Okay:
So, let’s talk about drugs.
We all know about Slick Willie’s “I didn’t inhale” fiasco.
Old Dubya apparently had or has an affinity for beer and the white stuff.
And even my man Barack has admitted to experimenting with weed and coke as a young man.
It’s more than an epidemic now. It’s a permanent fixture in America’s youth culture. Remember how all those eighties comedians used to joke about experimenting with homosexuality in summer camp? The joke that wasn’t a joke.
Well, today we can replace the image of Jimmy and Tommy playing with each other’s junk behind a log cabin, sugar-high on green lime juice, with the image of them bumping a line of Bolivian white with the counselor. This is now a rite of passage, not something that you can declare war against.
I’ve had my history with them. Two of my sisters were drug addicts. I myself used to do a lot of drugs. I had a rule against cocaine and heroin, but I was game for pretty much everything else.
My drug of choice, for the most part, was reefer. And like most weed smokers, I had convinced myself that I was not “on drugs”.
“Weed’s not a drug. It’s a medicinal plant,” I’d say. “It cures the cataracts and a bunch of other more shit.”
You couldn’t tell me anything.
For years, I smoked every day. I spent my life in a foggy daze. In the beginning it was like an adventure. My buddies and I would pile up in someone’s car, pool our money together and go hunting for the best smoke we could find. Sometimes we would go clear across town for “The Chronic” or whatever they were calling good shit at the time.
See, I grew up in DC. We didn’t have designer weed back when I started smoking. You had “Regular” and “Chronic”. Now they’ve got all kinds of fancy names like Haze, AK-47, and Sour Diesel.
At the 7-Eleven they’ve got all different types of cigars, wraps and rolling papers.
An assortment of flavors: Peach, Grape, and goddamn Vanilla Bean.
When I was getting high you had your choice between Phillies, White Owls, Backwoods, and Dutch Masters. It you went to a nice CVS somewhere they might have Garcia Vegas, which were cool because each cigar came in its own plastic case. You could put your roach and all other kinds of shit in that case. Once or twice those Vega cases stopped me from getting arrested.
See? It was an adventure.
It was years before I could actually enjoy being high though. Once I started enjoying it, really appreciating the high, I wouldn’t be caught dead without at least a quarter ounce in my possession. I started smoking joints because I had grown out of the group thing and I didn’t want any stinky cigars funking up my apartment. And I would smoke anywhere between three and four joints a day.
Then one day, I discovered that my high was becoming a little less pleasant. It was something they had always told us in Health class, but I had never experienced until then.
Extreme Paranoia.
At first I thought I had a bad batch of smoke. But no matter who I bought from, it was always the same thing.
I would hear strange noises. I became extremely leery of the police and anyone who looked like the police. I would clean my apartment incessantly hoping to mask the smell of weed in case someone came a knocking at the door. I vacuumed at least once a day.
Remember that movie Reefer Madness? It was something like that, except in color.
And sometimes…just sometimes, I thought I looked like a Muppet.
That’s right. I would go stare in the mirror for hours and nobody could have told me that I didn’t bear a strong resemblance to one of Jim Henson’s creations. My nose was cartoonishly big. So were my lips. My head was way bigger than the rest of my body. My skin was a funky orange or orange derivative. This made me really sad and self-conscious, which wasn’t fun.
Then I would feel really bad about myself, like a loser, like all of my dreams and aspirations were dumb and not worth the time. I wasn’t anywhere near as talented as I thought I was. People were just humoring me.
They had also mentioned this in Health class. I was being robbed of my ambition. I was losing my motivation.
The final straw was the erectile dysfunction. Something else they told me in Health class was true. It is impossible to put a condom on a limp penis.
So, I quit.
Cold turkey.
That was seven years ago and I haven’t looked back sense. Best decision I ever made.
I will tell you about the acid, the mushrooms and the pills later. That’s a whole ‘nother blog.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: There are 3 different species of cannabis: 1) cannabis sativa 2) cannabis indica and 3) cannabis ruderalis. Sativa is the most common; it can grow in any moderate climate. Indica is the most potent; it only grows in the tropics. Ruderalis is the least potent; it can grow in harsh, cold climates.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
And That's The Truth
Okay:
You ever watch Scrubs?
I always thought it was kind of a stupid show until Gill pointed out that it is the only show that traverses between slapstick, dry wit and heart-wrenching drama effortlessly and effectively. For that, they are to be commended.
But that’s not my point.
I once saw an episode that exposed the rivalry in every hospital between the doctors and the surgeons. The doctors want to medicate everyone and the surgeons want to cut everyone open.
They don’t sit at the same lunch tables.
Very cliquish.
My sister tells me it’s the same way with stock brokers and people in municipal bonds. As I understand it, congressman and senators don’t get along either.
Cops and Firemen.
Wannabes and Jigaboos.
One group thinks they’re better than the other and vice versa.
In a special education school, it’s teachers and therapists.
Bloods and Crips essentially.
There’s an old saying. “When all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.”
See, therapists want to help special kids work through their special issues.
Teachers, on the other hand, want order. They can’t do their jobs if they don’t have order.
People with conflicting goals make natural enemies.
I once saw a therapist. My mother couldn’t figure out why I was failing so horribly in school, so she sent me to some prick downtown. All I remember is his big, stupid ass grin. We only had two sessions. Lord knows what he told my mother but the next year she shipped me off to reform school.
If I catch that smiling prick on the street, it’s gonna be some shit.
Years later I saw a court-ordered shrink (long story). This was also a less than positive experience. We had a thirty minute meeting. She wrote in her notes that I wore too much cologne and I had attachment disorder.
I say all that to say this. I don’t like therapists.
So when one of these over-educated smug assholes tries to tell me I’m not therapeutic enough in my dealings with students, I want to scream. Most of them are a bunch of bleeding hearts who think they can love these kids back to health.
I have a different philosophy. I tell them the truth.
The truth is my hammer.
And all their little issues are nails.
Fear of abandonment? “Get over it. Everyone’s lonely. Read the next paragraph.”
Attention starved? “Get over it. You’re not the center of the world. Now finish your quiz.”
Physically abused? “That’s fucked up, man. Where’s your homework? You don’t wanna be all screwed up and uneducated.”
I tell them when they’re getting on my nerves. I tell them when they’re fucking up. I tell them when they’re coming dangerously close becoming a hopeless loser if they don’t straighten up quick.
Maybe it’s not always textbook positive behavior facilitation but I know it’s the only thing that has ever worked for me. Doesn’t necessarily mean that it will work for every student, but all that back-rubbing, coddling and “How did that make you feel?” bullshit may not work either.
My sister, for example, was a psych major. And she don’t go for none of that shit.
“Claude, you’re fucking up,” she tells me. And I appreciate it. That’s why I make sure I check in with her at least once a week. To make sure I don’t get too far gone. And I can get really far gone if left to my own devices.
See? Therapy is dumb.
The truth is the only thing that has ever saved anyone from anything.
And between me and my big sister, we could heal the world with candor.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: I once sniffed Ritalin in high school. Based on the effects, (I did my homework, cleaned my dorm room and read for an hour) I’m pretty sure I have Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.
You ever watch Scrubs?
I always thought it was kind of a stupid show until Gill pointed out that it is the only show that traverses between slapstick, dry wit and heart-wrenching drama effortlessly and effectively. For that, they are to be commended.
But that’s not my point.
I once saw an episode that exposed the rivalry in every hospital between the doctors and the surgeons. The doctors want to medicate everyone and the surgeons want to cut everyone open.
They don’t sit at the same lunch tables.
Very cliquish.
My sister tells me it’s the same way with stock brokers and people in municipal bonds. As I understand it, congressman and senators don’t get along either.
Cops and Firemen.
Wannabes and Jigaboos.
One group thinks they’re better than the other and vice versa.
In a special education school, it’s teachers and therapists.
Bloods and Crips essentially.
There’s an old saying. “When all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.”
See, therapists want to help special kids work through their special issues.
Teachers, on the other hand, want order. They can’t do their jobs if they don’t have order.
People with conflicting goals make natural enemies.
I once saw a therapist. My mother couldn’t figure out why I was failing so horribly in school, so she sent me to some prick downtown. All I remember is his big, stupid ass grin. We only had two sessions. Lord knows what he told my mother but the next year she shipped me off to reform school.
If I catch that smiling prick on the street, it’s gonna be some shit.
Years later I saw a court-ordered shrink (long story). This was also a less than positive experience. We had a thirty minute meeting. She wrote in her notes that I wore too much cologne and I had attachment disorder.
I say all that to say this. I don’t like therapists.
So when one of these over-educated smug assholes tries to tell me I’m not therapeutic enough in my dealings with students, I want to scream. Most of them are a bunch of bleeding hearts who think they can love these kids back to health.
I have a different philosophy. I tell them the truth.
The truth is my hammer.
And all their little issues are nails.
Fear of abandonment? “Get over it. Everyone’s lonely. Read the next paragraph.”
Attention starved? “Get over it. You’re not the center of the world. Now finish your quiz.”
Physically abused? “That’s fucked up, man. Where’s your homework? You don’t wanna be all screwed up and uneducated.”
I tell them when they’re getting on my nerves. I tell them when they’re fucking up. I tell them when they’re coming dangerously close becoming a hopeless loser if they don’t straighten up quick.
Maybe it’s not always textbook positive behavior facilitation but I know it’s the only thing that has ever worked for me. Doesn’t necessarily mean that it will work for every student, but all that back-rubbing, coddling and “How did that make you feel?” bullshit may not work either.
My sister, for example, was a psych major. And she don’t go for none of that shit.
“Claude, you’re fucking up,” she tells me. And I appreciate it. That’s why I make sure I check in with her at least once a week. To make sure I don’t get too far gone. And I can get really far gone if left to my own devices.
See? Therapy is dumb.
The truth is the only thing that has ever saved anyone from anything.
And between me and my big sister, we could heal the world with candor.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: I once sniffed Ritalin in high school. Based on the effects, (I did my homework, cleaned my dorm room and read for an hour) I’m pretty sure I have Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
High School High
Okay:
My alcholic Uncle Brownie used to have this joke. "I didn't go to high school, but I went to school high."
I was 12 or something when I first heard it. I didn't get it. Of course, I do now though.
See, one of strangest things about teaching for me is what little shocks or offends me. Part of it is that I somehow have always chosen the most dysfunctional, potentially dangerous places to work. It has never been a conscious decision. It’s just always worked out that way. And I’ve taught at a lot of different schools in a relatively short period of time.
