Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Brangelina Waxes Philosophical


Okay:

So I just watched Mr. & Mrs. Smith.

Two words:

Why in the world did it take me so long to do this?

This was the best movie I've seen in a long time. And not for the reasons you may think. At it's worst points it was horribly dry and cliched. Neither Pitt nor Jolie delivered an Oscar-worthy performance (read sarcasm). Vince Vaughn was as annoyingly unfunny as he usually is. (I wonder if they imagined on the set that Vaughn would be schtuping Jennifer Anniston within a year. Wierd.) The shootouts were ridiculous John Woo/Robert Rodriguez rip-offs and the preposterous deus ex machina ending was a real disappointment.

All in all I really enjoyed it though.

Why?

Because it was so goddamn poignant.

The premise: Two secret agents get married in an effort to disguise themselves as regular people, unbeknownst to them but knownst to us. They call that dramatic irony. When they discover one another's true identity, they spend the entire second act trying to kill each other. Then their respective agencies try to kill them because they've become "compromised". So they join forces and take on the agencies.

If that's not a metaphor for human intimacy, I don't know what is.

We pair up with people, get married and do the family thing because it's what people do. We all want to be normal at the end of the day.

But once you discover that the other person is just as abnormal as you are, you're horribly disappointed. You could just kill them for being so goddamn not perfect.

But once you turn on one another, the world turns on you too. They see your ugly little ways and they want to be rid of you. Your only chance for survival is to stick together. Accept your differences, start over with the truth and give the world the old stiff one-eye.


There's this great scene where they're in the house having an all out war. They're shooting at each other with machine guns and shotguns and throwing knives and hitting each other in the head with shit. At one point Brad knocks her down and alley whips her in the living room.

"Kick her ass, Brad!" I screamed at the television. Then they recover their guns at the same time and there's a Mexican standoff.

"Oh no," I thought.

But neither one of them can pull the trigger. But it makes them hot so they throw down their guns and screw like monkeys.

They spend the entire third act fighting the agencies and confessing to one another.

"I'm an orphan."

"I didn't really go to Yale."

"I'm Jewish."

Then Brad finally says, "We're going to have to go back and redo every conversation we've ever had."

"These two motherfuckers are on to something," I thought to myself. All relationships are like this. Built on nothing but lies. It can only work if you're willing to confess everything and start over again at zero.

We should all be like Mr. & Mrs. Smith. Let's put down our guns and screw like monkeys. It's the only way we can beat the agencies.


Thanks for reading.

JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY

http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com/


Tip of the Day: You shouldn't alley whip your lady. Even if she deserves it.

Laid and Confused


Okay:

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

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

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

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

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

What do you think?

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

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

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

What do you think?

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

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

But what do you think?


Thanks for reading.

JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY

GO OBAMA!

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

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Greatest Mistake

Okay:

I am impulsive, irresponsible and inconsiderate.

There, I said it.

As you may have ascertained, I did not wake up in the best of moods this morning. Whenever I have serious lapses in judgement it is particularly jarring because I know thirty is right around the corner. I don't want to be one of those stereotypical black thirty-year-old boys. So I'm trying to do away with those old habits of impulsivity and the like. This is going somewhere.

As it goes, my mother and stepfather went to Vegas for a few days. While they were away, I borrowed some things: laundry detergent, juice, bread. When they returned, they discovered that there door was not properly locked and some household items were missing.

My mother called me late last night.

MOM: Claude, did you take my laundry detergent?

[I was immediately transported back to junior high school.]

ME: Yes.
MOM: Well, the housekeeper came today and she didn't have any detergent to do the laundry and now we don't have any clean clothes.
ME: I had no idea you all were coming back today. I was going to return it or replace it.
MOM: And you took some soda water. Three bottles.
ME: Two bottles.
MOM: Three bottles. And you left the door wide open.
ME: I made sure to lock the door.
MOM: We pushed it right open. It wasn't locked at all.
ME: I'm sorry. I thought I made sure.
MOM: Your stepfather wants his keys back. You can't handle the responsibility. You stepped way over your boundaries. You cannot come to our house and go shopping and then leave the door wide open. Anything could have happened. Do you have any idea how disturbing it is to come home in the middle of the night after a trip to an unlocked door?
ME: I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking.
MOM: It was disrespectful and inconsiderate. Bring our key back.
ME: Yes, ma.

Well.

What can I say? No defense for any of that. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. And I'm positive I double checked to make sure I locked the door properly. As far as the borrowed items, it didn't seem like a big deal until she explained it to me. But that's how lapses in judgement work. It never seems like a big deal until you have to face the music.

It wasn't the first time I had left their door improperly locked. Maybe the third. And it wasn't the first time I "borrowed" household items. Just the first time it caused a major ruffle in their daily routine.

I had some trouble sleeping after that, as I always do after major lapses in judgement.


One time when I was in junior high school I let my sister shave my head with a disposable razor. When I asked her about astringent she said, "No, I think it may sting too much." To days later I had the worst case of razor burn on the back of my neck ever known to man. It was so bad I had to walk around wearing a silk scarf to keep the air from hitting it.

One year later, I let her do it again. The same exact thing happened.


One time in high school I skipped school and invited a young lady over. As I lay in the sitting room naked and draped over my mother's green velvet couch, I heard keys in the door. The young lady was in the bathroom upstairs. I rushed to gather up our clothes into a pile. It was my mother. She had brought someone home to give her an estimate on redoing her windows. When she walked in, there I was, naked, holding a pile of clothes with a pair of little pink panties on top.


When I was in college, my mother bought me a 1989 Pontiac Grand Am. It was a good car. I came home for break and my cousin noticed that I was leaking oil. Not knowing the significance of such a thing I hopped on the highway the next day to return to school without even thinking about it. Somewhere in Virginia, I cracked the engine block. Shit was bone dry.


When I was in college, I slept with a young lady and didn't protect myself. Nine months later my daughter was born. Greatest Mistake I Ever Made.

From this particular lapse in judgement, everything that is good in my life was created.

So I guess little fuck ups like this are necessary in a way. It's how we grow. While I am ashamed for being this old and making such an adolescent error, who knows what this may lead to?

Who knows?


Thanks for reading

GO OBAMA!

Tip of the Day: Don't shave your head with a disposable razor.

Friday, January 25, 2008

Romance These

Okay:

Today's topic is romance.

Apparently I don't know anything about it. According to a friend of mine I'm "the most unromaticest motherfucker on the planet".

She said this to me one Valentine's Day. I took her to Appleby's and asked for some car sex in the parking lot.

"Let's do it in the car," I said. "You know, for Valentine's Day."

"You're the most unromanticest motherfucker on the planet," she said.

It wasn't always this way. Once upon a time ago I was quite the Cassanova. I think it is a lack of motivation, not expertise, that has cause this change though. In fact, what passes for romance these days is a joke.

See, to me, romance is more of an organic thing. It has to come straight from the heart otherwise it's cheap and phony. True romance is spontaneous and completely honest. Sending someone flowers is cool, and I'm certainly not above it (1800FLOWERS has my credit card on file), but it's not romance. It's just something nice to do. But it's so boring.

"So," you say, "What is romantic then, Cool Cee Brown?"

I'll tell you.

Impromptu Slowdancing is romantic. Summer Evening Walks are romantic. Making Love Outside is romantic. Kissing in the Rain is romantic. Feeding Each Other is romantic.

All free activities that don't require any forethought or planning.

When I hear about people spending fortunes on vacations (which I've done) and shopping sprees (haven't done that one), it makes me want to vomit. Sometimes I do. Inside my mouth a little bit.

How corny. Somehow equating your love with how much money you spend. The bigger the ring, the more extravagant the flower arrangement, the more sophisticated the restaurant, the more exotic the vacation, the more you supposedly love this woman. And she's just gonna swoon and fall head over heels for you because of how generous you are with your resources. I say bullshit. I say her decision to be with you after showcases such as these is purely a practical decision. Every woman wants a generous man.

But if you really want a woman to fall for you, you'll give her something she can't get on her own. She can go shopping on her own, buy herself flowers, take herself on vacation, buy herself a ring. Hell, she can give herself an orgasm. But she cannot give herself romance. She'll get hooked, and you'll be her supplier.

