My Big Sister Kicks Ass!

Okay:

So my sister, the stock broker, was in town this weekend to run in the 32nd Marine Corps Marathon. In case you're one of my non-black readers, it may be worth the time to explain that there are several things most black people find strange. One is sleeping with dogs. Another is running for no reason.

Things I learned about the sport of running that I did not know before:

1. A "marathon" is exactly 26.2 miles.

2. Competitive marathon runners wear diapers so they won't have to stop to pee.

3. Kenyans are the fastest ethnic group on the planet--cheetahs of the race pool.

My mother, my stepfather, my daughter and I went down to Crystal Drive, hoping to catch her at the 18th mile. If you've never stood on the sidelines of a marathon, it is something I recommend highly. There are many laughs to be had.

First, a 60-year-old white woman busted her ass. Poor lady tripped over a cobblestone and landed on both knees. OUCH! Embarrassing, but humorous. Something about old people falling down. Call me sadistic. Don't worry though. She hit the button on her Life Alert bracelet and the MediVac was there within fifteen minutes.

Just joking. She dusted herself off and kept running. What a soldier.

Then there was the white woman in the SuperGirl costume.

I don't have anything else to say about that.

There was a brother with a bowtie.

When he paused for the picture he said, "Come on, brother, I ain't got all day." I thought that was funny.

Some things weren't funny at all, like all the Marines holding American flags with the names of their dead buddies on the backs of their t-shirts. One guy was pushing what can most aptly be described as a wheel barrel containing a man with no bones, just a smiling pile of flesh. Disturbing, yet inspirational.

Then came my sister. She stopped to talk for a moment and asked for some food. She said she spent a half-hour total in the Port-a-Johns. She peed in the bushes once. "I hope I don't get poison oak any place important," she said. Then she was off again.

Then we saw another white woman wearing a set of plastic devil's horns on her head. "Go, Devil!" my mother screamed. I though that was funny.

An hour or so later, we met her at the Iwo Jima Memorial. My sister had finished a marathon. What a fucking stud. She didn't even look that tired. Still had her makeup on. The bar has officially been raised, ladies.

Later that night my daughter asked her why she did it. "To see if I could finish," she said.

"Well," said my daughter matter-of-factly, "you did."

Congrats, Sis.


Thanks for reading.

Tip of the day: Ladies, never touch the dried up towel under your man's bed. Just leave it be.

3 Reasons Black Men Turn to White Women

Okay:

I got into this big discussion with my sister, the stock broker, the other day about interracial dating. Those of my readers who are not black may not realize how galvanizing a subject this still is in the black community.

On the one hand, you have this perception that any black man who dates or marries a white woman (and white woman specifically--there is less of a stigma attached to, say, an Asian or Latina) is suffering from some racial identity issues. At one extreme he would be considered confused, and at the other, a sellout. Kobe Bryant, Montel Williams, Cuba Gooding, Jr., etc. etc.

If you don't believe me, tell a black woman who doesn't follow sports that for the first time in NFL history, the two coaches who went to the Superbowl last year were both black men. She'll smile big and wide and beam with pride. Then tell her that they are both married to white women. Her smile will disappear. She may say something to the effect of "It figures."

According to my sister, black men do this because they attach a certain level of status to white women. A brother who is able to acquire one will be revered by his peers. Like a Porshe.

I believe this is an out-of-date concept. Maybe it was true in the seventies but I think there's more to it now.

3 Main Reasons Black Men Turn to White Women:

1. He was raised in a white a community: He's related to most of the black people he knows. Naturally, he would gravitate toward what he's been exposed to. Nothing conscious or intentional about it.

2. He is ignorant: He thinks that white women are more easy-going or emotionally mature and have more reasonable expectations. I would place most celebrities in this category.

3. He likes her: Wasn't necessarily out hunting for white women. He just met a woman that he got along with and was brave enough to say, fuck it.

Of course, at the end of all this, the question is "Have you ever dated a white woman?"

Nothing to be ashamed of, as if that needs to be said. I'm a proud, progressive black man. The answer is, Yes. One seriously. Several casually. To put this in perspective, because I go through spells of wild promiscuity, the white women I have been with constitute approximately 5 percent of my sexual history. Having said that, allow me to dispel some myths.

1. No, they are not more easy-going: They are just as irrational and unreasonable as any other color woman.

2. No, they are not "easy": They have sex under the same circumstances as everyone else-- because they're drunk, desperate or genuinely horny.

3. No, they do not give better blowjobs: This was the biggest disappointment. They apparently do not, as I was made to believe, go to white girl's blowjob camp at sixteen. They're pretty standard, actually.

I'm interested in your opinion, so please post a comment. Let's get some discussion going here.

I'm also interested in hearing what's behind the double standard about interracial dating in the black community. Why is it perfectly okay for a black woman to date a white man? In contrast to the feelings associated with the inverse, when one sees a black woman with a white man I think people say to themselves, "I bet he's treating her right."