I’ve been desensitized.
But even before I began teaching, I’d had my own personal experience. You see, I was once a delinquent.
Let me qualify that statement.
I was not a “criminal” per se. At least not the bad kind. I didn’t steal. I didn’t hurt people. I didn’t sell crack. My undesirable behaviors were much more benign.
I smoked an inordinate amount of weed and experimented with peddling a few bags here and there on occasion. I did so much in high school that by the time I graduated from college I was bored with it.
And I became sexually active at 13. I never, as you know, got bored with that, however.
So when my students come to school high out of their minds, I can recognize the inappropriateness but not the urgency. Seems pretty normal to me. You’re always going to have your stoners.
“Damn, Johnny,” I might say. “You smell like you still have some on you.”
When they come to school drunk I might say, “You know, gentleman typically wait for the sun to go down.”
But the truth is I went to school drunk and/or high all the time. Once I got into some of my mother’s Puerto Rican rum. I was two sheets to the wind by the time I got on the school bus. By the time the homeroom bell rang, I was in the early stages of alcohol poisoning. I passed out on the bleachers in the gymnasium, only to be awoken by my cousin playfully jabbing me in the stomach. I jumped up and ran to the closest bathroom, which happened to be the ladies’ room. I couldn’t even make it to the stall. I went straight to the sink and threw up what looked like 2 pints of blood.
Because I was a sixteen year old genius, I had drank all that rum before 8 o’clock on an empty stomach so as to avoid getting sick.
I threw up once more before 1st period and eventually snuck out of the building and rode the train home. To this day, the smell of rum brings back those painful memories for me.
So, when they come in all smoked out, I don’t want to reprimand them and send them to the drug counselor. I want to put them on to shit I know. Keep some Visine on you. A nice, scented oil. An extra shirt in your locker. Tricks of the trade for the high school stoner.
When the girls come waddling in, five and six months pregnant, I don’t want to chastise them. I think to myself, “There but for the grace of God go I.” There’s no real reason why I didn’t end up getting someone pregnant in high school. It was pure dumb luck. I don’t shake my head. I cross myself and do a Hail Mary.
So, as long as they’re not about to tip over, I really don’t see any reason to get super upset about it. But maybe that’s further proof that I’m in the wrong profession.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: When I was a teenager, one of my favorite places to high was on the dimly lit steps of the neighborhood church.
My alcholic Uncle Brownie used to have this joke. "I didn't go to high school, but I went to school high."
I was 12 or something when I first heard it. I didn't get it. Of course, I do now though.
See, one of strangest things about teaching for me is what little shocks or offends me. Part of it is that I somehow have always chosen the most dysfunctional, potentially dangerous places to work. It has never been a conscious decision. It’s just always worked out that way. And I’ve taught at a lot of different schools in a relatively short period of time.
I’ve been desensitized.
But even before I began teaching, I’d had my own personal experience. You see, I was once a delinquent.
Let me qualify that statement.
I was not a “criminal” per se. At least not the bad kind. I didn’t steal. I didn’t hurt people. I didn’t sell crack. My undesirable behaviors were much more benign.
I smoked an inordinate amount of weed and experimented with peddling a few bags here and there on occasion. I did so much in high school that by the time I graduated from college I was bored with it.
And I became sexually active at 13. I never, as you know, got bored with that, however.
So when my students come to school high out of their minds, I can recognize the inappropriateness but not the urgency. Seems pretty normal to me. You’re always going to have your stoners.
“Damn, Johnny,” I might say. “You smell like you still have some on you.”
When they come to school drunk I might say, “You know, gentleman typically wait for the sun to go down.”
But the truth is I went to school drunk and/or high all the time. Once I got into some of my mother’s Puerto Rican rum. I was two sheets to the wind by the time I got on the school bus. By the time the homeroom bell rang, I was in the early stages of alcohol poisoning. I passed out on the bleachers in the gymnasium, only to be awoken by my cousin playfully jabbing me in the stomach. I jumped up and ran to the closest bathroom, which happened to be the ladies’ room. I couldn’t even make it to the stall. I went straight to the sink and threw up what looked like 2 pints of blood.
Because I was a sixteen year old genius, I had drank all that rum before 8 o’clock on an empty stomach so as to avoid getting sick.
I threw up once more before 1st period and eventually snuck out of the building and rode the train home. To this day, the smell of rum brings back those painful memories for me.
So, when they come in all smoked out, I don’t want to reprimand them and send them to the drug counselor. I want to put them on to shit I know. Keep some Visine on you. A nice, scented oil. An extra shirt in your locker. Tricks of the trade for the high school stoner.
When the girls come waddling in, five and six months pregnant, I don’t want to chastise them. I think to myself, “There but for the grace of God go I.” There’s no real reason why I didn’t end up getting someone pregnant in high school. It was pure dumb luck. I don’t shake my head. I cross myself and do a Hail Mary.
So, as long as they’re not about to tip over, I really don’t see any reason to get super upset about it. But maybe that’s further proof that I’m in the wrong profession.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: When I was a teenager, one of my favorite places to high was on the dimly lit steps of the neighborhood church.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
There She Blows
Okay:
Today I want to talk about sex.
I try to keep blogs such as these at a minimum. I don't everyone thinking that I'm some kind of poon hound.I do think about other things. Politics. World Hunger. Iraq. Global Warming.
But today I want to talk about sex.
Oral sex specially.
More specifically, fellatio.
Blowjobs are like God's gift to man. A sly wink to make amends for the whole sweat-of-your-brow thing. It doesn't matter what you're going through. Stress at work. Money problems. For ten blissful minutes, all is right with the world. You could give two shits who wins the Super Bowl or the goddamn Democratic Nomination.
Most women, I've found, are very liberated and have no reservations about the thing. However, there is a small minority of women who are still quite reserved when going down comes up. They think it's some sort of Blessed Sacrament.
The question is: how do you let a reluctant lover know that you need that extra little something to get you over the hump?
You could be crass and say it flat out. "Give me some head!" but that probably won't work. In fact, it could end in a complete cessation of all sexual activity.
You could drop some hints. Kind of gently push her head down while you thrust your crotch toward her face.
Or you could just wait.
But waiting is for suckers, no?
So, fellas, I offer you this. A sure fire way to get some head from your timid tart.
Now this will only work on someone with whom you are already intimate. Definitely not a first date thing.
You spark up a random conversation. While you're on line at the movies, perhaps. "What about that crazy bitch Brittney Spears?"
And when she bites the line and starts babbling on and on about whatever, inject: "Hey, can I get some head when we get home?"
Not shit. 85% chance she'll say yes.
No logic to it. Women are weird.
I did it one time while I was pumping gas. I walked over to the passenger side and knocked on the window. When she rolled the window down I said, "How bout some head later?"
I shit you not. It works.
Try it out, fellas, and let me know.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA http://www.barackobama.com
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: Most women have a blowjob coach. That is, a friend or family member that taught them how to give head on a banana or zucchini.
Today I want to talk about sex.
I try to keep blogs such as these at a minimum. I don't everyone thinking that I'm some kind of poon hound.I do think about other things. Politics. World Hunger. Iraq. Global Warming.
But today I want to talk about sex.
Oral sex specially.
More specifically, fellatio.
Blowjobs are like God's gift to man. A sly wink to make amends for the whole sweat-of-your-brow thing. It doesn't matter what you're going through. Stress at work. Money problems. For ten blissful minutes, all is right with the world. You could give two shits who wins the Super Bowl or the goddamn Democratic Nomination.
Most women, I've found, are very liberated and have no reservations about the thing. However, there is a small minority of women who are still quite reserved when going down comes up. They think it's some sort of Blessed Sacrament.
The question is: how do you let a reluctant lover know that you need that extra little something to get you over the hump?
You could be crass and say it flat out. "Give me some head!" but that probably won't work. In fact, it could end in a complete cessation of all sexual activity.
You could drop some hints. Kind of gently push her head down while you thrust your crotch toward her face.
Or you could just wait.
But waiting is for suckers, no?
So, fellas, I offer you this. A sure fire way to get some head from your timid tart.
Now this will only work on someone with whom you are already intimate. Definitely not a first date thing.
You spark up a random conversation. While you're on line at the movies, perhaps. "What about that crazy bitch Brittney Spears?"
And when she bites the line and starts babbling on and on about whatever, inject: "Hey, can I get some head when we get home?"
Not shit. 85% chance she'll say yes.
No logic to it. Women are weird.
I did it one time while I was pumping gas. I walked over to the passenger side and knocked on the window. When she rolled the window down I said, "How bout some head later?"
I shit you not. It works.
Try it out, fellas, and let me know.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA http://www.barackobama.com
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: Most women have a blowjob coach. That is, a friend or family member that taught them how to give head on a banana or zucchini.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Another Introspective Blog
Okay:
Have any of you seen Lucky Number Slevin? I bought it from Target this weekend for $4.99. It came well-recommended by several trusted friends.
I was not disappointed or wholly impressed either—which, on second thought, was disappointing considering the a-list cast: Josh Harnett, Lucy Lui, Bruce Willis, Morgan Freeman, Stanley Tucci, and Ben Kingsley.
It’s another one of those off-beat gangster movies, essentially a Pulp Fiction rip-off complete with lots of snappy dialogue, a pile of dead bodies, and an implausible yet intriguing plot. Not entirely a waste of time, but life would have gone on had I skipped it.
The highlight of the film is Ben Kinglsey’s performance. He plays a Jewish gangster, affectionately referred to as The Rabbi. In one particularly memorable scene, he is trying to recover a debt from a man who is insisting that he is not the debtor, that The Rabbi has, in fact, mistaken him for someone else. To which the Rabbi replies:
“My father once told me ‘the first time someone calls you a horse, punch them in the mouth. The second time someone calls you a horse, you call them a jerk. The third time someone calls you a horse, it may be time to go shopping for a saddle.’”
I’m coming to the point now.
The other morning an angry woman called me at 9:30am. What was she angry about? I had not returned her phone call the night before. Of course, there’s more to it than that. Essentially, her charge was that I rarely ever call, that she is the one constantly pursuing me, asking me out to dinner, inviting herself over for a drink.