This is what they call love.

Love is less complicated than people think it is. It is simply a supply and demand relationship between two people. Not unlike that relationship between crackhead and drug dealer. Except the product in demand is romance.

When the product in demand is money, they call it prostitution.

When the product in demand is sex, they call it fucking.

Speaking of, I did get me some car sex that night. And since then she has told me on several occasions that it was the best Valentine's Day she ever had. Not because the sex was so good, but because everything that transpired was natural and heart-felt. And therefore memorable.


Thanks for reading.
COME SEE ME LIVE!
I STILL LOVE H.E.R.: A BLACK BROADWAY VALENTINE'S DAY @ BAR NUN
Monday February 11, 2008 Bar Nun 1326 U St, NW Washington, DC
Doors open at 8. Showtime at 10. $5 Cover. 18 & Over. Get there early for the open mic.
Free CD giveaways for the ladies!
MAKE SURE TO VISIT THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY


GO OBAMA!

Tip of the Day: If you're going to do car sex, it's actually a lot easier in the front seat.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

Cascade

Okay:

I've taught some characters. But none so colorful as our resident Transsexual. Let's call him/her Jamie.

This is not a gay bashing thing. I have nothing against the gays, especially if that gay, per se, is one of my students.

See, on account of Jamie, the entire school had to go to sensitivity training where I learned that teachers are a lot like doctors in the sense that our duties have nothing to do with our personal beliefs about the lifestyle choices of our patients/students. We are there to teach. Period.

They called it LGBTQ Training. While that may sound like a delicious deli sandwich, in actuality it is an acronym for variants of homosexuality. Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transsexual and Queer. That's right, Queer. A assumed the Q stood for questioning, but this lady who conducted the training (an obvious lesbian) swore to us that the Q stands for Queer.

Apparently, the Gays like the word Queer. Kind of like how Blacks eventually switched from Negro to Black, which had previously been considered a derogatory word but was embraced for its brevity and concision. The Gays like brevity and concision, too.

I also learned that there is a distinction between Transvestite and Transsexual. A Transvestite is one who simply dresses like a member of the opposite sex and may not be a homosexual at all. Technically, Martin Lawrence, Eddie Murphy and Robin Williams are Transvestites.

A Transsexual lives as a member of the opposite sex. Many of them elect to have gender transformation surgery. Some take hormone pills for a more organic transformation. Some Transsexuals who can't afford surgery or hormone pills simply take birth control pills, which are chock full of estrogen.

That's what our Jamie does.

I discovered a few things at the training. The first thing I discovered is that most white people are not homophobic at all. They couldn't care less. At least in big liberal metropolises like DC. I'm sure you'd see something different in, say, Boise, Idaho. The other thing I noticed is that most black people are incredibly homophobic. The women more so than the men. They were almost angry about it.

Some of them thought the training was to help them learn to un-gay the students. The ended up being pretty disappointed. One lady said she didn't feel as though she should be forced to teach a gay student because it would bother her too much. And a lot of people sounded off in agreement. I was floored.

It was then that I discovered that I'm not really homophobic at all. I think it's because I went to art school. I may make the occasional joke or throw the "F" and "D" words around more than I should, but that's mostly because I think it's funny, not because I'm a bigot. I may call Gill a faggot at happy hour. Not because he's gay, but because he's getting on my nerves. See? It's different.

Anyway. All that liberalism went out the window one fateful morning. Jamie wasn't in the best of moods and had insisted on leaving the classroom without permission.

"Jamie," I told him, "if you walk out that door, you may not be allowed to come back in."

He stormed out anyway. Had he been a smaller Transsexual I may have tried to stop him. But he's about 6 feet tall, 180 pounds, pretty solid actually. I decided to just let him leave.

Sometime later he came back claiming that he left his purse. I stood in the doorway blocking his entrance. "Jamie, I told you not to leave without permission."

"Get out the way Mr. Nadir," he said, "I need to get my purse."

He tried to rush past me, and I foolishly tried to stop him. In the tussle he was able to muscle his way through. But something happened in that tussle that changed me for the rest of my life.

Jamie tweaked my nipple.

It was too fast for anyone else to notice, but it happened, I'm sure of it.

I stepped to the side, speechless, and let him get his purse, after which he left back out.

I went straight to the Principal's office and announced, "Jamie just tweaked my nipple."

Holding back her laughter, she summoned Jamie to her office. "Jamie," she said, "Mr. Nadir said you tweaked his nipple. Did you tweak Mr. Nadir's nipple?"

"Oh my God, why is you lying, Mr. Nadir? I did not tweak your nipple!"

"Well, you did touch it or at least cascade it."

We went back and forth like this for about ten minutes until it wasn't clear to me whether or not it had happened at all. Was I more of a bigot than I thought I was?

Jamie was suspended for a few days, and while he was out on suspension he got into some trouble and ended up missing over a month of school. Had he been in school, that might not have happened.

It's a cruel profession, isn't it? Still sometimes I wonder whether or not it actually or happened. Or was I just so creeped out by this guy that any close contact felt inappropriate.

I'll never know.


Thanks for reading.

GO OBAMA!

Factoid: I'm pretty sure Kwame is gay.

WEBSITE http://www.coolceebrown.net/

MYSPACE http://www.myspace.com/coolceebrown

ONLINE COMMUNITY http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com/

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Big Thangs Poppin'

Okay:

It's five in the morning and I am watching the funniest infomercial of all time.

Yes, I am talking about ExtenZe, the natural male enhancement pill.

They've got this spunky little blond walking around with a camera and a microphone stopping "random strangers" on the street and asking them about ExtenZe. She finds these middle-aged, good-looking couples and asks the man whether or not he's satisfied with the product. The answer varies.

"I got bigger."

"It got bigger."

"It's bigger now."

and "What do you want me to tell you? Things become bigger."

They've even got a doctor on the show testifying to the scientific veracity of the research behind the product. He's a sober-looking man in a bland suit. He uses big impressive words and throws some statistics around. "There has been decades of research and science. I don't want to bore you with all the specifics. The bottom line is ExtenZe works. Only eight percent of married couples have sex more than three times a week and having a bigger dick helps."

Well maybe he didn't say that last part but he might as well have.

The funniest part is the super clean LL Bean looking white couple sitting at their kitchen table. The man is perusing the ExtenZe brochure.

WIFE: What are you looking at, honey?
HUSBAND: I ordered a male enhancement product.
WIFE: What? To make, like, your muscles bigger?
HUSBAND: No, male en-hance-ment.
WIFE: What kind of male enhancement?
[Husband shows her the brochure]
WIFE: Wow! That is male enhancement.

Then there's the panel of hot chicks testifying that size does indeed matter. One says that she once broke up with the perfect man because his penis was too small. Another one says that her boyfriend is currently taking the product and she needs to hurry up and finish the show so she get back home. His dick, apparently, is calling her.

"Can a man be too large?" asks the moderator.

They all answer, practically in unison, "Hell no."

They even offer a free giveaway. A week's worth of ExtenZe, they say, for the price of a postage stamp. "Could we afford to do this if ExtenZe didn't really work?"

Although I was thoroughly entertained and was happy to find myself laughing out loud at 5 AM, I was also saddened by the creepiness of it all. Some poor bastard who falls asleep with the television on is going to wake up to this. He watches enough porn to know that he has a small pecker, and this infomercial is only going to reinforce the notion the no woman could ever be totally satisfied with him.

It's almost as bad as that diet pill commercial with the 3D diagram of an overweight woman and the snooty actress telling everyone at home that body fat is "unattractive". Then she goes on to say that diet and exercise are not necessary. All you have to do it take this pill.

There's a pill for everything now.

If you've got a problem, there's a pill for it.

I've considered, for a long time, getting a prescription for my Adult ADHD. Only you have to go and talk to a shrink for a while in order to get the pills. And because I have Adult ADHD, that just seems like too much hassle.

No surprise perhaps. There were no black men on this commercial. Well, one actually. But he was clearly gay.