Look at Halle Berry.

Thanks for reading.

Tip of the day: Apparently, you're supposed to shampoo and comb your pubic hair regularly. Who knew?

Shameless plug: Watch our exclusive interview with rapper Noreaga. Very interesting stuff about his relationship with the late Big Pun, www.youtube.com/blackbroadwayrecords

Forgetting Where I Came From

Okay:

I'm moving goddammit. The other day when my daughter and I got home, there were at least a dozen people gathered on the stoop getting high. One of them had a lawn chair. I saw them as I pulled into the parking lot and purposely parked as far away as possible. Only when we got out of the car it smelled like we were the ones smoking reefer.

Don't get me wrong, I used to smoke reefer in people's parking lots when I was a teenager, but now I'm an adult with a six-year-old and it's driving me crazy!

So, I went up the street to a pricier, nicer, more secluded complex and filled out an application. I move next month on the 17th. My new place has brand new carpet, a recently glazed tub, a balcony, a washer and dryer, a fitness room, a picnic area and--most importantly--a parking lot attendant.

I am officially bourgie.

Fuck it. I've been fighting it for years. All the black nationalist literature and hip hop music in the world cannot change the fact that a group of teenagers sitting on your steps smoking reefer is that last thing you want to see when you get home at 6:30pm. I don't give a damn if you're a garbage man, council member or a school teacher. If you work hard to pay your rent, certain shit is just going to burn your butter.

Bill Cosby was on Meet The Press this weekend. He was babbling about how so many black parents are not raising their black children to become productive members of society. Tim Russert did not challenge him like he challenges the white politicians who come on his show. He just let old Bill talk like he was soliciting donations for Save The Children.

Three years ago when he started this stuff, I immediately dismissed him as an old, out-of-touch, self-hating, bourgeoisie old school negro who has no idea what is really going on in the black community. How could he? Does he really still ride the bus? But this weekend, I listened. Bill, of course, has some valid points. And you must admire his candor.

The other day, Michael Eric Dyson was on NPR countering Bill's argument with some equally compelling rhetoric. According to Dyson, Bill is out of touch, and puts too much emphasis on personal responsibility, as opposed to the institutional racism that has given birth to the crisis in the black community.

Having said all that, ask me if I give a shit.

Go ahead. Ask me.

If Black Nationalist was a recognized political party, I would be a proud, card-carrying member. I love my people and I want to see our community grow and prosper. But at 28 I have made a conscious decision to no longer concern myself with the bottom feeders in our neighborhoods who care about nothing and will only bring the rest of us down. I'm talking about the people who let their children run the streets unsupervised. I'm talking about the people who throw trash in the street and vandalize everything. I'm talking about the motherfuckers smoking weed on my steps.

I'm down for the rest of us though. All the way, 100%. But those motherfuckers...those "adults" who haven't figured it out, don't want to figure it out, and never will figure it out...who has the time? Fidel Castro sent his trash to America on a chartered boat. I'm no martyr. I'm a father. And I'm tired.

Now, I shall step down from my soap box and get ready for work.

Thanks for reading.

Tip of the day: If you're not sure, wear two rubbers. It can't hurt.

Shameless Plug: www.blackbroadwayrecords.com

No Longer Young

Okay:

I'll be 28 tomorrow. Time for some serious self-reflection. 30 is right around the corner, no?

I recently had a heart-to-heart with my older sister, the stock broker, last week. She berated me for being fiscally irresponsible, immature, bad father, etc. etc. She's one of those people who feel better after telling someone how they really feel. It's like farting but with words.

She's right to a certain extent, I suppose. I am experiencing a second childhood. I believe I have an aversion to adulthood. It just sounds so boring. Paying your bills on time, keeping a well-stocked refrigerator, monitoring your credit, networking with the 'right' people, etc. etc. *yawn*

This developmental delay was put in perspective for me this weekend. Yesterday was my father's birthday. He just turned 70. Our family threw him a big catered thing at the church. It was nice. At some point two little girls, my cousins I believe, did some sort of spooky bizarre Christian interpretive dance with face paint and white gloves. Other than that, par for the course.

Later that night, however, I attended my 10 year high school class reunion. I went to an art school, and so, appropriately, the event was in Dupont Circle, DC's gay mecca. I was dressed to the nines and ready to see some of my classmates, the formerly cool turned tragically pathetic. I would walk around with a haughty grin, looking quite successful and generally pleased with myself. Maybe reconnect with a honey or two. Hell, maybe get laid.

The reality was a severe disappointment. The whole event was utterly forgetful. Hardly anyone showed. And of the four women that did show, one was an obvious lesbian, and one was Honda hatchback pregnant. The only people I spoke to were people I still communicate with anyway.

How does this give me perspective?

The glory days of my youth are officially over. My high school reunion has come and gone and I am no better for it. An important milestone, casually and predictably underdone. I am forced to move on without my consent.