I did not argue with her. I sat and listened. I figured if I tried to turn it into a dialogue then it would only get worse. She laid into me for about five minutes. I wanted to scream at her, “I’m obviously not as interested in you as you are in me. Do I need to sit you down and state this implicitly, or are you going to salvage some of your dignity and take the various hints?”
But I didn’t say that. I listened quietly.
“You are so selfish!” she shouted. “Do you ever think about anyone’s feelings besides your own?”
For some reason, this comment struck a chord. It doesn’t take a licensed clinical therapist to know that I am damaged goods, that once upon a time I was quite the romantic, a hard-loving optimist. And you don’t have to be Miss Cleo to see that a series of bad relationships has sucked the sensitivity out of me. So my position on love and sex now, as logical as it may be, is purely reactionary.
But selfish?
I have never wanted to believe that about myself.
Some of you may remember that I blogged a week or so ago about a young woman who told me, on her way out of the door, “Claude, the only feelings you have are in your dick.”
After I got off the phone with the angry woman, I did what I always do when I am confused. I called my sister for some good old fashioned honesty.
“Hey, sis,” I said. “I just got off the phone with this chick. She called me up at 9:30 in the morning to tell me I’m selfish and I never think about anyone besides myself.”
“Well, she’s right, but I don’t have time to talk to you about it now. Call you later?”
So, if you’ve been counting, that’s three times I’ve been called selfish since New Year’s. Maybe it’s something I should try to work on. Or maybe everyone else should just get over it. I’ve got exactly two people to worry about: my daughter and myself. I don’t expect anyone else to worry about me and I don’t worry about them.
The thing with women is they only fling these kinds of charges at you when you reverse roles on them and force them into the position of the pursuer. It would be perfectly okay, and not necessarily selfish of them, to be aloof and indifferent to your entreaties. As a man, you’d have to shrug your shoulders and put it in the wind. To call a woman and berate her for not reciprocating my advances with equivalent zeal would be laughable, no? But because they’re the ones making the moves and they’re not used to it, you become a selfish asshole in their eyes.
At least that’s my theory.
Or maybe I should see if they also sell saddles at Target.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA http://www.barackobama.com
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Innocent Question: After a night of casual sex, I know that it is customary for the man to make a next-day phone call as a matter of respect and chivalry. Would a next-day text suffice?
Have any of you seen Lucky Number Slevin? I bought it from Target this weekend for $4.99. It came well-recommended by several trusted friends.
I was not disappointed or wholly impressed either—which, on second thought, was disappointing considering the a-list cast: Josh Harnett, Lucy Lui, Bruce Willis, Morgan Freeman, Stanley Tucci, and Ben Kingsley.
It’s another one of those off-beat gangster movies, essentially a Pulp Fiction rip-off complete with lots of snappy dialogue, a pile of dead bodies, and an implausible yet intriguing plot. Not entirely a waste of time, but life would have gone on had I skipped it.
The highlight of the film is Ben Kinglsey’s performance. He plays a Jewish gangster, affectionately referred to as The Rabbi. In one particularly memorable scene, he is trying to recover a debt from a man who is insisting that he is not the debtor, that The Rabbi has, in fact, mistaken him for someone else. To which the Rabbi replies:
“My father once told me ‘the first time someone calls you a horse, punch them in the mouth. The second time someone calls you a horse, you call them a jerk. The third time someone calls you a horse, it may be time to go shopping for a saddle.’”
I’m coming to the point now.
The other morning an angry woman called me at 9:30am. What was she angry about? I had not returned her phone call the night before. Of course, there’s more to it than that. Essentially, her charge was that I rarely ever call, that she is the one constantly pursuing me, asking me out to dinner, inviting herself over for a drink.
I did not argue with her. I sat and listened. I figured if I tried to turn it into a dialogue then it would only get worse. She laid into me for about five minutes. I wanted to scream at her, “I’m obviously not as interested in you as you are in me. Do I need to sit you down and state this implicitly, or are you going to salvage some of your dignity and take the various hints?”
But I didn’t say that. I listened quietly.
“You are so selfish!” she shouted. “Do you ever think about anyone’s feelings besides your own?”
For some reason, this comment struck a chord. It doesn’t take a licensed clinical therapist to know that I am damaged goods, that once upon a time I was quite the romantic, a hard-loving optimist. And you don’t have to be Miss Cleo to see that a series of bad relationships has sucked the sensitivity out of me. So my position on love and sex now, as logical as it may be, is purely reactionary.
But selfish?
I have never wanted to believe that about myself.
Some of you may remember that I blogged a week or so ago about a young woman who told me, on her way out of the door, “Claude, the only feelings you have are in your dick.”
After I got off the phone with the angry woman, I did what I always do when I am confused. I called my sister for some good old fashioned honesty.
“Hey, sis,” I said. “I just got off the phone with this chick. She called me up at 9:30 in the morning to tell me I’m selfish and I never think about anyone besides myself.”
“Well, she’s right, but I don’t have time to talk to you about it now. Call you later?”
So, if you’ve been counting, that’s three times I’ve been called selfish since New Year’s. Maybe it’s something I should try to work on. Or maybe everyone else should just get over it. I’ve got exactly two people to worry about: my daughter and myself. I don’t expect anyone else to worry about me and I don’t worry about them.
The thing with women is they only fling these kinds of charges at you when you reverse roles on them and force them into the position of the pursuer. It would be perfectly okay, and not necessarily selfish of them, to be aloof and indifferent to your entreaties. As a man, you’d have to shrug your shoulders and put it in the wind. To call a woman and berate her for not reciprocating my advances with equivalent zeal would be laughable, no? But because they’re the ones making the moves and they’re not used to it, you become a selfish asshole in their eyes.
At least that’s my theory.
Or maybe I should see if they also sell saddles at Target.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA http://www.barackobama.com
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Innocent Question: After a night of casual sex, I know that it is customary for the man to make a next-day phone call as a matter of respect and chivalry. Would a next-day text suffice?
Friday, February 22, 2008
You Take The Good You Take The Bad
Okay:
As you know, I am one half of a rap group called Dirty Water. We've been operating at a sub-underground level (without profit or promise for commercial success) for almost ten years. The bright side is that we've always been well-received. And more can you really ask for?
Until recently.
The other day I was Googling myself when I ran across something: a review of the Dirty Water album we released late last year, Joe D and Cool Cee Brown are Dirty Water.
This is the review in its entirety:
What an asshole!
And I don't say tat becuase I'm a sensitive artist and I can't take constructive criticism. I say that because it's obvious the motherfucker barely listened to the album. For one thing, the song about me almost getting my ass kicked ("Automatic") is track #3, not track #2. And the "introspective" song he's referring to ("Wish You Were Here") has me doing lead vocals, not Joe D. And then, why doesn't he know the names of any of the songs? Did he pick up some bootleg copy off the goddamn Internet?
I'm just saying, if you're going to write something this negative, at least have your facts straight. Otherwise it undermines the legitmacy of your opinion.
Joe said, "If I see the motherfucker out on the street, I'm gonna kick his ass."
Which I don't think would be entirely inappropriate.
However, I do think it would be far more effective to pee on him.
That's right.
Tie him down somehow and pee on him. Not in a sexual way, but in a this-is-how-I-feel-about-your-opinion kind of way. We could earn ourselves a little reuptation amongst the Internet Literati.
"Don't give those guys a bad review, they'll piss on you."
"Piss?"
"That's right. Piss. Don't ask me how I know."
In lighter news...the night before last, we won a Wammie.
What's a Wammie?
A Washignton Area Music Association Award.
We tied for best Hip Hop Group with Zimbabwe Legit. So really we only got half a Wammie. And since we're a duo, that's like one quarter of a Wammie for me. We would have been there but we didn't know anything about it. We would have gotten dressed up and everything. Or as Joe said, "I would've gotten clean, man. A haircut and everything."
I hope they didn't feel snubbed.
At any rate, My sincerest gratitude to the WAMA for even thinking of us.
And a big fuck you to Aurther Gailes. Don't let us catch out somewhere, punk!
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA! http://www.barackobama.com
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: I Google myself at least once a day. I also Google ex-girlfriends and people I hate.
As you know, I am one half of a rap group called Dirty Water. We've been operating at a sub-underground level (without profit or promise for commercial success) for almost ten years. The bright side is that we've always been well-received. And more can you really ask for?
Until recently.
The other day I was Googling myself when I ran across something: a review of the Dirty Water album we released late last year, Joe D and Cool Cee Brown are Dirty Water.
This is the review in its entirety:
It's hard to make a good rap album. For proof of this statement, just listen to "Dirtywater." You'd think that two talented rappers, one of which is doubles as a producer, wouldn't have any trouble making a good album. Especially when they're so starved for success, they're about to be "killing everybody in sight." But though both of them are strong in their own right, and even as a duo, they fail to distinguish themselves in hip hop's overcrowded underground.
Present on "Dirtywater" are the usual underground themes: fake rappers, fake thugs, catastrophic brokenness, trouble getting women, with a dose of social commentary for good measure. That said, the duo deserves credit for being original with their themes, most notably Cool Cee Brown trying not to get beat up in "track 2" and revealing the Joe D as a stalker in "track 09." While they take on the generic underground themes, they usually put some kind of weird spin on it, which keeps things fairly interesting.
Where the album really fails is in its sound. Joe D isn't really a bad producer, although definitely not a great one. Still, the beats here manage are generally average. The problem is that neither the rappers, the production, nor their interaction grabs a person's attention. Everything is so low key that the songs start to blend together, none of them possessing any real sonic identity. They describe themselves as the rap equivalent to artists like John Lennon, but their work lacks that type of impact or originality.
Still, what's important to not is that they do succeed as lyricists. Joe D especially is compelling, especially in the introspective "track 11." Cool Cee Brown complements his serious monotone with a higher pitched southern drawl that really illuminates the tracks where they collaborate. The solo tracks are the most monotonous, as they lack this chemistry.
"Dirtywater" is frustrating, mostly because it seems to underachieve most of the time. As a straight through listen, it becomes mundane. None of the music is particularly compelling in spite of the group's talents. They lack the vision to successfully carry this project off. Hopefully they'll grow into it.
by Aurthur Gailes
Music Vibes: 3 of 10 Lyric Vibes: 6 of 10 TOTAL Vibes: 4.5 of 10
What an asshole!