People in the Washington area may have seen this hilarious hospital commercial. An old white woman is sitting at the bedside of her hospitalized old white husband. He's just gotten out of surgery. She peeks under his hospital down. "It's so small," she says.

"Hey," he says, looking at her through confused, tired eyes.

"I was talking about the incision," she smiles.

Ladies, I won't ask you if size matters because I know it does. It's fair enough. I like big tits and fat asses. My question is whether or not you would support your man using a male enhancement product if he were deficient in that area?

I'm not asking for me. A friend of mine is thinking about it.


Thanks for reading.

GO OBAMA!

Confession: I know the exact length of my penis flaccid and fully erect.

Support Your Favorite Blogger:

Visit my website and MySpace page. Buy some music. It's pretty good.

http://www.coolceebrown.net/

http://www.myspace.com/coolceebrown

Monday, January 21, 2008

Have You Met My Finance?

Okay:

I was talking to Gill earlier tonight about marriage in the new millennium. My epiphany at the height of the conversation: "If you don't make at least six figures, you shouldn't marry an American Black woman."

"Preach, nigga," he said.

Well, let me qualify that. Of course there are successful marriages in Black America where the man makes a modest salary. My theory is that they are a minority within a minority within a minority. That is, Black people still only make up around 12 percent of the population, they are the least likely ethnic group in the country to get married, disagreements over money is cited as the number one source of turmoil in marriages, and most marriages in this country still end in divorce.

That's a pretty shitty poker hand.

And, no, American Black women are not all, as is commonly and crudely depicted in the ubiquitous urban sitcoms and straight-to-video romantic comedies, shallow goldiggers. Quite the contrary. But I do think that many, many, many of them have been trained, taught, conditioned to equate a man's worth with his wealth.

I'm sure that this is not unique to Black women per se, but as I date Black women pretty much exclusively, (yes, I have dibble dabbled in some cream with my coffee) I am hard-pressed to ignore the obvious. If you ask a Black woman over 25 what she wants in a man, many will mention financial stability. Of course, "financial stability", I have come to realize, is simply a euphemism for "at least six figures."

The result, however you want to call it, is a lot of little black bastards running around reeking havoc. Because regardless of marriage or no marriage, people are going to screw and make babies. Especially, and ironically, poor people.

I've been teaching these poor little black bastards for most of my adult life. When I used to teach at an open-space middle school in southeast (and it was worse than it sounds) I taught these two crazy young ladies, let's call them Janet and Chrissy. They were nice enough girls, but shit nuts.

One day Janet asked me, "Mr. Nadir, is you married to your daughter's mother?"

"No," I said flatly, anticipating that this conversation was going to be tricky.

"Y'all got divorced?" asked Chrissy.

"No," I said, pausing, "We were never married."

"Oooh," said Janet, "That means your daughters a...mm...uh...what they call it, Chrissy?"

"Bastard?" said Chrissy.

"Yeah, a bastard. That's right. Mr. Nadir your daughter's a bastard!" said Janet.

"Wait. I think I'm a bastard too," said Chrissy.

"Yep. Me too," said Janet. "We some real bastards. Mr. Nadir, is you a bastard?"

"Well, actually, my parents were---"

"Matter of fact, just about everybody I know is a bastard. It's like bastard city up in this motherfucker," said Janet, rudely cutting me off.

As it turns out, and I only discovered this recently, my parents had their marriage annulled. Which technically makes me a bastard. But I believe that if my father were making the equivalent of six figures 25 years ago, they'd still be married today.

If there were more than six American black men in New York City who make over one hundred thousand dollars a year and don't need someone light, bright or damn near white to complete their success package, my sister would be married and knocked up by now. Lord knows she has plenty to offer.

But alas, she's single. And when I think about all of the shallow, waif-thin, quadroons out there waking up next to their wealthy American Black husbands this morning, it kind of pisses me off.

It is unclear to me, as of now, whether the onus is on the Black woman or the Black man to modify his/her position. Are there far too many Black men out there who have not figured out how to operate and succeed in the work world? Yes. The same could be said, however, for most black women. Although, statistics show that they are far more successful than their counterparts.

Is it completely unreasonable for a woman to want a man who is "financially stable". No? Are most American Black women pretty flexible on this prerequisite? Absolutely. The point is, however, not that an American Black woman won't marry an American Black man who is not financially stable, the point is that after she does, if he's not on the fast track to becoming financially stable she will lose respect for him every day his net worth does not increase. Eventually they will have to go their separate ways before someone gets killed. Ergo my theory: "You shouldn't marry an American Black woman unless you make at least six figures."


Thanks for reading.

GO OBAMA!

GO GIANTS! BRING IT BACK HOME TO THE NFC!

Correction: In last week's blog, "Computer Love", I mistakenly said that my sister was thinking about signing up on match.com. She has since informed me that she would never do such a thing and that she was only considering using a professional match maker. Her suggestion was that match.com might be a good idea for me. So I promised her I would write a retraction. Sorry, sis.

Other News:

Make sure you check out my new website where you can buy and listen to new music
http://www.coolceebrown.net/

Make sure you visit my MySpace page and check out the new "No Fear" remix featuring Phonte of Little Brother and Asheru (from the Boondocks theme song)
http://www.myspace.com/coolceebrown

Friday, January 18, 2008

Computer Love

Okay:

So, apparently, Internet dating is the brand new thing.

The other day, I was on the phone with my sister and we were both complaining about how fabulous we are and trying to figure out why Mr. and Mrs. Right hadn't found us yet. My sister suggested that she may begin dating white men exclusively, or at least foreigners. Bottom line; no more American Black men! She's on strike, like the Writer's Guild, "until motherfuckers start giving her some act right".

Sad, but not difficult to imagine or understand.

She also suggested that she may begin using match.com. My jaw dropped to the floor.

"Really?" I said. "But you're not ugly or overweight. Why would you use an Internet dating service?"

"Claude," she said in that my-poor-little-brother-is-so-underexposed tone of hers, "It's not like that. Everybody's on match.com now. People like me, who are super busy and don't have time to go out and mingle use Internet dating services or professional match makers."

"Professional match makers?" I asked in childish astonishment. "Like the Will Smith movie?"

"Something like that, except it's a legitimate business. Very professional."

I was flabbergasted. "Wow," I said, all long and drawn out, like I was a retard who finally discovered what happens to the water after you flush the toilet.

"You should try match.com," she said.

"I don't think so," I said. Truth is, I'm barely comfortable using MySpace. I was born in 79. I grew up on John Hughes movies. Socializing over the computer still seems a little nerdy to me. "No, I'd rather meet someone special the old fashion way."

"So, how's that been working out for you?" she asked. She's a stock broker now, but she has her bachelor's in psychology. She runs mental circles around me in deep conversation, but I know a lot more about rap music than she does, which is infinitely more useful than a pocket full of koans in my opinion.

"Shit," I said, "I got bitches galore/You may have a lot of bitches, but I got much more."

(See. Eazy-E trumps Freud any day. Take that.)

"Whatever, dude. Look, the bottom line is you're single and you hate it and if you wanna hook up with someone nice, you shouldn't rule this out just because you think it's nerdy."

"I'm not doing it," I said.

"You are so stubborn!" she screamed. "You don't want to go to the dermatologist for your razor bumps because you think it's gay and you're afraid he's going to stick his finger up your ass."

"Going to the dermatologist is gay and after you turn 27 all doctors have to stick their finger up your ass. It's the rule now!"

"Why would your dermatologist stick his finger up your ass?"

"Because he's a fucking doctor!" Duh.


That wasn't the last I had heard about the Internet dating. I went to the recording studio over winter break to begin working on my new EP "The Fight in the Dog" (Shameless Plug!) and I asked the engineer about it. Or brought it up rather.

"Can you believe my sister tried to get me to start using match.com? What do I look like? Some kind of dork who can't pick up a woman at a bar like a real man?"

"I met my fiancee on MySpace," he said.

"Oh".

Then I was at a friend's house watching American Gladiators a week or so ago (which I've been meaning to blog about). Her roommate and his girlfriend were sitting on the couch across from me. Looking quite happy. Sitting all close and touching each other and whatnot. White guy. Asian girl. Very American. They were laughing at each other's jokes and telling stories together. You know, kind of trading sentences. He even ordered Chinese food, which I thought was considerate. I'm sure it made her feel at home, or at least like he was making an effort to show his cultural sensitivity. He even made everyone use chopsticks. Pretty cool guy. I was envious.

