Why Can't We Be Friends?

Okay:

So, one of my students has discovered Ning.

For those of you who don't know, Ning is a online network of online social networks. It's like MySpace on crack. Basically, you can create your own MySpace, and invite friends who can set up their own MySpace-like pages within your network. And it's totally free.

For a year or so it seemed to be the best kept secret for the computer geeks. Then big business caught on, and finally, the common folk. Now everyone has a Ning network. Including 50 Cent, The American Society of Wiccans, and myself.

This student of mine has mild mental retardation. He's 16, but cognitively and emotionally, he's about 7. And, because God's so damn funny, he's a little over six feet tall.

And he loves 50 Cent.

If 50 Cent ever decides to start making toothbrushes, he'll sell at least one.

Or sheets. Or draws.

Anyway. Some genius introduced him to the wonderful world of online social networking. Thing is, he's just as awkward at socializing online as he is in the real world. And apparently, no one wants to be his "friend".

Isn't that tragic?

Then one day I visited the administration page of my network and realized that this kid somehow joined without me noticing.

Well.

It's tricky being a school teacher and creating a fairly raunchy brand of hip hop. The average 16-year-old can handle it, but you don't necessarily want to mix those worlds, you know.

And this kid certainly cannot handle it.

So, I banned him from my network.

He was upset.

"Mr. Nadir, why you banned me from your Innernet?"

"What?"

"That's fucked up."

"Watch your language."

"You watch your language! I heard your music. Talkin' 'bout pissin' on people and stuff."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do. I heard it. You said 'damn' and 'pussy' and 'shit' and 'fuck' and a bunch of other more stuff. You nasty, Mr. Nadir."

"See, that's why I banned your young ass. You can't handle it."

"It's okay. You ain't no 50 Cent."


It wasn't long before he discovered 50's network. Of which I am a member.

"Mr. Nadir, I seent you on thisis50.com."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I sent you an e-mail for your friendship, but you declineded it."

"Read your book."

"But 50 won't ban me from his Innernet like you did."


It's more sad than anything else, I suppose. Puts things in perspective certainly. One thing that's never introduced to the conversation about explicit content in music, is the fact that kids like this can gain access so easily.

Still, I'm not about to censor myself. That would be fake. But, at the same time, it's not something I take lightly.

What to do, o, what to do?

But if it's worth anything, I appreciate you all's friendship. And, for the record, I would never banned you from my Innernet.


Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

"Freestyle of the Week" FREE DOWNLOAD LINK
"No Fear" Maxi Single FREE DOWNLOAD LINK

SUNDAY JUNE 8 - Dirty Water live at The Black Cat (Washington, DC)
SATURDAY JULY 26 - Cool Cee Brown live at The Capital Hip Hop Soul Fest (Washington, DC)

Factoid: A few years ago, when I was teaching middle school, Joe and I released a sexually-charged concept EP called "Love, Lust & Everything In Between". A few of my students got their hands on it, and it was downhill from there. I think I used the word "pussy" over 50 times.

If Your Girl Only Knew

Okay:

So, once when I was in college, I ended up at a dinner party with three people I had slept with. I didn't even realize it until my homeboy leaned over to me and whispered, "Claude, you are the man."

"Why's that?" I whispered.

"I just realized, you [slept with] all three of these [women]."

"I guess I did," I laughed.

For a second there, I imagined what might happen if they decided to get real.

"So, Girl #2, what was it like fucking, Claude?"

"Well, Girl #1. We only did it once. We were both really drunk and he could barely get it up. I didn't come but I enjoyed myself. What about you, Girl #3?"

"We were really drunk too, but I came, like, three times, Girl #2. He was great!"

"Did he go down on you, Girl #3?"

"Of course! For, like, 20 minutes, Girl #2"

"Well, how come he didn't go down on me, Girl #1?"

"I don't know. He went down on me too, Girl #2"

"Did you come too, Girl #1?"