And I don't say tat becuase I'm a sensitive artist and I can't take constructive criticism. I say that because it's obvious the motherfucker barely listened to the album. For one thing, the song about me almost getting my ass kicked ("Automatic") is track #3, not track #2. And the "introspective" song he's referring to ("Wish You Were Here") has me doing lead vocals, not Joe D. And then, why doesn't he know the names of any of the songs? Did he pick up some bootleg copy off the goddamn Internet?
I'm just saying, if you're going to write something this negative, at least have your facts straight. Otherwise it undermines the legitmacy of your opinion.
Joe said, "If I see the motherfucker out on the street, I'm gonna kick his ass."
Which I don't think would be entirely inappropriate.
However, I do think it would be far more effective to pee on him.
That's right.
Tie him down somehow and pee on him. Not in a sexual way, but in a this-is-how-I-feel-about-your-opinion kind of way. We could earn ourselves a little reuptation amongst the Internet Literati.
"Don't give those guys a bad review, they'll piss on you."
"Piss?"
"That's right. Piss. Don't ask me how I know."
In lighter news...the night before last, we won a Wammie.
What's a Wammie?
A Washignton Area Music Association Award.
We tied for best Hip Hop Group with Zimbabwe Legit. So really we only got half a Wammie. And since we're a duo, that's like one quarter of a Wammie for me. We would have been there but we didn't know anything about it. We would have gotten dressed up and everything. Or as Joe said, "I would've gotten clean, man. A haircut and everything."
I hope they didn't feel snubbed.
At any rate, My sincerest gratitude to the WAMA for even thinking of us.
And a big fuck you to Aurther Gailes. Don't let us catch out somewhere, punk!
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA! http://www.barackobama.com
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: I Google myself at least once a day. I also Google ex-girlfriends and people I hate.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Not My Kind Of Party
Okay:
A little while back I did something that I never imagined I would do. I went to one of those sex parties.
As you well know, dear reader, I have been promiscuous. But even in my wildest of days, an occasional visit to the strip club was about was freaky as it got for me. Dildos, wax, ass beads—who needs it? I’ll take my vagina regular, thank you.
But a friend of mine was hosting one of these little shindigs, so I said fuck it and agreed to go. First, I had to find me a friend that was freaky enough to be my date. Which was not difficult.
See, it’s been my experience that women on the whole are far freakier than men think they are. The kind of stuff your lady would go for if you presented it in the right way might blow your mind. The first woman I asked jumped at the chance. We did have to set some things straight first.
“I’m not doing no orgy,” I said.
“Me neither,” she said.
“And if anyone tries to stick something up my ass, I’m leaving.”
“Ditto,” she said.
“And you’re not allowed to do freaky shit with anyone else. If you decide to get freaky, I’m the one who reaps the benefits.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“I’m serious. I don’t wanna go to the chip bowl and come back to find you making out with some asshole on the couch. That’s the kind of nasty shit they do at these things. I’m just going for shit-and-giggles.”
She agreed to the terms and we set out on our date having no idea what to expect. A kind of Eyes Wide Shut deal? Wall-to-wall, hot, half-naked women just waiting and willing to do whatever? Freaky Middle- Eastern music playing in the background? Cages, chains, whips? A smoke machine? Mosquito nets?
Fruit?
Sadly, there were no such accoutrements.
We arrived at the hotel suite a little after midnight. We could smell the weed from the elevator, which pleased my date but did absolutely nothing for me. In fact, I thought to myself—Great! Everyone’s going to be high and I’ll have no one to talk to. Proof-positive that I am getting old and boring.
I knock the special knock and notice immediately the sound of porn. We are let in and low-and-behold the porn is being projected on the wall. I’ve never seen a two-foot penis before and I hope I never see one again.
I typically try to avoid clichés like “the smoke was so thick you could cut it with a knife” but, goddamn it, I don’t know what else to tell you. It was smoky as hell in there. Smoky like, something-in-here-is-on-fire smoky. In the sitting area there were at least a dozen guys and one chubby girl sitting on the couch. Everyone was higher than giraffe pussy. It was like “Night of the Living Baseheads” in there. Or that scene in Jungle Fever when Flip tried to find Gator so he could get their mother’s television back and he found Gator in that crack-house with Halle Berry and he was like “I’m smoking the damn TV!”
It was like that. Except instead of crack, these motherfuckers were blowing serious reefer.
Serious reefer.
The shit I smoked in college didn’t make you look like this.
My date stuck close to me and said nothing but I sensed she wanted to ask someone where they had the shit stashed. I asked someone about my friend, the host.
“In the back,” said the random stranger.
Oh my God, I thought. What the hell is going on ‘in the back’?
Though nervous, I ventured to the back with my date close behind. Three guys and a different chubby girl. This one was wearing a teddy. My friend was nowhere to be found though. I looked to my right and saw a closed door. There was a light on in the adjoining room. Then it hit me.
Oh my God, I thought. They must be...’in the back of the back.’
What in the fuck is going on in the back of the back?
I decided I did not want to find out. Like my Uncle Beau always told me. Curiosity killed the cat and it fucked up the dog too.
My date and I left as quickly and quietly as we came. Not our bag, really.
It was an interesting experience. I don’t know if it’s anything I would try a second time. But kudos go to my friend, who reads this blog regularly, for inviting me and having the balls to do such a thing.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA! http://www.barackobama.com
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: I wore my lucky underwear (black boxer-briefs) just in case.
A little while back I did something that I never imagined I would do. I went to one of those sex parties.
As you well know, dear reader, I have been promiscuous. But even in my wildest of days, an occasional visit to the strip club was about was freaky as it got for me. Dildos, wax, ass beads—who needs it? I’ll take my vagina regular, thank you.
But a friend of mine was hosting one of these little shindigs, so I said fuck it and agreed to go. First, I had to find me a friend that was freaky enough to be my date. Which was not difficult.
See, it’s been my experience that women on the whole are far freakier than men think they are. The kind of stuff your lady would go for if you presented it in the right way might blow your mind. The first woman I asked jumped at the chance. We did have to set some things straight first.
“I’m not doing no orgy,” I said.
“Me neither,” she said.
“And if anyone tries to stick something up my ass, I’m leaving.”
“Ditto,” she said.
“And you’re not allowed to do freaky shit with anyone else. If you decide to get freaky, I’m the one who reaps the benefits.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“I’m serious. I don’t wanna go to the chip bowl and come back to find you making out with some asshole on the couch. That’s the kind of nasty shit they do at these things. I’m just going for shit-and-giggles.”
She agreed to the terms and we set out on our date having no idea what to expect. A kind of Eyes Wide Shut deal? Wall-to-wall, hot, half-naked women just waiting and willing to do whatever? Freaky Middle- Eastern music playing in the background? Cages, chains, whips? A smoke machine? Mosquito nets?
Fruit?
Sadly, there were no such accoutrements.
We arrived at the hotel suite a little after midnight. We could smell the weed from the elevator, which pleased my date but did absolutely nothing for me. In fact, I thought to myself—Great! Everyone’s going to be high and I’ll have no one to talk to. Proof-positive that I am getting old and boring.
I knock the special knock and notice immediately the sound of porn. We are let in and low-and-behold the porn is being projected on the wall. I’ve never seen a two-foot penis before and I hope I never see one again.
I typically try to avoid clichés like “the smoke was so thick you could cut it with a knife” but, goddamn it, I don’t know what else to tell you. It was smoky as hell in there. Smoky like, something-in-here-is-on-fire smoky. In the sitting area there were at least a dozen guys and one chubby girl sitting on the couch. Everyone was higher than giraffe pussy. It was like “Night of the Living Baseheads” in there. Or that scene in Jungle Fever when Flip tried to find Gator so he could get their mother’s television back and he found Gator in that crack-house with Halle Berry and he was like “I’m smoking the damn TV!”
It was like that. Except instead of crack, these motherfuckers were blowing serious reefer.
Serious reefer.
The shit I smoked in college didn’t make you look like this.
My date stuck close to me and said nothing but I sensed she wanted to ask someone where they had the shit stashed. I asked someone about my friend, the host.
“In the back,” said the random stranger.
Oh my God, I thought. What the hell is going on ‘in the back’?
Though nervous, I ventured to the back with my date close behind. Three guys and a different chubby girl. This one was wearing a teddy. My friend was nowhere to be found though. I looked to my right and saw a closed door. There was a light on in the adjoining room. Then it hit me.
Oh my God, I thought. They must be...’in the back of the back.’
What in the fuck is going on in the back of the back?
I decided I did not want to find out. Like my Uncle Beau always told me. Curiosity killed the cat and it fucked up the dog too.
My date and I left as quickly and quietly as we came. Not our bag, really.
It was an interesting experience. I don’t know if it’s anything I would try a second time. But kudos go to my friend, who reads this blog regularly, for inviting me and having the balls to do such a thing.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA! http://www.barackobama.com
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: I wore my lucky underwear (black boxer-briefs) just in case.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Notes On Jacko
Okay:
First of all, I apologize for not blogging yesterday. I woke up to discover my Internet was down, and I can't really blog from work. And Monday was a holiday for me. So today, Wednesday, is my first blog of the week. Hopefully it will never happen again. But, as you well know, certain shit just cannot be avoided.
So my sister was in town this past weekend for my mother's birthday. I won't tell you how old she is on the slim chance that she may read this one day and subsequently write me out of her will. Let's just say she looks great!
A few days ago my sister shipped her present to me. A very nice, very expensive Chanel bag. Very expensive. She harassed me all week via text message.
"If u lose pkg I will kill u."
"Where is pkg?"
"R u with pkg now?"
"How is pkg? What is it wearing? Did u feed it?"
This all made me very nervous about what I was going to get my mother. It would be difficult to top a Chanel bag. I thought long and hard about it then decided to get her an iPod.
Brilliant.
Something she would never buy for herself. Something she had already expressed an interest in. Something I could afford. Something she would definitely use.
Fucking brilliant.
I bought her a 4G Nano, a nightstand dock and a $25 iTunes card. For a moment there, I felt like a good son. We spent the entire morning on the computer importing CDs and browsing the iStore. It was a glorious moment.
But what ended up topping all was a small gift that my sister got for my mother and me. Copies of the 25th Anniversary Edition of Thriller.
It comes with the mother of all liner notes, some bonus tracks and a DVD with all the videos, or short films as he calls them.
I realized, with no small degree of delight, that my daughter did not know anything about Thriller. "Your daddy used to love Michael Jackson," said my sister. "He knew all the dance moves and used to walk around with a sock on his hand grabbing his crotch. It was so cute. He was younger than you."