Then they reveal that they met on match.com.

I was floored.

So, maybe I'll check this thing out. Apparently the whole world is using it, and I'm catching on late. It wouldn't be the first time. I didn't get a cell phone until 2002. I didn't get a DVD player until 2004. And I just found out about having baby wipes in the bathroom. It's a strong selling point when women come to visit. It makes me seem clean.

Thanks for reading.

GO OBAMA!

Factoid: There are 3 different kinds of female orgasms, but most women can only have one of the three, or two at the most.

Thursday, January 17, 2008

Top 10 Reasons Men Cheat

Okay:

I know you've been dying to know. So here it is...

Top 10 reasons men cheat.

1. He's not ready to commit: You made him. He didn't want to. He just didn't want to lose you. Let the man suggest commitment, ladies. Safer that way.

2. He's weak: He can't turn a woman down. It feels like a missed opportunity to him. Like if someone were giving away money. This weakness will manifest itself in other ugly ways.

3. He's impulsive: He does whatever he wants, whenever he wants. If you've got one of these, he may never change. But he will keep things interesting.

4. He's insecure: The more women he has, the better he feels about himself. One woman is not enough to keep his ego inflated.

5. He has poor judgement: He's just not a good decision-maker. And even when he makes decisions, he never feels good about them. Including his decision to commit to you.

And now the other side...

6. You're stressing him out: Some observant woman has figured out that he is in a stressful relationship and taken advantage of his vulnerability.

7. You're not giving him any: You're a sex rationer. If he screws up, he doesn't get any sex. Again, an observant woman figures this out and takes advantage. Or he goes and seeks it out. Either way, it's kind of your fault.

8. You're bad in bed: You're too reserved. You won't do the things that turn him on. He finds someone who will.

9. You let yourself go: He's no longer attracted to you because you think being in a relationship means you no longer have to pay attention to your appearance. He finds someone who is still trying to catch a man. Remember, men are very visual.

10. You're boring: You think being in a relationship means show's over. It's all about security. Not fun. Again, your fault.

So, I hope this was helpful. Drop a comment if you have questions.


Thanks for reading.

GO OBAMA!

Confession: I shit twice a day!

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

The Tragic Reality of Teenage Parents Today

Okay:

Unplanned teenage pregnancy is nothing new. It's been a problem in our community for decades. For me, as a teacher, however, it has become increasingly sad.

Two examples have cast this dark shadow over my normally gipper countenance.

One of them is a young lady who attends my school. Let's call her Heather. Seventeen years old. She's about 4'11", butterball round, half-deaf, half-blind, mildly retarded and seven months pregnant. The world is not ready for this demon seed.

She's a foul-mouthed sweetheart though. You've never been cussed out and loved every vulgar syllable of it. She just sort of wanders the halls, sauntering about, knocking on doors and cursing at people all day. Literally. No one has any idea what to do with this kid.

The other day she knocked on my door around 9. I answered the door. She just sort of stood there silently, face scrunched up like she had a gas bubble. Then she spoke. "Give me some candy, nigga."

"Good morning, Heather," I said, smiling.

"Give me some gum, nigga."

"I don't have any candy or gum, sweetheart."

She looked disappointed but didn't walk away. She stood there for a while, breathing heavy, her large pregnant belly peaking out from below her too small, dingy t-shirt. She looked around me and saw a half-eaten blueberry muffin on my desk.

"Well, then give me some of that mothafuckin muffin, you bitch."

"Give me a hug, honey," I said, then wrapped my arms around her wide frame. She loves hugs. Starving for human contact. Only she slicks her hair down every day with a whole tub of that brown styling gel. That shit'll get all over you if you're not careful. Yucky.

She was satisfied with that and walked away without saying goodbye.

God clearly fell asleep on this one. If they find the creep that knocked her up, they should castrate him and make him the towel boy in a male strip club.

Then there's the kid with traumatic brain injury. He was in a near fatal motorbike accident some years ago and hasn't been the same since. He's a real piece of work. Pencil-thin. Resembles Lil Wayne. A loud raspy voice that resonates throughout the floor. You can hear him in all corners, cussing people out and threatening staff members. He's also a spitter. That is, if you really piss him off, he'll probably spit on you. People keep their distance.

Unfortunately, this summer he became a father. Again, God asleep at the wheel.

Because of his traumatic brain injury, his memory is pretty much shot. Sometimes he gets lost on the way home. Sometimes, he forgets where he is and why he's there. When this happens he may just get up and leave in the middle of a conversation. It's weird. Sad, too.

So I said to him, "I hear you're a father now."

He said, "Yeah, I done went and impregnated me one of these little bitches out here."

(That's a direct quote, by the way.)

Holding back the laughter, I inquired further, "Is it a boy or a girl?"

"Oh naw," he returned, "I ain't bring me no little bitches up in here. I got me a boy."

"Well, what's his name?"

"Zaida, Zadda, Zelda or some shit like that. I asked the bitch why she give the little nigga a African name. But it's in the bible, so I guess it's cool."

"Have you been spending time with him?"

"I seen him once or twice, but the little nigga just be crying for no reason. That shit be getting on my nerves, so I just be leaving."

Conversation wasn't quite as funny as it sounds. It's really depressing, actually. Makes me want to get my daughter a chastity belt.

And chain her to the radiator.

And make her try out for the girls' volleyball team.

Thanks for reading.

GO OBAMA!

BOB JOHNSON IS A SELLOUT!

Factoid: According to Dr. Ruth's Sex for Dummies, a woman can get pregnant while she's on her period.

Cool Cee Brown Meets His Match!

Okay:

So I had me a date the other day. I've known this girl for a while now, and, yes, we have slept together before, but we're not sleeping together now.

She's just a friend. Really.

Anyways. I've known her for, like, 10 years. But as I sat across from her at the Ruby Tuesdays' the other night, I noticed something. I actually don't really mind spending time with this girl. Granted, I don't think we've been around each other longer than 3 hours since college, but she's still decent company.

So I put myself out on a limb.

Why is this the subject of today's blog? Well, I have realized that the longer I am single, the more finesse I lose. I am essentially finesse-less. I've got no game. All I have is my candor.

Some women appreciate candor though.

If we can use basketball as a metaphor, I'm more of your traditional white two-guard now...nothing fancy, just put the damn ball in the hoop. Once upon a time, believe it or not, I was more like a modern black power forward. I had moves that wowed and dazzled. I could charm the pants off a nun. Now, it seems I have a hard time mustering up the energy to exert the effort it would take for me to charm anyone.

For example, when I came to pick her up, she was still in her bra and panties. Which is not altogether abnormal considering how long I've known her and the fact that we have slept together. Accordingly, my response to seeing her almost naked was nothing that could be considered smooth.

ME: Can I get some?
HER: No.
ME: All right. Put some clothes on then. You're teasing me.

I know, right. Suave.

But back to what I was trying to tell you in the first place. We're having a few drinks at this chain restaurant, the Cowboys are losing to New York (thank you, Lord) and I am struck by an epiphany while filled with the good spirit of vindication. The conversation goes as follows...

ME: Why don't we try and hook something up here?
HER: You mean, like, you and me?
ME: Yeah. We've never given it a serious shot in all these years.
HER: Yeah, you're right but I wouldn't want to ruin our friendship.
ME: Hey, it's not like we're all close or something. We only see each other every few months. What do we have to lose?
HER: True. But I don't know if I'm ready to have someone around me all the time.
ME: I wouldn't want to be around you all the time. Once a week is fine with me.
HER: Well, I'd need to see you at least twice. Probably Thursdays and Sundays.
ME: Thursdays and Sundays are good for me usually.
HER: I like to go to bed early though, and I don't like it when people sleep over.
ME: Wow, I never knew that about you. I also hate it when people sleep over. It's so presumptuous.
HER: Yeah, I need space when I sleep.
ME: Wow, me too. It's hard for me to get comfortable with someone else in the bed.
HER: I don't know how people do it.
ME: And I need to have sex when I see you.
HER: Oh, definitely. Otherwise, what's the point? Might as well be single for all that.
ME: Hell yeah. (long pause) And I don't introduce people to my daughter.
HER: I don't want to meet your child.
ME: Perfect. I think this is going to work out just fine.

