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

Okay:

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

An example.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she can fix a toilet.

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

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

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

"Lactaid is 'da bomb'."

"South Africa is 'da bomb'."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twitter.

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


And those videos again.

Thanks for reading.


GOBAMA/BIDEN!


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


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

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

Okay:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the videos again...

Thanks for reading.


GOBAMA/BIDEN!


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


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

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

Okay:

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

Maybe that someone is me.

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

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

In lighter news, I have recommitted myself to celibacy.

You heard me. Celibacy.

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

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

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

A metaphor, if you will.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And reality television.

And happy hour.

And church.

Here are those videos in case you missed them.

Thanks for reading.


GOBAMA!...AND BIDEN.


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


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

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

Okay:

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

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

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

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

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

They'll smell you.

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

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

And 119 views of "Love's Holiday".

Not too shabby.

Thanks, everybody.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

8) Where exactly is "The Internet"?

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

10) Where's Malik Yoba?


Talk amongst yourselves.



Thanks for reading.


GOBAMA!


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


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

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

Okay:

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

So, what happened?

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

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

Oh well.

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

Yessir. I'm working on it.

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

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

"Thanks, Brian."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or a really good beejay.


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

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


Thanks for reading.


GOBAMA!


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


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

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

Okay:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Supergay.

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

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

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

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

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

Enough nostalgia.

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

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

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

Or something like that.

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

I know. I know. I know.

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

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

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

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

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

The Leak Continues this Thursday. Stay tuned.


Thanks for reading.


GOBAMA!


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


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

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

Okay:

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

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

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

I am three months behind on my bill.

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

I have gotta sell me some records, man.

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

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

Weird kid.

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

"How about a payment plan?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

"No, ma'am."

"Well, is that all then?"

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

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

Fucking faggot RCN fascist motherfuckers.

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

Know what I'm saying?

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

"Become more fiscally responsible, my son."

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

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

I'll keep you posted.

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


Thanks for reading.


GOBAMA!

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


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

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.