It's true. I was gay for Michael Jackson. I probably would have let him molest me.
In fact, I don't remember anything significant happening in my life before Thriller. It was the beginning of me.
"Come here, honey," I said. "I want to show you the greatest music video of all time. It scared the hell out of me when I was your age."
"What's it about?"
"It's not about anything really. He's just singing to some girl. But it's got werewolves and zombies."
"Werewolves and zombies? It sounds scary. I think I'll pass."
She started walking away.
"Get back here right now," I said. "I am your father and I am ordering you to watch Thriller. It is very important! And it's Black History Month."
We watched it together. She winced and hid her face a bit. But all told, she didn't seem that frightened or impressed.
I, on the other hand, was transported back to my childhood temporarily. And I realized something in my euphoric stupor--everyone except Michael Jackson sucks. He understood showmanship. Those other bozos were just fucking around.
Last night my daughter had some trouble sleeping. She asked me if I would let her call her grandmother.
"Please come get me. I want to sleep at your house tonight. My daddy made me watch the Thriller video even though I told him I didn't want to see it and now I think the ugly dead people that weren't all the way dead are going to come get me like they came to get the pretty girl with the Jheri Curl. And Michael Jackson is with them too only he's not singing; he just wants to kill me."
Times sure have changed.
Oh well. She made me take her to see Hannah Montana. Now we're even.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: One Christmas I asked for one thing only—a Michael Jackson doll. I made him a bed from an old shoebox. I slept with him and bathed with him. It was the only toy I ever had that I did not immediately destroy.
First of all, I apologize for not blogging yesterday. I woke up to discover my Internet was down, and I can't really blog from work. And Monday was a holiday for me. So today, Wednesday, is my first blog of the week. Hopefully it will never happen again. But, as you well know, certain shit just cannot be avoided.
So my sister was in town this past weekend for my mother's birthday. I won't tell you how old she is on the slim chance that she may read this one day and subsequently write me out of her will. Let's just say she looks great!
A few days ago my sister shipped her present to me. A very nice, very expensive Chanel bag. Very expensive. She harassed me all week via text message.
"If u lose pkg I will kill u."
"Where is pkg?"
"R u with pkg now?"
"How is pkg? What is it wearing? Did u feed it?"
This all made me very nervous about what I was going to get my mother. It would be difficult to top a Chanel bag. I thought long and hard about it then decided to get her an iPod.
Brilliant.
Something she would never buy for herself. Something she had already expressed an interest in. Something I could afford. Something she would definitely use.
Fucking brilliant.
I bought her a 4G Nano, a nightstand dock and a $25 iTunes card. For a moment there, I felt like a good son. We spent the entire morning on the computer importing CDs and browsing the iStore. It was a glorious moment.
But what ended up topping all was a small gift that my sister got for my mother and me. Copies of the 25th Anniversary Edition of Thriller.
It comes with the mother of all liner notes, some bonus tracks and a DVD with all the videos, or short films as he calls them.
I realized, with no small degree of delight, that my daughter did not know anything about Thriller. "Your daddy used to love Michael Jackson," said my sister. "He knew all the dance moves and used to walk around with a sock on his hand grabbing his crotch. It was so cute. He was younger than you."
It's true. I was gay for Michael Jackson. I probably would have let him molest me.
In fact, I don't remember anything significant happening in my life before Thriller. It was the beginning of me.
"Come here, honey," I said. "I want to show you the greatest music video of all time. It scared the hell out of me when I was your age."
"What's it about?"
"It's not about anything really. He's just singing to some girl. But it's got werewolves and zombies."
"Werewolves and zombies? It sounds scary. I think I'll pass."
She started walking away.
"Get back here right now," I said. "I am your father and I am ordering you to watch Thriller. It is very important! And it's Black History Month."
We watched it together. She winced and hid her face a bit. But all told, she didn't seem that frightened or impressed.
I, on the other hand, was transported back to my childhood temporarily. And I realized something in my euphoric stupor--everyone except Michael Jackson sucks. He understood showmanship. Those other bozos were just fucking around.
Last night my daughter had some trouble sleeping. She asked me if I would let her call her grandmother.
"Please come get me. I want to sleep at your house tonight. My daddy made me watch the Thriller video even though I told him I didn't want to see it and now I think the ugly dead people that weren't all the way dead are going to come get me like they came to get the pretty girl with the Jheri Curl. And Michael Jackson is with them too only he's not singing; he just wants to kill me."
Times sure have changed.
Oh well. She made me take her to see Hannah Montana. Now we're even.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: One Christmas I asked for one thing only—a Michael Jackson doll. I made him a bed from an old shoebox. I slept with him and bathed with him. It was the only toy I ever had that I did not immediately destroy.
Friday, February 15, 2008
30 Things I Hate
Okay:
I gotta be honest. Even though I don't celebrate Valentine's Day, it is a little depressing being single what with all the talk of nice dinners and all-night love-making. Because I'm not against either one of those things.
Yesterday I went home after work, told myself I was going to take a nap. Then woke up at 2 in the morning. All the black nationalist literature in the world can't take the pathetic out of that image.
So my goal is to be deeply in love by February 14th next year. And you, dear reader, are going to help me. Cool Cee Brown is officially on the market. If you have a friend, sister, cousin, co-worker who you think might be my type, hook me up.
In order to aid you in your search, I have compiled a list of Things I Hate:
1. Contemporary R&B
2. Straight to Video Low-Brow Black Comedies
3. Reality Television
4. BET
5. Pork
6. The Dallas Cowboys
7. Al Sharpton
8. Michael Baisden
9. Triple Crown Books
10. People Who Drink White Zinfandel
11. Bad Tippers
12. Republicans
13. Weaves
14. Colored Contacts
15. Ankle Socks
15. Christmas
16. Stack Heels
17. Mouth Piercings
18. Tattoos of Animals
19. Clay Aiken
20. Hanna Montana
21. SUVs
22. Feta Cheese
23. Tuesdays
24. Chocolate Ice Cream
25. Happy Waitresses
26. Turquoise
27. Lengerie
28. The Beach
29. Beauty Pageants
30. Cinnamon Chewing Gum
That's all I can think of right now. But if you know someone who also hates these things, ask them for their full name social security number. Send me those things and a color photograph and a hair sample if possible, and if you can, blood and urine.
You can never be too careful these days.
Thanks for reading.
GO OBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Innocent Question: Ladies, would it offend you if a man put on two rubbers?
I gotta be honest. Even though I don't celebrate Valentine's Day, it is a little depressing being single what with all the talk of nice dinners and all-night love-making. Because I'm not against either one of those things.
Yesterday I went home after work, told myself I was going to take a nap. Then woke up at 2 in the morning. All the black nationalist literature in the world can't take the pathetic out of that image.
So my goal is to be deeply in love by February 14th next year. And you, dear reader, are going to help me. Cool Cee Brown is officially on the market. If you have a friend, sister, cousin, co-worker who you think might be my type, hook me up.
In order to aid you in your search, I have compiled a list of Things I Hate:
1. Contemporary R&B
2. Straight to Video Low-Brow Black Comedies
3. Reality Television
4. BET
5. Pork
6. The Dallas Cowboys
7. Al Sharpton
8. Michael Baisden
9. Triple Crown Books
10. People Who Drink White Zinfandel
11. Bad Tippers
12. Republicans
13. Weaves
14. Colored Contacts
15. Ankle Socks
15. Christmas
16. Stack Heels
17. Mouth Piercings
18. Tattoos of Animals
19. Clay Aiken
20. Hanna Montana
21. SUVs
22. Feta Cheese
23. Tuesdays
24. Chocolate Ice Cream
25. Happy Waitresses
26. Turquoise
27. Lengerie
28. The Beach
29. Beauty Pageants
30. Cinnamon Chewing Gum
That's all I can think of right now. But if you know someone who also hates these things, ask them for their full name social security number. Send me those things and a color photograph and a hair sample if possible, and if you can, blood and urine.
You can never be too careful these days.
Thanks for reading.
GO OBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Innocent Question: Ladies, would it offend you if a man put on two rubbers?
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Die Hanna Die
Okay:
This weekend I took my daughter to see the Hanna Montana movie.
A few things.
Number one is I absolutely hate Hanna Montana. Second is those people over at Disney are geniuses. Gotta respect the hustle. Although I'm not sure if all of this is legal.
First there's the concert tour. From what I understand the ticket prices ranged from a few hundred to a thousand dollars. And they sold out everywhere they went.
Then they decide to do this movie. One week release. Shown in 3D.
Brilliant.
Then they extend the release another week. So I succumb to the pressure and take my daughter to see what I guess is her equivelant of Purple Rain or something.
We get to the movie theatre and I ask the teller for tickets. He then asks me for thirty-two dollars. I say, "No, there's only two of us. One adult and one child."
He says, "I know. The tickets are fifteen dollars."
"A piece?" a asked.
"Yes, sir."
"And you only get to see it once?"
I bought the tickets reluctantly and he handed us our 3D glasses, which, to be fair, were the nicest 3D glasses I had ever seen. They were made of hard plastic, not the red and white cardboard that I remember from the eighties.
We sat down in the near-empty theatre and waited through a half-dozen previews of 3D movies coming out later this year. A U2 Concert movie. A film version of Journey to the Center of the Earth starring Brendan Frazier, who hasn't aged a day since Encinco Man.
A woman walks in with two little girls and sits down right behind us. And believe or not, once the movie gets started and Hanna starts doing her thing, this woman starts heckling her.
A grown woman, with children, at a matinee, heckling Hanna Montana. I shit you not.
"Aw shut up girl, you know you can't sing!"
"She's lip-synching, y'all. You can't run around the stage like that and hit those notes!"
"She ain't no Beyonce!"
Shit like this would get on my nerves regardless, but the fact that I paid thirty-two dollars to see this goddamn movie...I wanted to cuss her ass out. But there were children present, including my own, so we just moved up a few rows.
I fell asleep at some point. After a while all of the songs started to sound alike.
Truth be told, as much of a Hanna Montana fan as my daughter professes to be, I don't think she was terribly impressed with the whole thing. In fact, she hasn't talked about it since. I probably could have saved my thirty-two dollars and got us a nice lunch or something.
Anyway. It has not missed me that today is Valentine's Day. So Happy Valentine's Day to you all. Enjoy your bullshit holiday. Get laid.
Thanks for reading.