In 2 years I'll be 30. Why is 30 so significant? Not because you're officially old but because you are officially not young. I will no longer be a young man. My failings will be magnified and all criticisms will invariably be followed by, "For Christ's sake, you're THIRTY."

Not old, mind you. My father is old. I'm not old. I'm just not young anymore.

But there is another way to look at my behavior that my sister and other critics may have overlooked. Perhaps I am not delayed but advanced. We have all heard of the mid-life crisis. Presumably, men reaching middle age will begin to regress socially in an effort to recapture the excitement of youth and escape the boredom of adulthood. Perhaps I am having my mid-life crisis early.

This would explain a lot. My series of meaningless sexual relationships. My aversion to commitment. My fiscal recklessness. My drinking.

If my theory holds up, however, once I'm over all this, I'll have the wisdom and patience of a senior citizen in my forties. So while my friends are buying motorcycles, piercing their ears and sleeping with their secretaries, I'll be nice and settled. All fuckery officially out of my system.

So you see, I am actually ahead of the curve.

Thanks for reading.

Tip of the day: Apparently, it is unhygienic to use the same washcloth on your butt crack that you use for the rest of your body.

Shameless plug: Make sure you visit my website http://www.blackbroadwayrecords.com/ as I have made some major improvements.

Apology: I know I have not posted in almost 2 weeks. This is largely due to the fact that I have been wokring diligently at improving the look and feel of the website. So make sure you check it out. http://www.blackbroadwayrecords.com/

I Wouldn't Trade It For The World

Okay:

My long-time friend, creative and business partner, Joe, had his thirtieth birthday this month. His wife texted me Saturday morning about a surprise party at Mahogany on U Street.

Joe and I went to college together. We were both part of a larger crew of people from the Washington, DC area at this small black university in Durham, North Carolina. We were in a short-lived go-go band together and eventually started a rap group, Dirty Water. We'll be releasing our second long player this fall (shameless plug). Anyway, it' been almost 10 years. Now he's thirty, married, with a house, an SUV and an infant son. The American dream. He's on the board of trustees at his church. They gave him keys.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not jealous. I'm just in awe. Always have been.

I was there before all these things happened. I remember him telling me, "I'm about to get married."

And I remember thinking, "Why would you want to do that?"

I mean, I told my ex that I would marry her, but that was only because she wouldn't drop it. I would have never said such a thing were I not under duress.

The house, the SUV, the son. At each interval I privately scoffed at his undertaking of new responsibilities. I thought he was crazy. Now he has this whole manhood package, and I'm still downloading porn, paying my rent late and eating noodles for dinner.

Again, I'm not jealous. I don't want what he has. It just all happened so fast is what I'm saying.

Anyway, of course I wouldn't miss his party for all the cognac in France. I get to the restaurant and am greeted by a group of his friends that I know only through him. I notice two things almost immediately. One, I am decidedly under dressed (well dressed, mind you, but still under) and, two, I am the only single guy there. All of these people are married. They have their wives with them and they look perplexedly happy. So I order a drink.

The night progresses. I am trying hard to mind my manners and not slip into full Cool Cee Brown-mode. After all, this is not my night. This is Joe's night. Plus, there are people's wives here. I have to consciously remind myself to not say stuff like "bitch" or "pussy". I also have to remind myself to take small bites and chew slowly with my mouth closed. And sit up straight. And watch my volume. And try not to guffaw when I laugh, as I am prone to do.

A few drinks later, most of that stuff goes out of the window. I have said both "bitch" and "pussy", I have finished my entree in five minutes, I am slouched so deep in my seat that the back of my neck is resting on the back of the chair and my hands are in my pants.

At some point, I look around the table and realize that I am to a certain degree envious, but I am also incredulous. How do you do it? How do you spend every waking moment with another person like that? How do you shoulder the amount of responsibility equivalent to being a small village chieftain and "wouldn't trade it for the world"?

Never having been the kind to suffer burning curiosity, I ask the table, "How do you do it? How do you get married?" The answers varied.

"We didn't have anything else better to do."

"It was time."

"I didn't want her to leave me."

"The tax break is vicious."

I was surprised to hear how unabashedly un-romantic they all were about it. It was more of a practical decision, like splitting a cab.

Well, I was officially drunk by then and it was time to start chasing women. We had left the restaurant and made our way over to a Mexican spot down the street, Aleros. The hostess had these big, creamy Beyonce thighs. But I was cock-blocked by some bald-head Malik Yoba look-alike. My other attempts at love were also unsuccessful. I went home alone, fell asleep alone and woke up alone. And I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Happy Birthday, Joe

Thanks for reading.

Tip of the day: Try to be mindful of the fact that if you are drunk, your breath probably smells like ass to sober people.

Shameless Plug: Gill interviewed Illa Ghee and Team Demo on 89.3fm and got the real scoop on the Mobb Deep/Saigon brawl. Check out the podcast on The Black Broadway Show.