.

And it's not like you all sit us down beforehand and tell us how bad you want children. I've never had a woman say to me before sex, "I thought that you should know that if a child is conceived during this sex act, I will carry the child to term and expect you to enthusiastically handle your role as father. I know that it would dramatically change your life and force you to make sacrifices you can't even imagine right now, so I felt it only courteous to make my position clear before you put your penis in my vagina."

And then I'd say, "Thanks but no thanks."

And she'd say, "That's cool. Well could you put on your clothes then. I'm gonna call someone who's ready to seed me."

And I'd say, "Cool beans. I'm gonna call someone who just wants to bust a nut."


Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT
http://blackbroadway-online.com

Confession: If a sane, reasonably attractive, intelligent woman was to become pregnant with my child and I had anything resembling tender feelings for her, I would consider proposing. Call me old-fashioned.

Two Minutes And Thirteen Seconds

Okay:

So I was at happy hour with a friend of mine the other day. Nothing unusual for me. Just trying to relax after a long day with America's troubled youth. I saw a young lady who caught my eye, and I suppose we exchanged some flirtatious glances. It was nothing overt. I passed it off as meaningless and ordered my drink. Vodka and Red Bull.

I didn't even notice her and her friend leave. I was later joined by more friends. We knocked back a few and recapped the day. Somebody got into a fight. Somebody kicked a hole in the wall. Someone was arrested. Nothing out of the ordinary.

The young ladies returned. The one who caught my eye had left her umbrella. We were now sitting in their seats, so they had to poke around a bit. And in the course of her poking around she poked her head between my friend and I, then placed her hand on my back.

A long time ago my sister taught me the secret of touching. If a woman barely knows you and intentionally touches you, that's a signal. Not an unintended brush or a friendly handshake. I'm talking about a hand on the shoulder, arm or back. If the hand stays there for longer than a two count, you've officially been invited.

I said something very Claude. Like, "Oh, baby, you can touch me anytime." I know, corny. But that sort of thing has always worked for me. I'm not sure why. You can't say it with nasty wantonness though, like you're ready to take her around back as if she were a common whore. It's gotta be light-hearted and self-deprecating in a way.

She giggled a bit, but did not remove her hand. She let it marinate for a while then slid it off. Then they decided to grab a table and have another round of drinks. In typical Claude fashion, I let it go. No need to be a hound dog. I played it cool and stayed with my group. By the time I was ready to go, I had forgotten they were still there.

As I was putting on my coat she motioned for me to come to their table. "Hi," she said, extending her hand. "I'm ______________. What's your name?"

I was shocked and flattered at her forwardness. It's a real ego booster to be approached by an attractive woman. I've always assumed that it was my personality that attracted women to me. To say half a sentence to a woman and pique her interest suggests that you're better-looking than you think you are.

She slid a folded up bar napkin over to me and told me to call her after 7.

The next day, I did just that. Around 9:30, after I put my daughter to bed, I gave her a call.

"Hello?"

"How are you?"

"Who is this?"

"This is Claude."

"Who?"

"Claude. I met you the other day at happy hour. You gave me your number and told me to call you after 7."

"Oh, right. The cute boy. I thought you were going to lose my number."

"No, I made sure I held on to it. Where are you? It's kind of noisy."

"I'm leaving church. I do Bible classes in the evening. Gotta get me some Jesus, you know."

"Yeah. Right. Jesus."

"Hold on. Put that down! Mommy said don't touch that!"

"Hello?"

"I got two kids."

"Oh. Two, huh? That's nice."

"You got kids?"

"One. She's 7 and cute as a button."

"I got a daughter. She broke my phone the other day. The screen's all busted and ---"

We were disconnected. When I looked at the screen on my phone, it said the call lasted two minutes and thirteen seconds. Long enough for me to realize I wasn't the least bit interested.

2:13. That's all I need.

She should wear a t-shirt that says, "I'm an unmarried Jesus freak with two kids who picks up strange men at bars."

No thanks, sweetie.


Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT
http://blackbroadway-online.com

Confession: Every time I have been approached by a woman, I have been utterly disappointed upon speaking to her later. Is there some correlation or is it a manifestation of that old joke? "I don't want to be a part of any club that would have me as a member."

Where Everyone Knows Your Name

Okay:

One of the five remembrances of the Buddha is "You will die some day; there is no way to escape death."

Heavy, huh?

The other day I got into a long debate with a friend of mine about what happens to you after you die. I discovered that I have a rather unconventional theory. Most people, I think, regardless of whether or not they subscribe to some organized religion, believe that after you die you go to Heaven or you go to Hell.

And most people believe that your actions here on earth will dictate what happens to you in the afterlife.

I think that's a crock of shit.

Of course, people who believe that also believe that God speaks to certain people and tells them to write books to spread his Word, even though up until a few hundred years ago, most of the world was illiterate. Imagine if God spoke to a prophet in today's world and told him to write a New Testament in html code. The computer geeks could make a killing saving souls.

I do believe, however, that nothing can ever really be destroyed. It merely changes shape. Death, in my opinion, is a transition. But if your physical body changes or decomposes, then it stands to reason that your consciousness would also change. Perhaps it would become something that you could not recognize. Assuming, of course, that there is still a "you".

Maybe the things that we stress out about every day don't amount to a hill of beans in the world that awaits us after death. Adultery. Murder. Rape.