GO OBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: Mark your calendar's, I've been technically single every Valentine's Day since I was a senior in high school.
This weekend I took my daughter to see the Hanna Montana movie.
A few things.
Number one is I absolutely hate Hanna Montana. Second is those people over at Disney are geniuses. Gotta respect the hustle. Although I'm not sure if all of this is legal.
First there's the concert tour. From what I understand the ticket prices ranged from a few hundred to a thousand dollars. And they sold out everywhere they went.
Then they decide to do this movie. One week release. Shown in 3D.
Brilliant.
Then they extend the release another week. So I succumb to the pressure and take my daughter to see what I guess is her equivelant of Purple Rain or something.
We get to the movie theatre and I ask the teller for tickets. He then asks me for thirty-two dollars. I say, "No, there's only two of us. One adult and one child."
He says, "I know. The tickets are fifteen dollars."
"A piece?" a asked.
"Yes, sir."
"And you only get to see it once?"
I bought the tickets reluctantly and he handed us our 3D glasses, which, to be fair, were the nicest 3D glasses I had ever seen. They were made of hard plastic, not the red and white cardboard that I remember from the eighties.
We sat down in the near-empty theatre and waited through a half-dozen previews of 3D movies coming out later this year. A U2 Concert movie. A film version of Journey to the Center of the Earth starring Brendan Frazier, who hasn't aged a day since Encinco Man.
A woman walks in with two little girls and sits down right behind us. And believe or not, once the movie gets started and Hanna starts doing her thing, this woman starts heckling her.
A grown woman, with children, at a matinee, heckling Hanna Montana. I shit you not.
"Aw shut up girl, you know you can't sing!"
"She's lip-synching, y'all. You can't run around the stage like that and hit those notes!"
"She ain't no Beyonce!"
Shit like this would get on my nerves regardless, but the fact that I paid thirty-two dollars to see this goddamn movie...I wanted to cuss her ass out. But there were children present, including my own, so we just moved up a few rows.
I fell asleep at some point. After a while all of the songs started to sound alike.
Truth be told, as much of a Hanna Montana fan as my daughter professes to be, I don't think she was terribly impressed with the whole thing. In fact, she hasn't talked about it since. I probably could have saved my thirty-two dollars and got us a nice lunch or something.
Anyway. It has not missed me that today is Valentine's Day. So Happy Valentine's Day to you all. Enjoy your bullshit holiday. Get laid.
Thanks for reading.
GO OBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: Mark your calendar's, I've been technically single every Valentine's Day since I was a senior in high school.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
To Queef Or Not To Queef
Okay:
First of all, I did vote yesterday. See, I'm not all talk. Made it to the polls before they closed on a cold, icy Tuesday evening. Barack, I've done what I could.
But that's actually pretty boring. I have a story for you. It has some nastiness to it though, so be forewarned.
So I haven't blogged about my Friday night regular in a while. I was hesitant to share the sordid details, but I suppose it could be cathartic to a certain extent. Here goes.
Last time we hooked up, something very bizarre happened, and then more bizzarity followed.
We were lying in the bed naked, or nekkit as they say in Texas. Kissing and whatnot. The plane was coming in for a landing, just looking for the landing strip. As it approached there was a loud noise that startled me, followed by a gust of wind.
I'm trying to be discrete, bare with me.
Now we all know that in that particular region of the female anatomy, funny things happen sometimes. I imagined that it was some sort of air pocket releasing as we changed positions. I think it's technical name is "queef". I'd heard one of those before and from my experience it generally means you're doing something right. So I gave a sensual, "ooooh".
Only the loud noise and gust of wind was soon followed by a foul smell.
Yes, ladies and gentleman. She farted.
Suddenly, the sensual "ooooh" that I had offered previously seemed a bit inappropriate. So I, being a markedly immature 28-year-old, laughed. Just a little bit. She said nothing.
Then we proceeded in our course of action because I'm just not the kind of guy to let something like that stop me.
Afterwards I hopped up, went to the bathroom, got a popscicle from the freezer, returned to the bedroom and continued working on my computer.
Pretty standard.
She fell asleep for a while.
Then when she felt like it was time for her to go she tried to kiss me. Now, I normally don't have this problem, but with this girl I just can't get excited about a second go-round. I just can't. I've tried. Usually we laugh about it. She calls me an old man and I call her a nympho or something and then she goes home. But this time she got really sad. Her feelings were hurt.
We walked about it for a little while and tried to explain to her that it wasn't her fault, but her mood didn't improve. While talking to her I realized that there was no way in hell we could continue this because it was obvious that she was developing an emotional attachment. I also realized that I had absolutley no desire to take this relationship of ours beyond the occassional and very casual booty call. No desire whatsoever.
As she was leaving I tried to explain to her that I, too, have feelings. She closed the door claiming that she didn't want the neighbors to hear what she was about to say to me. She looked me in my eyes, real serious-like, and said, "The only feelings you have, Claude, are in your dick."
Then she left.
The funny part about that is she's not the first woman to tell me that.
Oh well.
I think that she was really just feeling vulnerable because of the whole farting thing.
Thanks for reading.
GO OBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com/
Confession: I fart almost every time I have sex.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
The Morning After
Okay:
In case you were wondering, last night was a screaming success. And you'll be glad to know that I'll no longer be posting the flyer at the header of each blog. And a special thanks to all of you who attended; it was much appreciated.
Monday Night Open Mic at Bar Nun has been a staple on U Street for as long as I can remember. Occassionally, they have allowed me to be the featured act at their event. So this wasn't the first time I'd done this. It was, however, the most interesting.
The night began for me around 6:30 after I got off work. I raced home and had some private time, a pre-show ritual. Then came the painfully uncomfortable pre-show gas, which I quickly treated with a few Gas X chewables. Then I got dressed and went to pick up Gill who would be filming and just being all-around supportive.
We arrived at the venue around 8:30 to learn that the drummer had yet to arrive and, gasp, the guy who usually brings the microphones is out of town and the other guy forgot to make arrangements. There is no microphone. Luckily, I had the forsight to pack an extra microphone because these things happen, but it wasn't going to be enough. I needed two microphones for my performance. I raced home to get another microphone and returned about half-way through the first open mic set.
This is where things start getting funny.
I've been to this Open Mic a million times and this by far was the most "interesting" night ever. It began with two white boys, obviously from out of town. They were hard. They cursed and screamed over their demo CD and were very upset to learn that the crowd was not "feeling" them. They left angry, exclaiming that we were all "whack, yo".
They were followed by a slew of aspiring rappers, none much different from the last. A reggae singer did a song called "Fireman" to the melody of "The Spiderman Theme". It went, "Watch ooooout! Here come di fiyahmon!"
A couple of young guys did their thing. Pretty impressive. I didn't get their names though. The highlight of night, however, was a Biggie-Smalls-esque emcee from Northeast. He had a pair of gazelles, an expensive-looking t-shirt and two big icey chains. He was HUGE. Truth be told, he was pretty good. Reminded me of one of those uber-aggressive New York emcees from the late nineties. Subject matter was par for the course though. And the host didn't miss the opportunity to tell him so. He went on a ten mintute rant about how rappers with negative messages are part of the problem and whatnot. I admired his courage but I wondered whether or not the night was going to end early. Luckily, things ended peacefully but they could have easily gone the other way. I remember inching my way toward the door at some point and suggesting to Gill that he should do the same. But he had camera equipment.
Then there was the crooner who sat his mic down, stood up in a chair and sang acapella. Then he started singing to women in the audience. A black woman with a short natural. "Hey, you there with the afro". The white woman sitting next to her. "Sexy, white chocolate". But he sang it though, so it was really funny. Sing it to yourself and see if you don't giggle a bit.
Finally, it was time for me to perform. There were a few rough spots, but I'm not sure if anyone else could tell. All in all, it was a good set and I sold a few CDs. I was just drunk enough to not be nervous and not drunk enough to make a fool of myself, which I have done before. I call it Buddha Drunk. The Zone. Two and half scotches on a full stomach I think is the formula.
I shook hands and got a few people to sign the mailing list. The whole thing was video-taped and I'll be posting some of it soon so stay tuned. Thanks again for your support, everyone.
Thanks for reading.
GO OBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Innocent Question: Before the show, I was outside smoking a clove with the white boys and Biggie Smalls' manager. A homeless woman asked us for change and I was the only one who didn't give her any. So, as she was walking away, she gritted on me. You know, scrunched her face up and looked me up and down like I wasn't shit. Was she being rude or was I being callous?
In case you were wondering, last night was a screaming success. And you'll be glad to know that I'll no longer be posting the flyer at the header of each blog. And a special thanks to all of you who attended; it was much appreciated.
Monday Night Open Mic at Bar Nun has been a staple on U Street for as long as I can remember. Occassionally, they have allowed me to be the featured act at their event. So this wasn't the first time I'd done this. It was, however, the most interesting.
The night began for me around 6:30 after I got off work. I raced home and had some private time, a pre-show ritual. Then came the painfully uncomfortable pre-show gas, which I quickly treated with a few Gas X chewables. Then I got dressed and went to pick up Gill who would be filming and just being all-around supportive.
We arrived at the venue around 8:30 to learn that the drummer had yet to arrive and, gasp, the guy who usually brings the microphones is out of town and the other guy forgot to make arrangements. There is no microphone. Luckily, I had the forsight to pack an extra microphone because these things happen, but it wasn't going to be enough. I needed two microphones for my performance. I raced home to get another microphone and returned about half-way through the first open mic set.
This is where things start getting funny.
I've been to this Open Mic a million times and this by far was the most "interesting" night ever. It began with two white boys, obviously from out of town. They were hard. They cursed and screamed over their demo CD and were very upset to learn that the crowd was not "feeling" them. They left angry, exclaiming that we were all "whack, yo".
They were followed by a slew of aspiring rappers, none much different from the last. A reggae singer did a song called "Fireman" to the melody of "The Spiderman Theme". It went, "Watch ooooout! Here come di fiyahmon!"
A couple of young guys did their thing. Pretty impressive. I didn't get their names though. The highlight of night, however, was a Biggie-Smalls-esque emcee from Northeast. He had a pair of gazelles, an expensive-looking t-shirt and two big icey chains. He was HUGE. Truth be told, he was pretty good. Reminded me of one of those uber-aggressive New York emcees from the late nineties. Subject matter was par for the course though. And the host didn't miss the opportunity to tell him so. He went on a ten mintute rant about how rappers with negative messages are part of the problem and whatnot. I admired his courage but I wondered whether or not the night was going to end early. Luckily, things ended peacefully but they could have easily gone the other way. I remember inching my way toward the door at some point and suggesting to Gill that he should do the same. But he had camera equipment.