See, here my candor works. We cut to the chase and discussed the kinds of things that cause people problems later on. I think I may have stumbled upon something brilliant. You can use this technique if you chose.

And I am very optimistic about the future. I've finally met someone just as neurotic as me. But, see, the unique thing about my neuroses is I'm very laid back about them. And so is she. Of course, I was supposed to call her last night but I got caught up in a few things and then I didn't feel like it when I finished. So, I'm kind of off to a rocky start but I doubt she'll care. See? Perfect for me. Very low expectations and completely self-contained. And she meets almost all my non-negotiables, except she doesn't read much and she goes to church every Sunday.

We'll see how this unfolds. I've kind of got an ADHD thing when it comes to women. In fact, I met me a cutie last night. Real fine little sister with a fresh college degree. Got her number, gave her my card. Very excited about this one too. I'll keep you posted.

Thanks for reading.

GO OBAMA!

Factoid: Apparently, you can cure Athlete's Foot by pissing on your feet in the shower.

Monday, January 14, 2008

Non-Negotiables

Okay:

Someone said something to me this past week that bothered the hell out of me. She said that I was going to die alone.

I know, right.

Rude.

She said that I had too many hang ups and there was no way I was ever going to meet a woman that would put up with it. Of course, I feel like my non-negotiables are completely reasonable.

Non-Negotiables is a term I picked up from an old friend of mine. Oddly enough, her non-negotiables were ludicrous but I liked the idea anyway.

I was complaining to her about my girlfriend at the time and she just looked at me and shook her head. "Claude," she said, "you gotta let that bitch know that certain things are just non-negotiables, ya dig. Like, for example: a motherfucker gotta know, with me, I might not get home until the next day. Do it mean that I was with some other dude? Maybe. But I don't want to be harassed about it because it's already done. See what I'm sayin? Non-Negotiable. We are not going to negotiate you giving me shit about something as petty as that."

Absurd, but you all get the point, right?

So, I have made a list of my Non-Negotiables and I suggest you all do the same.

Here goes...

1) No weaves: Braids are acceptable, but weaves are totally out of the question! I have a strict no weave policy. To me, weaves are very 1997 and I like a woman who's fashion forward.

2) No smokers: I'm a recovering tobacco addict, and I don't need anyone getting me back on the wagon (or is it off the wagon?). Seriously, I cannot help myself around tobacco. The temptation would be too great. Just talking about it makes me purse my lips and inhale deeply.

3) No Jesus freaks: This is new. It's not that I don't like Jesus, it's just that I think most Jesus freaks would find me repulsive after a while. And, yes, I do think the whole Christianity thing is kind of silly, from an intellectual perspective, but I respect it. Thing is, they don't respect my non-Christian status. They think I'm gonna convert eventually. They're like the gay dudes from art school. "Oh, you'll come around eventually, honey."

4) No non-readers: If she wants me to take her seriously, she has to read avidly. I actually met a full-grown adult human woman who said to me, "I hate reading. It makes my eyes cross. I do like Eric Jerome Dickey though...and Zane."

5) No willful ignorance: It's one thing to have never heard of something before but it's another thing entirely to have an aversion to anything you have never heard of before. I have this problem a lot when trying to expose women to cool little independent films or underground hip hop. They frown up their faces and say, "You're so weird." If she says that, dates over. She doesn't know it yet, but the date is fucking over.

6) No club-hoppers: My experience with club hoppers is that they're emotionally shallow people who hate being alone because they find their own thoughts boring. Just my experience though.

7) No colored contacts: You cannot trust a woman who wears colored contacts. Period.

8) No energy vampires: You know the kind. A woman who's entire life revolves around her man, so she wants every ounce of energy she can get from him. Otherwise, she'll feel non-important. If he's not actively engaged in a money-making activity, he should be with her or talking to her. Give me space or give me death!

9) No drama queens: Women who think things that happen to them have never happened to anyone else. They want your ear, your shoulder, your pity. And if they can't get that, they want a fight. Yes, a good old fashioned screaming match will reaffirm your love for them.

And finally...

10) No sex-rationers: Some women think they're being all clever by giving sex rations in order to control the behavior of their mates. Nothing pisses me off more than someone underestimating my intelligence. First of all, I'm not that easily manipulated, and second of all, after a while, I'll go get it somewhere else eventually. Sorry, but them there's the brakes. So don't play yourself and turn your body into a commodity because that's how it will be treated.

So there. Not so unreasonable, I think. What about you?

Thanks for reading.

Factoid: Biologically speaking, a clitoris is a small undeveloped penis.

Thursday, January 10, 2008

Textual Healing

Okay:

Let's have a conversation about the new "Sex-Texting" phenomenon.

I'm interested in knowing your opinion about this, so let's do our best to get a dialogue going. Talk amongst yourselves. Post a comment.

When I was in high school a girlfriend of mine introduced me to phone sex. At the time, it seemed a sensible alternative to the ever-challenging problem of finding someplace to get your issue off as a teenager. You say dirty words to one another, moan and groan a bit, everyone handles their respective business and eventually...voila!

There are, however, some inherent problems in this particular genre of non-contact erotica. For one, you kind of have to take turns. If you're both talking at the same time, no one can hear what's going on. So the guy typically goes first, talking the girl into orgasm and then she returns the favor. But one person may not necessarily be as adept with wanking words as his/her partner. Thereby, creating a sort of uneven exchange. Which certainly happens in actual intercourse, but here it's more pathetic, no? Pretending to have an orgasm over the phone is pretty close to the bottom of the potato chip bag.

Imagine this exchange...

BOY: Then what are you going to do with it?
GIRL: Oh, I'm going to be naughty and bad. I'm going to do crazy things.
BOY: Like what?
GIRL: All sorts of wild, fun stuff.
BOY: Be specific. It's easier when you're specific.
GIRL: I don't know. Why don't you try telling me what you want me to do?
BOY: Fine. (sigh) I want you to lick it up like ice cream dripping off the cone.
GIRL: That's disgusting.
BOY: You asked.
GIRL: But you know I hate that stuff. It's gross.
BOY: Fine. (sigh)
GIRL: What?
BOY: I lost it. It's gone.
GIRL: What?
BOY: My erection.
GIRL: Well, get it back up.
BOY: Yes, sir, Captain. (sigh) Jesus.
GIRL: (Laughs)
BOY: What's so funny?
GIRL: I'm watching Def Comedy Jam.
BOY: You're not supposed to be watching TV.
GIRL: Well, you said you lost your erection so now I'm watching TV.

Anyway. Perhaps that went on a bit long, but you get my drift. Phone sex is problematic at best. Still, some people swear buy it. But as e-mail gradually phased out the fax and snail-mail, so has texting replaced actual phone calls, and thereby, phone sex. Thus, "sex-texting" has arrived and it is all the rave.

Most women, I've found, are willing to say just about anything in a text message. Things they wouldn't say to your face in casual conversation or in the throes of passion. Things they wouldn't say over the phone. For some reason, texting lowers these inhibitions and they feel free to say whatever's on their minds.

Funny thing is, texting is far less private. I'm far more likely to show your little nasty message to a friend than to let him listen in on a phone-boning session. I could keep that message forever. If you ever decide to run for office, I could put it all over the Internet and let the world know what kind of freak you are. Not that I would. But I could. That's the point.

So, really, it doesn't make sense.

I've got an old friend who recently moved away. We don't talk on the phone very often anymore, but occasionally we communicate via text-message. You should see some of our exchanges. The FCC should shut us down. It is downright nasty, filthy smut talk. I love every character of it.

And, a few months ago I upgraded phones. Now I can receive and send photos. Whoa mamma! Whole 'nother level.

But Sex-Texting, or "Sexting" as I like to call it, is also problematic. It's too labor-intensive. You can't exactly get what you came for while you're doing all that typing. Unlike the easy mouse-clicking of computer porn. It's kind of like how you have to wait to leave the theater to talk about the movie.