Maybe God doesn't care about that kind of stuff. Maybe there is no punishment or reward. Maybe things are a bit more complicated than we think they are. Maybe there is no God, in the Divine deity sense of the word.

Or maybe God is like a Kindergarten teacher. If we're nice and we share and we don't tell lies and we play fair and we learn what we're supposed to learn, then we get some graham crackers and milk and twenty minutes of recess.

I'm sorry, but that sounds a lot like wishful thinking to me.

So what happens after you die?

Here's my theory.

See, throughout history people have imagined God to be like a strict but loving parent. I think God is more like a child. A toddler, in fact. We're his toys. He made us out of clay. And like a child loves his toys, so does God love us.

When we die, we go back to the big Play Dough wad in the sky. Whether or not we were good or bad, murderers or painters, saints or sinners, is a matter of what pleases him in that moment.

There is no justice.

There is no order.

Or...

You go to a nice pub where everyone knows your name, the women are easy and the beer doesn't taste like piss water. Now that's a heaven I can believe in.


Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com

Confession: When I was a teenager, I honestly believed that I would be dead before thirty. As a result, I really didn't plan for adulthood. Now I'm playing catch up.

Everything You Always Wanted To Know About Scientology But Were Afraid To Ask

Okay:

So I was on a date the other day. I took the young lady to a nice Thai restaurant just outside of downtown. I love Thai food, by the way. They do amazing things with peanuts.

My date, however, was not as fond of their creative use of the peanut. She had a very hard time finding something the on the menu that suited her tastes. For a moment I considered suggesting that we go to another restaurant but opted against it. I had my mouth all ready for some Seafood Panang.

Selfish, I know.

After the meal, we went for a walk to tour the shops and passed the Washington Scientology Center. "What do you know about Scientology?" she asked.

"Not much," I admitted. "It was started by a science fiction writer named L. Ron Hubbard and they don't believe in psychology."

"Oh," she said.

"Tom Cruise, Isaac Hayes and John Travolta are all Scientologists," I added. "And Brandy."

"Brandy?"

"Yeah. Brandy," I said. "I don't know how she got mixed up with that lot but I hear she's pretty deep into it."

"Wow."

"There's also aliens and shit, and some kind of spacecraft involved. And they use a cross so I'm assuming there's some Jesus to it."

"Freaky."

We absent-mindedly went about our business, browsing the shops, until the time on my meter ran out. While walking back to the car we were stopped by a young happy white guy in a vest, white shirt and tie. "Hey," he said, extra friendly, "Would you two like to see an informational film about Scientology? I have some free passes for you."

"Hell yeah," I said. "When does it start?"

"Right now if you're interested."

The young and happy white guy escorted us into the building and directed us downstairs to a private screening room. I had passed this building perhaps one hundred times in my life and had always been slightly curious about what it looked like on the inside. It looked a lot like a really nice college. A bit of a bland disappointment, but it was markedly clean.

There were lots of happy white people scurrying about. And one middle-aged black body builder, to be fair. It was difficult to determine what they were all doing, just coming and going I suppose.

The projectionist was a little happy white woman. She made sure we were comfortable and then went off closing the door behind her. Moments later the lights dimmed and the film started.

I was struck with an idea.

"Hey," I said to my date. "How hot would it be to make out during an informational film about Scientology? You can't make this shit up."

"No," she said, giggling. "The minute we get started they're going to barge in here and kick us out."

"That's the point," I said. "It's not fun unless we get caught."

My advances were rejected and I soon resigned to the boring notion of simply paying attention to the film. It was hosted by a real John Edwards looking motherfucker. You know, a real perfect American LL Bean catalogue white boy with flawless hair.

He went around holding infomercial-style interviews with staff members at Scientology offices across the country. They talked about L. Ron Hubbard, Dianetics, Auditing and dispelled any misgivings about Scientology's validity as a world religion. In the reaction shots, the host nodded his head repeating "Yes", "Mm Hm" and "I see". It was all ridiculously contrived. Still, it was hardly what one would consider informative on more than a surface level.

Then came the testimonies. An astronaut. A construction worker. A secretary. A black Baptist minister who exclaimed, "Scientology is a vair', vair' powaful thang."

Then the celebrities. Tom Cruise. John Travolta. Isaac Hayes. And Kirstie Alley, who I did not know about.

Then it was time for the host to seal the deal. Hard sell time. He stood in the lobby of a Scientology office building. The camera zoomed in on him. His eyes narrowed.

"You could leave this theatre today and not do anything with the information you've just received, never make another inquiry about Scientology. You would be stupid. But you could. You could also jump off a bridge or take a gun and blow your brains out. Or you could change your life for the better, starting today."

Of course, they hounded us a bit after we left the theatre. They offered us more brochures, a complimentary DVD. The more questions we asked though, the more she encouraged us to buy one of Hubbard's 60 or so books.

I left thinking, "It's not a church. It's an international fucking book store."

On the way to the car my date asked me, "So what about the aliens and shit?"

"I guess you gotta buy the books," I said. "Sheesh. At least Bibles are free."



Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT:
http://www.blackbroadway-online.com

Innocent Question: Don't you think this story would have been so much better if we had gotten kicked out for hunching during the movie? I gotta stop hanging with prudes.