Then there was the crooner who sat his mic down, stood up in a chair and sang acapella. Then he started singing to women in the audience. A black woman with a short natural. "Hey, you there with the afro". The white woman sitting next to her. "Sexy, white chocolate". But he sang it though, so it was really funny. Sing it to yourself and see if you don't giggle a bit.
Finally, it was time for me to perform. There were a few rough spots, but I'm not sure if anyone else could tell. All in all, it was a good set and I sold a few CDs. I was just drunk enough to not be nervous and not drunk enough to make a fool of myself, which I have done before. I call it Buddha Drunk. The Zone. Two and half scotches on a full stomach I think is the formula.
I shook hands and got a few people to sign the mailing list. The whole thing was video-taped and I'll be posting some of it soon so stay tuned. Thanks again for your support, everyone.
Thanks for reading.
GO OBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Innocent Question: Before the show, I was outside smoking a clove with the white boys and Biggie Smalls' manager. A homeless woman asked us for change and I was the only one who didn't give her any. So, as she was walking away, she gritted on me. You know, scrunched her face up and looked me up and down like I wasn't shit. Was she being rude or was I being callous?
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Tonight's The Night
Okay:
So today is the big day. Well, not really. It's not like I'm playing Madison Square or something. But it's been a while since I've done what would be considered a full set at this stage in the game. I'm about as ready as I'll ever be. I've rehearsed with the band and my backup singer. Everything sounds good and provided nothing horribble happens between now and then, it should be one hell of a show.
To be honest I've come quite a long way as far as shows go. Joe and I had some comically humble beginnings. Our first show together as Dirty Water, six years ago, was at a talent show at the Friendship House in southeast. A mutual friend of ours was working there and asked us to perform so we agreed. There was no sound system. Just a boom box and two microphones. The sound was so bad we ended up turning off the radio and doing the remainder of our set to handclaps from the audience, which included a lot of crying babies and old people. None of them were particularly impressed with us.
Afterwards there was nothing we could do but laugh. Joe looked at me and said, "It's all uphill from here."
Then there were the in-stores we used to do at mom and pop record stores that carried our CDs on consignment. Four or five people would show, at the most. And they were all usually friends and/or family. One time literally no one showed.
Those places also did not have sound systems. We used to rent big stereos from Rent A Center and use our own mics. I remember after one show at Revolution Records (now out of business) I was so depressed after the set that I found a dark corner to cry in. I was in the middle of a big custody battle, losing literally fifty percent of my net income in child support and immersing myself in hip hop. Those were dark times.
Once we did a show at Rose's Dream on H Street. A small cramped bar in the "middle" of the hood. The stage, if you could call it that, was so small that Joe and I were almost standing on top of each other. At the foot of the "stage" was a card table where four heavy sisters were playing a game of spades. During our set they began arguing and cursing at each other. "Stop reneging you fat bitch". It was as if we were not there. Then they made an announcement that someone had broken into all the cars across the street.
Again, we felt as though we were being prepared for something.
Then there was the release party at the Zuchabar in Adam's Morgan. Parking was so bad that most people ended up going home after driving around in the freezing rain for a half hour.
There were other fiascos, like the ill-conceived album cover for our first attempt at a love-themed record. We called it Love, Lust & Everything in Between. I wanted us to rent white tuxedos and buy a white rabbit. The tuxedos were supposed to represent committment and the rabbit was supposed to represent lust, two opposing forces in my mind.
I thought that I might be able to rent a rabbit but apparently the pet store people frown upon that kind of thing so I had to buy the little fucker out right. I was insistent upon having an all white rabbit. They only had one but he was sickly. I bought him anyway, took him home and booked a photographer for the next day.
During the night he was struck with a bad case of diarrhea. I took him to the bathroom to wash the doo-doo off his fur, but he had a heart attack in the sink and died. I rushed back to the store to get a replacement rabbit, but the only other white one had grey ears. I contemplated painting him but apparently that is also frowned upon so I settled for an almost white rabbit. Then I didn't have any money left over for the tuxes so we wore white waffle shirts. The cover ended up looking like this, a far cry from what I had envisioned.
People were more confused than anything else. I'm almost ashamed to admit the whole set up cost me a few hundred dollars. And I think Joe is still a little pissed at me. "What the fuck is up with the rabbit?" they asked. Still, it's a pretty funny story.
So, if for no other reason than pity, make sure you come out tonight. Bar Nun (I think they may have changed the name last week to Pulse or something like that) 1326 U Street, NW. Doors open at 8. $5 cover. I'll be the handsome fellow in the back wringing his hands and nursing a glass of scotch.
Make sure you pick up a copy of Romance Revisited, my second attempt at a love-themed album. It's a collection of love songs I've recorded over the past few years. I'm listening to it right now and it's pretty good so I think you'll like it.
Thanks for reading.
GO OBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: No animals were harmed in the making of this new album cover.
Friday, February 8, 2008
See You Next Monday
Okay:
It's Friday and I don't have much left to say. I've already ran the gamut this week. Sex, politics, hip hop and gas. What I have not blogged about, however, is the fact that I have a gig this Monday (Feb. 11th) at Bar Nun. I know you've all been noticing the ubiquitous flyers (which I desgined myself, thank you), but I haven't written about it yet.
At any rate, on Monday February 11 I'll be performing at Bar Nun (1326 U St, NW) with the Els and Ginger Bleu. The show is called "I Still Love H.E.R." in reference to my favorite emcee and yours (read sarcasm) Common's 1995 ode to hip hop. It's a Black Broadway Valentine's Day celebration and I'll be performing a thirty minute set of Cool Cee Brown love songs. Only I don't really write love songs in the traditional sense, so it should be an interesting night.
It's funny though because this event almost never happened. We were going to do it at another venue, big budget style. I had investors lined up and everything. I was going to have decorations and lengerie models and a sex toy merch table in the back and porn projected on the wall, but then the venue owner backed out. Something about not wanting to offend his clientele with anything lewd or obscene and can I review all the lyrics and the music before the performance? I kind of lost interest for a while after that.
But a few weeks ago I visited Bar Nun and asked the open mic host, Jabari, if I could take over for one night and he agreed, not knowing what he was getting himself into.
I think a few free drinks come with the deal, which is also a bad idea.
I got The Els, a hip hop band that normally performs with Asheru, to agree to back me up. And I got Ginger Bleu, a wonderful young lady from Texas to agree to be my backup singer.
Also, I'm printing up a special Valentine's Day Mixtape called Romance Revisited with all of my "love songs" on it. But I'm only printing up a few copies so you'll have to be there Monday night to get your hands on it.
Five dollars to get in. Show starts around nine-thirty-ish.
There will be free giveaways for the ladies, condoms and lube dube and the like. And lots of eye candy for the fellas. No porn or dildos though, unfortunately. Apparently you have to get, like, a permit for that sort of thing. Would have been dope though.
See you there. Bring your dancing shoes cuz we will be jammin!
Thanks for reading.
GO OBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: Michelle Obama was once quoted having asked, "How are you supposed to run the country if you can't run your own house?"
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Hillary Is Not Your Sister!
Okay:
I got into a big argument with my boss, who happens to be a black woman, yesterday morning. The subject of such a contentious debate at 9:00 am? The reluctance of so many black women to get behind Barack Obama.
First, the opposition: The black women I talk to who are undecided or in full support of Hillary Clinton say that they are women before they are black. My sister claims that she has had to contend with sexism far more often than racism. And I'm sure that's true. Sexism is that last socially acceptable prejudice.
But I believe that's only because so many women actually encourage it. There is a very fine line between chivalry and second-class citizenship. You can't have it both ways, I don't think.
That point of view, however, is only partially acceptable to me. If Hillary Clinton had brought herself up through the ranks like Maxine Waters then I would have more respect for her, but her biggest claim to fame is that she's Bill Clinton's wife. For all intents and purposes, she basically slept her way into politics. Which I think is very contrary to the feminist movement. She's no Nancy Pelosi.
Also, all this crap about her having so much experience in politics is bullshit. Her resume is actually shorter than Barack's. She was a lawyer, then she was the First Lady of Akansas, then she was the First Lady of the US, and now she's the junior senator from New York (which means she don't do shit.) The junior senator is essentially just waiting for the senior senator to vacate. They have no real power or influence. This is Hillary's career. Backseat driver. Juiced in from day one.
And then there's the question of whether or not you're really a woman first. Although, as I said before, I can respect that, I'm not positive that it's true. It's not anymore true than me saying I'm a man first. Truth is, black women, are not and never have been included fully in this country's feminist movement. White women do not accept or embrace you anymore than white men accept and embrace us. God forbid you end up at the defendant's table in a US courtroom, but if you did, I think it would become painfully clear to you then which side your bread is buttered on.
All in all, the biggest problem in the black community is our lack of unity and solidarity. We are so easily divided and conquered and this is a clear cut example. We have a chance to help send a black person to the White House and we're so far removed from the civil rights movement, so convinced that we've arrived, that we think it's time to start debating about whether or not he "deserves" our vote. He's not Jesse Jackson, he's not Al Sharpton, he's not Marion Barry. He's an electable candidate. Competent, Intelligent and Articulate. But predictably, we're split. Can't even come together when it counts. We come together when it's en vogue, when it's about marching and t-shirts, but when it really really counts, the presidential election, we're split down the middle. First black person with a legitimate presidential campaign and he can't count on his own people. They'd rather put Hillary Clinton in office. Self-hating Negroes, plain and simple.
And it ain't about "the issues" because all politicians are full of shit. All that hooplah about health care and social security don't mean dick. Elections are always about a choice between the lesser of two evils, and in those cases, I always bet on black.
Thanks for reading.
GO OBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: I actually enjoy picking my nose.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Fighting Words
Okay:
WARNING-this blog is riddled with shameless plugging.
So I almost got into a fight the other night.
Gill and I went to Bar Nun to promote for the February 11th show (1326 U St, NW $5. Doors open at 8). It's the longest running open mic on the east coast. The talent ranges from phenomincal to pathetic. This past Monday a drunk man forgot his poem and started softshoeing. But, before he got big, Raheem Devaughn used to perform there a lot. Next Monday, I'll be there.