One serious upside is that you can do it discretely just about anywhere. Last year I was sexting at a funeral. I had to wait for my erection to go down before I got in line to view the body. You can do it at meetings, parties, weddings, , seminars, family dinners, church.

It's the wave of the future. Hop on.

Thanks for reading.


GO OBAMA!

Confession: I once sexted two women at the same time. It was cool, but eventually my thumbs got sore and I just didn't have anything else left to give. Quite emasculating actually.

Wednesday, January 9, 2008

Upgrade!

Okay:

Today I went to Best Buy and bought me a brand new computer. The whole ordeal took around three hours. I was helped by a short, round, unkempt member of The Geek Squad. He gave me a crash course on processors and gigabytes and whatnot. I settled on a modest HP desktop with a 5600 + Processor and 300 GB of memory. These are good and absolutely necessary things, he informed me.

My old computer, a five-year-old E-Machine laptop, is lying impotently on the floor. If it were not an inanimate object, it would be jealous.

Why do I need a new computer, you ask? Isn't that an unnecessary extravagance on a teacher's salary, Cee Brown?

Well, the truth, folks, is that I all but killed my laptop. How, you ask?

We're all grown here, right?

One word answer: PORN.

Oodles and oodles of high-quality hardcore porn.

A few years ago, a close friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, introduced me to a marvelous website where you could safely download all the porn you want for free. The site, unfortunately had to end its days of free membership and begin charging its patrons. Something about "opportunistic lurkers who don't want to contribute to the good of the community".

My close friend informed me that a "lurker" is a person who visits a site, downloads files, but does not register as a member or upload files for other members. Apparently these lurkers were causing all sorts of problems so they had to start charging for entrance.

I, apparently, was a lurker.

Fucking geeks.

But before they shut down the free show, I was able to download enough free porn to last me a lifetime. Or at least until I get married.

Unfortunately, as I understand it, these movie files take up a lot of space on your computer. I had previously been under the impression that a computer was like the universe. Vast and unlimited in its capacity. I discovered recently that this virtual universe is quite finite.

Basically, too much porn and your shit will crash.

I started getting these little messages on my desktop. "Your computer is running dangerously low on memory. You have 200 MB left. Click here to delete unnecessary files."

Blah. Blah. Blah.

I don't speak Nerd.

I am told, however, that these little warnings are not to be taken lightly.

The little dirty fat guy at The Geek Squad told me the number one problem they deal with in the repair shop is porn. People bring in their crashed CPUs and laptops and nine times out of ten they have caught a virus from downloading porn from some seedy website, or they just have too much of the stuff.

He said the craziest part about it is how many excuses people come up with as opposed to admitting that it may be porn-related.

"My son also uses this computer. (In a stage whisper) I think he may have downloaded some freaky stuff."

Or "I share this computer with my roommate and he's on there doing God-knows-what half the time."

The dead giveaway is that these people are also very concerned about losing their files. "Make sure you back everything up. I don't care what it costs".

And rightfully so. It takes some time and effort to build up a solid catalog of porn.

I'd like to think I'd have enough cohones to say, "Listen, I got some pretty good shit on here and I'm sure that's probably what's wrong with the thing. But make sure you save my shit, okay. And save a few for yourself while you're at it, Conrad. Ain't no fun if the homies can't have none. Am I right? Huh? Gimmie five!"

I've dated women who are really into porn. In fact, I once dated a woman who was just as into it as I am. She too once killed a computer with too much porn. Told me she had to keep a separate computer just for the porn.

My sister is repulsed by it and thinks its pathetic for a grown man to sit around watching it and having 'private time'.

My ex-girlfriend thought it was only good for getting in the mood or having a good laugh.

I've been over a homeboy's house, kicking it with the fellas, and he'll turn on porn expecting us to watch it with him. Which I think is kind of gay.

To me, porn is neither pathetic, nor mood-inspiring, nor funny, nor a community experience. It's good for one thing and one thing only. If people can't appreciate the usefulness of adult entertainemt then to hell with them.

Of course, there were other reasons I felt the need to make the upgrade. Goddamn laptop was 50 pounds. Two inches thick. You can't go to the coffee shop with that thing. Everybody's in there with their cute little MacBooks and what have you. They look at you like you're a retard or something. Very un-chic to have an outdated computer these days.

Plus, with this thing I can burn my files onto a DVD and watch them on the big screen.

Now that's a Good Morning for your young ass!

Thanks for reading.


GO OBAMA!

Tip of the Day: Don't ask me how I know this, but it's not a good idea to put cologne on your junk. It's a terrible, awful idea. It may be the worst idea of all time.

Tuesday, January 8, 2008

The Tuesday Report

Okay:

6:00. I woke up and did my morning yoga. I farted about three times. I also realized that I may be completely immune to meditation. This brain of mine never stops running no matter how hard I try.

6:20. I did some business in the bathroom. Noticed that I ran out of baby wipes and discovered that I have become quite dependent upon them. I felt really icky afterwards. I don't know how I ever considered myself clean before.

6:30. I had some private time in front of my lap top.

6:45. Took a long hot shower. I took a look at myself in the mirror and realized I have stretch marks on my ass. I know. Gross.

7:00-7:30. This half-hour is a complete blur. Not sure exactly what I did. I might have read something. I think I stared at the wall for a little while.

7:30-8:00. Drove to work. Got stuck behind a bulldozer on Missouri Avenue. Why a bulldozer was on a main thoroughfare during rush hour, I do not know. I saw a funny looking kid walking to school. He looked kind of like an old man, you know. You've seen these kids before. He had an old face, but he was obviously a kid though. It was funny. I laughed at him. Not a full-fledged happy hour laugh, but a private giggle. Like, hee-hee.

8:18-3:15. I farted around for a few hours. Took a meeting. Got a sub from Quiznos. Updated my website. I think I tried to teach somebody something, but he didn't get it or whatever so I gave him a crossword puzzle.

Oh yeah, sometime around the middle of the day I saw this kid being restrained by the Dean of Students in the lobby. He was a little guy. Probably a fifth grader. He was really pissed. Kept threatening to spit on everybody. "You're not going to spit on anyone," said the Dean.

"Oh, I'm gonna spit on somebody," said the kid. "Before the day is over, I'm gonna spit. You can believe that."

I privately admired his fortitude.

3:30-4:30. I went across the street to the bar with a few co-workers and had a drink because it was so nice outside. This was the high point of my day. I found myself wishing that going to happy hour was, like, a job that you got paid for and stuff. And, like, if you got really trashed they'd give you, like, a bonus or something.

Sat outside with Gill and Our White Homegirl for a while. Saw a kid who looked just like that "Chocolate Rain" guy. Zatonday or whatever. That spooky fucker. Looked just like him. It was wierd.

5:00-6:00. Taught my night class. Prepared for the kids for the final exam on The Bluest Eye. Got really sarcastic with this kid who never comes to class and always has a story. It was cathartic. He was a good sport. Smiled and said, "Mr. Nadir, you is crazy."

6:30-9:00. Got home. Drank a glass of scotch. Watched Scrubs. Ordered a sub. Ate the whole goddamn thing. All 12 inches of it. I promised myself I would go to the gym in the morning.

9:15. Couldn't decide what to write a blog about. Joe Gibbs quitting? The New Hampshire Caucus? None of that sounded interesting so I decided to write a blog about my entire day, which was uneventful to say the least.

Thanks for reading.


GO OBAMA!

Confession: I once slept with a girl who had a Jheri Curl...in 1994.

Monday, January 7, 2008

Drawing The Line

Okay:

There's no easy way to tell you this.

I'm sure that you, like me, have seen at least a half dozen "white person takes job at incredibly unsafe inner city school and inspires young at-risk niggers to recognize their own potential" movies. I hate them with a throbbing passion. Dangerous Minds. Freedom Writers. etc. etc.

While these films are inspirational, and no doubt, accurate, at least on an exception-to-the-rule level, I still find them offensive. White liberals in this country have a messianic complex, and we are the sinful masses in desperate need of a savior.