I say all that to say this. I had a few drinks at Bar Nun.
Then we left the club and went to WPFW where Gill co-hosts Ill Street Blues (every Monday night at 11 on 89.3 FM WPFW).
Being a single parent, I don't get out much. Especially on Monday night. But when I can, I always go support my homeboy. He's actually quite the radio personality. Very good at what he does.
At any rate, when I do get out during the week, I like to make it count. That typically involves offending someone.
This Monday, however, someone offended me. The topic of conversation for the show was Big Pun. Why is he not considered the best rapper of all time? Gill's theory is that he was Peurto Rican and he died a non-violent death. I'm sure that has some merit. I'm just of the opinion that at least Andre 3000 and Jay Z are both better lyricists. Although they have larger bodies of work so it's hard to judge.
That's beside the point.One of the cohosts suggested that Common is a better emcee, an opinion with which I vehemently disagree. Gill knew there would be trouble.
I've got a hard-on for Common. He used to be my favorite until he started dating Erykah Badu and went soft. It worked for Andre. It didn't work for Common. My theory: Erykah Badu's pussy is CRAZY! Although Common has managed to "ressurect" his career, he will never regain my respect. One reason above all others...Electric Circus.
I've never been more disappointed in my life. What a horrible album! Especially as a follow-up to the genius that was Like Water For Chocolate. Of course, the same prick who said he thinks Common is better than Pun, also thinks that Electric Circus was an excellent album. When I disagreed he tried to insinuate that I somehow had rudimentary taste in music.
"You probably don't even listen to music like that. What kind of music do you listen to?" he asked, believing that he would lead me into validating his preconception.
"Hold on, man," I said. "Don't even try it. I listen to all kinds of shit. You, on the other hand, look like a fucking nerd to me. Are you a nerd?"
He giggled.
"You look like you probably have a computer in your bookbag," I said.
"I do actually," he said.
"You can probably work the shit out of that motherfucker. You could probably take over the world with your super duper backpack computer. You're a nerd. And you're opinion doesn't count."
I continued. "Fuck you, Fuck Common, Fuck Dilla and Fuck Lupus."
The heated exchanged was diffused by the laughter of the other hosts.
No blows were exchanged but I think I could have taken him.
And, for the record, Electric Circus did SUCK ASS.
We'll also be at the Velvet Lounge (915 U St NW) tomorrow and possibly Bohemian Caverns (2003 11th St NW) promoting for the Monday February 11th show.
Thanks for the reading.
GO OBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com/
Confession: Last night I had gas so bad I had to run to the CVS for Mylanta. I've never been so happy to fart.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Repost: "Dingelberries"
(Overslept. This is a repost of a blog from Wednesday July 18, 2007. Like a re-run.)
Okay:
I had this young lady at my apartment for the weekend. She was a cutie. Petitie with legs to die for. I spent the whole weekend wining and dining her. She seemed like the classy type and I wanted her to know she wasn't hanging with no slouch.
So eventually we ended up in the shower. I was soaping her down and we was getting real grown up in there. Then she turned around, and as I was admiring her shiny backside, I saw what I thought was a mole. But the mole was kind of inching its way around as the water splashed. Upon closer examination I saw that this mole had a short curly hair sticking out of it. Assuming it was a lint ball or something I tried to wipe the thing away. But instead of wiping it away, I left a thin chocolate smear across her butt cheek. Still, it took a moment to register.
A fucking dingleberry!
Dingleberries are leftover shit turds that get stuck in your butt hair. Unless you have no butt hair, you've probably had your fair share of dingleberries and didn't even know it. You may have a dingleberry right now.
I had a few choices. I wasn't drunk enough to block it out. But I didn't want to embarrass the girl for something that I'm certain is fairly common. So, I wiped off the smear and made like the thing never happened. With some effort I was able to suppress the image of the smeared dingleberry long enough to endure the remainder of the weekend, but we were pretty much done after that.
My first question is for the fellas. Would this turn you off enough to drop someone?
My second question is for the ladies since I imagine you all encounter this issue far more than men. See, you all do a lot more grooming down there, kind of eliminating most of the foliage where a dingleberry might take refuge.
Would you cut a guy off after a similar encounter? What about a skid mark? Is a skid mark as bad as a dingleberry?
Thanks for reading.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Justice at Happy Hour
Okay:
The following is a true story...to the best of my recollection. I was drunk.
Last week I was at happy hour with Gill and Our White Homegirl. This drunk clinical therapist came and sat down at our table. A homely looking white woman with a hook nose and strawberry blond hair.
"You strike me as the insecure type," she blurted after a few minutes of causual conversation. "Always bragging and putting on a show to hide how inadequate you feel."
"Oh really?" I said. "And are you as adept at psychoanalyzing yourself?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact," she said. "Especially after three or four martinis."
"So tell me something about yourself."
"Well, I love black men."
"Is that right?"
"So why do you like black men so much?" I inquired. "Is it the penis thing?"
"Actually, no," she said. "The first black guy I was with had the smallest dick I had ever seen."
"So what is it?"
"They treat me better," she said. "More respectful. Nicer in general."
"Wow," I said. "I know some women who would disagree with you."
"It's not my fault if black men treat me good," she said. "They like my fat ass."
"Is that right?"
"Yep. I got me a fat ole ass, but my stomach ain't all big like most of the black girls."
Our White Homegirl's jaw dropped. Gill looked up from his glass of Patron. "Has anyone slapped you yet?" he asked in earnest.
"Not yet," she said. "But they get downright nasty. Call me all kinds of white bitches and whatnot. That's why my new rule is No Baby Mamma Drama."
At this point, I must admit, I was a bit offended. So, I decided to amuse myself at her expense. And as you know, I have a truly sick sense of humor.
"Well," I said, feeling sadistic, "Gill and I are both black men. Can we get some?"
"No way," she said. "I'm not fucking either one of you."
"I don't see why not," I said. "It's not going to get much better than this for you. We're studs."
"Well, I don't have no garauntee that I'm gonna be satisfied."
"Neither do we," I said. "You may have some mediocre pussy. In fact, you look like you have mediocre pussy."
"Honey, ain't nothing mediocre about my pussy."
"Well, you don't have to do both of us. You could pick one. The other one won't get jealous." Then Gill and I broke into a chorus of "Ain't No Fun (If The Homies Can't Have None)".
That's when she picked up her martini and left the table.
So, sisters. I was able to crush a stereotype, defend your honor and have a good hearty laugh at someone else's expense, all in the same breath. You're welcome.
That could only mean one thing. I should continue drinking and talking to strangers.
Thanks for reading.
GO GIANTS!!
GO OBAMA!!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com/
Confession: I once made out with my cousin.
The following is a true story...to the best of my recollection. I was drunk.
Last week I was at happy hour with Gill and Our White Homegirl. This drunk clinical therapist came and sat down at our table. A homely looking white woman with a hook nose and strawberry blond hair.
"You strike me as the insecure type," she blurted after a few minutes of causual conversation. "Always bragging and putting on a show to hide how inadequate you feel."
"Oh really?" I said. "And are you as adept at psychoanalyzing yourself?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact," she said. "Especially after three or four martinis."
"So tell me something about yourself."
"Well, I love black men."
"Is that right?"
"So why do you like black men so much?" I inquired. "Is it the penis thing?"
"Actually, no," she said. "The first black guy I was with had the smallest dick I had ever seen."
"So what is it?"
"They treat me better," she said. "More respectful. Nicer in general."
"Wow," I said. "I know some women who would disagree with you."
"It's not my fault if black men treat me good," she said. "They like my fat ass."
"Is that right?"
"Yep. I got me a fat ole ass, but my stomach ain't all big like most of the black girls."
Our White Homegirl's jaw dropped. Gill looked up from his glass of Patron. "Has anyone slapped you yet?" he asked in earnest.
"Not yet," she said. "But they get downright nasty. Call me all kinds of white bitches and whatnot. That's why my new rule is No Baby Mamma Drama."
At this point, I must admit, I was a bit offended. So, I decided to amuse myself at her expense. And as you know, I have a truly sick sense of humor.
"Well," I said, feeling sadistic, "Gill and I are both black men. Can we get some?"
"No way," she said. "I'm not fucking either one of you."
"I don't see why not," I said. "It's not going to get much better than this for you. We're studs."
"Well, I don't have no garauntee that I'm gonna be satisfied."
"Neither do we," I said. "You may have some mediocre pussy. In fact, you look like you have mediocre pussy."
"Honey, ain't nothing mediocre about my pussy."
"Well, you don't have to do both of us. You could pick one. The other one won't get jealous." Then Gill and I broke into a chorus of "Ain't No Fun (If The Homies Can't Have None)".
That's when she picked up her martini and left the table.
So, sisters. I was able to crush a stereotype, defend your honor and have a good hearty laugh at someone else's expense, all in the same breath. You're welcome.
That could only mean one thing. I should continue drinking and talking to strangers.
Thanks for reading.
GO GIANTS!!
GO OBAMA!!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com/
Confession: I once made out with my cousin.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Last Will and Testament
Okay:
I'm sick. I can only breathe out of one nostril and my face hurts. I'm so doped up I don't know if I should drive, but I'm going to work anyway. So if you see me out there on the road, give me some room. Honk your horn if I start to drift.
Should this horrible affliction overtake me before Monday morning and make this my last blog, I, being of sound mind and body, offer you, my dear reader, my Last Will and Testament.
To my sister, I leave my debts, because you've got an MBA and you'll know what to do with them.
To my mother, I leave my brand new computer because the one you have is old and dumb, and you don't even know it or care but having a good computer can make your life so much easier.
To my stepfather, I leave all the jazz CDs I "borrowed" from you because they're yours and you should have them.
To my father, I leave all of my bibles because they've never been read and you can re-gift them.
To Gill, I leave my porn because you'll put it to good use.
To Joe D, I leave all the boxes of CDs we never sold and my shoes because we wear the same size, don't we?
Bury me with my clothes because none of you will wear them right.
And give my books to Goodwill because poor people should read too.
When cleaning out my apartment, do not look in my nightstand. And don't touch the towel under the bed.
Should I recover miraculously from this illness over the weekend, it is further proof that I am destined for greatness and, therefore, cannot be held accountable for my actions or words in the meantime.
Thanks for reading.
GO OBAMA!!!!!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com/
Confession: I am the man in Vivica Fox video.
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