Glenn Close. Michelle Pfieffer. Keanu Reeves, for God's sake!

But, ah, the other side...

The little angels I teach every day need something. I don't know if they need a tree-hugging, Hybrid-driving Harvard graduate, but they need something. All I do know is that something is not me.

I'm not a good enough person to accomplish the mammoth task of saving my own people.

You read my blogs. Do you want me teaching your kids?

Honestly.

As you know, I've been toying with the idea of finding a new job for months. Not just a new job, but a new career. I got my sister to help me write a new spruced up resume and everything. But the truth is, I love the little bastards. They're ignorant, loud, illiterate, lazy...everything you've seen in the worst WB sitcom. But I love them. They're mine. I don't want to leave them. Or I wasn't sure if I wanted to leave them. Until today.

That brings me to the subject of this horribly wordy blog.

Today...one of the high school students peed on the floor.

Yes, you read correctly.

He peed on the fucking floor.

He was in class. He asked his teacher to use the bathroom. His teacher told him to wait. He said he couldn't and threatened to pee on the floor. His teacher ignored him an continued teaching the other students in the class. The student stood, walked over to the corner, pulled out his thang and pissed on the carpet.

Damn.

When confronted and ordered to clean up the piss, he ran out of the building.

I'm done.

What do Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson have to say about that?

Let me guess. He peed on the floor because he's poor and his parents aren't doing their part and white people owe him something.

Or maybe he's just an asshole.

Either way, I'm done.

I'm done. I'm done. I'm done.

In my six years of teaching I've seen all kinds of shit. I've seen some pretty gruesome brawls. I've had my car vandalized. I've been threatened. Swung on. Spat at. Cussed out. Last year two of my students were murdered. This year someone brought a razor to school, presumably, to murder me.

But I, like most people, draw the line at urine.


Thanks for reading.

GO OBAMA!

Innocent Question: If I fantasize about girls I slept with in high school, is that, like, pedophilia?

Rollover Minutes

Okay:

First of all, I'd like to acknowledge the stellar sportsmanship of our Washington Redskins, even though they lost on Saturday. No one expected them to make it as far as they did, and they proved everyone wrong. We'll get 'em next year!

Having said that, I'd like to address the issue of morning sex...or as I like to call it, Rollover Minutes.

I find morning sex awkward no matter what kind of woman I'm dealing with. It is the woman, unaware I imagine, of how difficult she's being, that makes morning sex such a challenge.

You wake up, lie there for a while, wondering, "Is she awake? I wonder if she's down for some rollover minutes."

So you reach into your nightstand to get your equipment situated. You make a little excess noise with the wrapper to let her know you're coming to get your issue off if she's still trying to play sleep.

Not much along the lines of foreplay. You haven't brushed your teeth yet! That's one of the benefits of morning sex. Perfect excuse to just go in.

Now you have to figure out your point of entry. There may be pajamas or panties obscuring things. They have to go, but that's easier said than done. She may or may not help you with that. She may just let you struggle and hope that you give up. But you must persevere.

Then for some reason, when her back is facing you and she's lying on her side, it's a bit more difficult to find your way. You may fumble around a bit. Again, if she's nice, or as ready as you are, she may help. If not, it could take a while.

But once you're in, you're in. And there's no better way to get the day started.

But, ladies.

My question is why not just rollover yourself and make things easy. But that's not your job, now is it? To make things easy? Then we wouldn't appreciate it.

It's not like going to Staples.

Comments?

Thanks for reading.

GO OBAMA!

Confession: Like most men, as I understand, my penis curves. Mine curves downward, like a hook. When I was in junior high school, I tried to correct this by taping it to my stomach every morning for a month.

Friday, January 4, 2008

A Room Of One's Own

Okay:

I'm sure most of you can appreciate this.

I work in one of those new fandangled schools that is inconveniently located in an office building. It's all the rave round here in DC. These people open up these private and charter schools and instead of leasing an old school building or building a new one, they lease office space or old warehouses. In Columbia Heights there is a charter school above the CVS.

Seems cool at first to have a school in a creative space until you have to tackle the issue of multi-purpose rooms. Most office buildings don't have gymnasiums or performance space. But who cares about that, right?

One benefit, however, is that these buildings typically have pristine rest rooms. Something you're just not going to find in an old school building. Which brings me to my point. Something I am sure you all can appreciate.

I have found the perfect place to take a shit at work.

I am almost afraid to tell you, for fear that one of my coworkers may be reading this and may try to muscle in on my spot.

The company that runs my school (I know that sounds funny but my school is actually an incorporated for-profit business) recently acquired the seventh floor of the building for the executive and business offices. The walls are all made of glass and there is a brilliant view of Rock Creek Park. They share the floor with a hospice and you could hear a gnat fart up there. I'm not sure but I think they have Enigma playing softly in the background. It smells like potpourri.

This is in sharp contrast to the fifth floor where I work. As soon as you get off the elevator you smell armpits and hot moist crotches. You hear teenagers cursing each other out at maximum volume. It's like a 24-hour liquor store except the walls are painted primary colors. You can't take a shit there. I gotta get zen to handle my business. And if it already smells like shit, then my shit won't come out. My shit is shy. And jealous. It wants to be the only shit in the room.

My shit needs complete silence and a non-threatening atmosphere before it will even consider coming out. Plus, high schools these days are teeming with STDs. I'm not going to expose my behind-hole to that kind of risk.

The seventh floor, however, has a door with one of those combination locks on it. You have to know the code to get up in there. Every morning this week, about an hour after my morning cup of coffee, I take some reading material with me and go have my AM squat. I pinch my load in the calming solitude of an empty bathroom.

Next week, I'm going to pack a bag. I'm going to bring toilet paper from home because they've got that cheap recycled burlap shit up there. It's got the little brown dots on it. I need me some Charmin or Northern or something. Two things you should never skimp on: toilet paper and condoms. In both situations, go top of the line. There is a difference.

And some baby wipes. It's the only way to do a halfway decent job.

I'd also like to bring me up a footstool or something. Putting my feet up helps get things moving.

And maybe a small clock radio so I can listen to NPR.

Thanks for reading.

GO OBAMA!

REDSKINS TO THE BOWL!

Confession: When I have an overnight guest, in the morning I pretend like I'm going to the kitchen for a glass of water so I can get rid of my AM gas, which could take several minutes.

Thursday, January 3, 2008

Laughing At Funerals

Okay:

So, my grandmother has the Alzheimer's.

Tragic but humorous.

My mother is originally from a small town in South Carolina. Every summer when I was a kid we would ride down there and spend a week or so with our grandparents.

My grandfather was the quintessential country boy. He rode a Harley, went fishing every weekend, made his own wine, kept a pistol underneath the sofa cushion. When his dog got old and sick, he took him out back and shot him. Then he buried him next to his fig tree. He's a card carrying member of the NRA and he always keeps his word.

A few years ago he called my mother and asked her, "Doris, what's all this dubya dubya dot dot business?"

My grandmother spent most of her time in the kitchen. Everything she cooks is delicious, but she is most famous for her sweet potato pie. She's a small woman, gentle, and soft-spoken.

But now she has the Alzheimer's. No more cobbler.

My mother moved her up here from South Carolina a few years ago. Put her in a nice home.

Occasionally, I have to go pick her up and drop off prescriptions and whatnot. She's always nice but she has absolutely no idea who I am. Once, after I told her I don't eat pork, she trapped me in an hour-long cyclical conversation about the many culinary uses of the pig.

"You can make ham, bacon, fried fatback, pig ears, pig feet, hog malls...So you don't eat no pork, huh?...That's too bad....You Jewish?....No?....Well, you know you can make ham, bacon, fried fatback, pig ears, pig feet, hog malls...So you don't eat no pork, huh?...That's too bad...You Jewish?...No?....Well..."

Funny but a little frightening.

There are other recurring questions.

"Who's daughter is that?"

"How old are you?"

and of course, "What time is it?"

Unfortunately, as I discovered over the holidays, Alzheimer's gets less funny as it progresses. To my family's credit though, we still find a way to squeeze some hearty laughs out of what should be a heart-breaking experience.

For example, she rarely makes sense when she speaks now. There are no more humorous questions or cyclical conversations. Just meaningless jabber. Whatever it is that she's saying, she seems to think it's rather important. I think she leaves out important words. Like a puzzle.

"You know...down in Rock Hill...James...went fishing...big ole catfish...television...nasty white woman...everybody went home hungry."

Then there was the disturbing pacing. She paced back and forth across the living room floor all night. Wringing her hands.

Then, of course, there was the bag.

The bag. The bag. The bag.

My mother was making Christmas dinner and my grandmother had somehow gotten hold of a one gallon freezer bag. She began placing items into the bag.

A handful of diced onions.

A cork.

A damp towel.

A grocery list.

Some candy.

She carried this bag around with her while she paced about in the living room, mumbling to herself and wringing her hands.

Grandma, grandma, grandma.

Nanna.

It is sad. Yes. Also, hilarious.

They say tragedy plus time equals comedy. But I believe it is the truly enlightened who are able to find comedy in the moment, right smack dab in the middle of an absolute tragedy. My family has turned this into an art. We laugh at everything. Nothing is taboo. We laugh at funerals. Especially at funerals. It just never occurs to us that just because something is sad does not mean that it isn't funny.

Now my mother is missing a spatula, as she discovered the other day. Our money says somebody stole her spatula and took it back with her to her nursing home. Which is funny, right? I mean, come on.

That spatula could be interpreted as a metaphor. Somewhere in her brain she remembers that she used to be a dynamite cook. Some part of her wanted to take it is a keepsake. Which is cool, but it really held up breakfast.

Thanks for reading.

REDSKINS TO THE BOWL!

Confession: I once got caught having sex on a log in a public park at 4 o'clock in the afternoon by an eighty-year-old white man walking his dog. "This is a public park or Christ's sake!" he said.

Wednesday, January 2, 2008

A Very Blasphemous Blog

Okay:

Warning: Today's blog contains some outrageous blasphemies.

Today was my first day at work after two weeks off for winter vacation. It was not as bad as it could have been. Most of the kids weren't there. But I realized something today that I've known for quite some time.

I need a new job like Amy Winehouse needs Jesus.

There is a woman at my job, though, who makes it all worth while. She's got this amazing body. Wide child bearing hips. A ridiculously plump booty. And these big juicy what-are-you-gonna-do-with-those lips. Predictably, she's a Jesus freak. Carries a bible in her purse. What a waste!

I'll be talking to her, erection rising like Old Glory at dawn, then she'll mention Jesus and my little wiener goes limp quicker than you can say Ecclesiastes.

I read a quote on some random stranger's myspace page. Attractive woman, with a tag line that said, "You're heart should be hidden so deep in Christ that a man would have to seek Him to find you."

Jesus freaks.

What can you do?

I was courting a woman for almost a year. Fine. Built like a brick shit house. Sex appeal oozing from her pores. Intelligent. Educated. Ambitious. Funny. Carnivorous sexual appetite.

Not a freak, but an absolute whore for Jesus.

Every night of the week she was doing something with her church. I eventually gave up. Not because her little holy barrier worked to ward off an ill-intentioned suitor, but because I knew I had no future with this woman. I live in the real world. She lives in fantasy land and believes in a magical God who sleeps with mortal women and impregnates them with his divine seed. Then that seed sacrifices his own life for the sins of all mankind. Nice story. Only sin continues and suffering continues. And I can't get any pussy because she's afraid her magic God will get mad at her and punish her with eternity in hell.

So much for intelligence.

I went on a date during the break. Nice girl I met through a friend at a party. She agrees to go out with me. I take her to a nice restaurant. And right after she orders her entree, she mentions that she has a boyfriend. Then she tells me that she does not believe in contraception, in any form, because sex is for reproduction only. So I had to sit through a one hour dinner with the mother of all Jesus freaks. She even quoted a little scripture. Boy, can I pick em.

Now I know what to do next time I'm at the pool and a big booty walks past. I'll just close my eyes real tight and think about Jesus. Then I'll be all filled with his goodness and my evil little penis will be too embarrassed and ashamed of itself to rise again. But it will rise again, won't it. Ironically, my penis and Jesus have something in common. Even though they're, like, mortal enemies now.

Thanks for reading.

REDSKINS TO THE BOWL!


Confession: I once farted audibly while my ex-girlfriend was giving me head. To her credit, she did not let it stop her. But she did give me a funny look.

Tuesday, January 1, 2008

Back In Effect for 2008, Bitches!

Okay:

Much apologies for the unannounced hiatus. I took the entire month of December off, without notice, to soul search and discover what it is that I should be trying to accomplish with this here blog. I still don't have an answer, but fuck it, I enjoy doing it, and my three faithful readers apparently enjoy reading it.

It is 2008 now, and my winter vacation was a much needed break from the spirit-crushing hustle and bustle of teaching today's troubled youth. In case you didn't know, I don't celebrate Christmas--or I try not to celebrate Christmas. Thing is, people won't let you not celebrate Christmas. Invariably, when you tell someone they always look at you with pity, like you just told them you have a terminal illness. Sometimes they're incredulous. "You don't celebrate Christmas, at all?" they say. "You don't give no gifts or nothing?"

My daughter asked me, "Daddy, why don't you celebrate Christmas?"

"Because Santa Claus is bullshit and daddy doesn't believe in Jesus," I said.

She looked at me curiously, "But you do like Jesus, don't you?"

No, no, no. You all can keep Christmas. I was just sitting around, drinking egg nog, waiting on New Year's.

I love New Year's.

Everybody's drunk and happy and eager to make sex with strangers. Everyday should be New Year's.

This year I went to a friend's house party in Adam's Morgan. A quaint little basement apartment with good music, friendly people and plenty of booze. I brought a bottle of champagne and commenced to mingling. There were many laughs to be had.

This little gump walked in with this stallion amazon fucking brick shit house. This woman was ready for King magazine, I shit you not. And she had these huge, massive, mammoth tits, squeezed together and pushed up through the top of a white blouse. I'm sure there were other people in the room, but for a moment, it was just me and her titties. I wanted to take off my watch and shoes and swan dive into her cleavage, curl up into the fetal position and put my thumb in my mouth while she read me Dr. Seuss. Glorious tits. Epic tits. I drooled a little bit.

But, alas, there was nothing I could do about it. He never left her side for a split second. I personally wouldn't leave the house with a woman dressed like that. But to each his own.

She could have sent one of her tits to Time Square and let them drop that instead of the ball.

She could send the other tit to ring the bell on opening day at Wall Street.

If one of her tits was in the GOP, it would get the nomination. Her other tit could be VP.

Okay, I think I'm done now.

Wait...they should send one of her tits to Hollywood to end the Writer's Guild strike.

Alright. Now I'm done.

At five minutes to midnight, I found myself standing alone with a glass of champagne. We were all gathered around the television, waiting patiently. Mostly everyone was coupled up. A brief sadness washed over me. Then it was gone and I was alright again. Then this woman who was sitting on the sofa motioned for me to sit next to her. She wasn't ugly. No Oscar-worthy tits, but definitely not a complete cast away. She had this big inexcusable coiffure, like a 1988 Vanessa Huxtable thing. Kind of like a Border Collie. Or like Ted Ross in The Wiz. But she was friendly.

"I want a kiss," she said. "I want to be kissing a man at midnight because that means I'll be kissing a man all year."

"Fine with me," I said. I was secretly wondering whether or not this casual kiss would turn into drunken wild New Year's sex in the bathroom. That would be nice, I imagined. And a first for me. But I've heard stories.

12:00. HAPPY NEW YEAR. A big kiss on the lips from a complete stranger.

Unfortunately, it didn't end there. She followed me around all night. Asking for more kisses and making dirty little double entendres in mixed company. A drunk floozy. No thanks, shorty!

Is this how I will spend the rest of my year? Running from repulsive women? Let's hope not.

My resolutions?

Well, I don't wanna jinx myself. We'll talk.

Hope all is well with you.

Thanks for reading.


Okay...one more. I think one of her tits killed Bhutto.

REDSKINS TO THE BOWL!

Tip of the day: Don't kid yourself. There's no such thing as a clean butthole.