"All over the place, Girl #2 He's really sweet, too. Wipes me down with a warm towel afterwards."

"I didn't get the warm towel treatment."

"Me neither."

"He must really like you, Girl #1"

"I can't tell. He fucked both of you."

"Oh. You're fucking him, like, in the present tense."

"Present progressive."

"I knew that."

"Well, I didn't."

"Doesn't really matter. We don't have, like, an arrangement or anything."

"Well, why don't we have a big orgy with him for his birthday?"

"Yeah, we could smother his junk with icing and lick him clean."

"Yeah, then we could wipe him down with a warm towel afterwards."


Well, maybe that last part was just wishful thinking. But you get the gist.

You understand, though, that the flip side of having had such a colorful, sexual history is that it makes it difficult to trust women. Fellas, how often do you think you've been in the same room with your lady and a guy(s) she slept with?

The answer?

More times than you think.

Thing is, guys typically, are far more respectful in these scenarios than women would be. I guess, in the end, you know as a guy you could end up getting your ass kicked for trying to be cute about it.

The reason men get caught in such situations so frequently is not that they are so dumb, but that women are so damned catty. If you found yourself in such a situation, only the coolest of the coolest chicks could maintain her composure. The average woman would not be able to resist the temptation to make it painfully obvious to your new significant other that she's had a taste of you.

They don't have the same fear of public embarrassment via ass whooping.

She may laugh extra hard at your jokes, or hold your hand a little too long, or touch your shoulder. Things that seem innocent enough to us because our brains don't operate that way. But she might as well describe your dick down to the texture of your pubes as far as your new girlfriend is concerned.

Then you'll be in the car on the way home. She'll be giving you the silent treatment.

"What's wrong, honey?"

"You know exactly what's wrong."

"Honestly, I don't have a clue."

"You fucked her. Didn't you?"

And you'll be thinking, Jesus, did they talk about it in the bathroom?

"Who?"

"You know exactly who I'm talking about. Don't play dumb."

"Oh, her. No, honey, we're just friends."

"Not even once?"

"Never."

"Mm hmm."

More silence.

"Did you give her the warm towel treatment?"



Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

"Freestyle of the Week" FREE DOWNLOAD LINK
"No Fear" Maxi Single FREE DOWNLOAD LINK

SUNDAY JUNE 8 - Dirty Water live at The Black Cat (Washington, DC)
SATURDAY JULY 26 - Cool Cee Brown live at The Capital Hip Hop Soul Fest (Washington, DC)

Innocent Question: Be honest, ladies. How many times have you found yourself in the same room with two or more guys you have slept with? Was it uncomfortable? Did everyone know?

Rules Of Engagement

Okay:

Status report on my Crush:

3 days, 2 unreturned phone calls.

Operation "mature, healthy, adult relationship" TERMINATED.

Return immediately to guilt-free casual sex with loyal stable of shallow women.

I should have gone with my first instinct to text her a photo of my dick. I probably would have got me some by now. But I know you all's hearts were in the right place. I don't hold it against you. I just think you were underestimating the "shock-and-awe" aspect of such a bold move. Or "cock-and-awe", as it were.

Back to the drawing board.

In the meantime, a question about Booty Call Etiquette.

Let's say I texted a woman an extremely vulgar suggestion about how we should spend our evening. Let's say this woman and I have a sexual history spanning two years, and such an act would not be considered inappropriate, disrespectful or presumptuous. Par for course, pretty much.

Let's say I received a rather disappointing return text stating that she was indisposed at the moment and unable to meet my request.

Then let's say before I could send a return text expressing my displeasure at her inability to foresee my sexual needs and plan accordingly, the phone rang.

Let's say said woman was on the other end and began an oddly casual conversation about her day and what she had on and how everyone was getting on her nerves.

Let's say I was polite and listened and commented, but then injected that since I wasn't getting any sex, I should probably try to get some work done.

Let's say said woman heard me but did not take the hint and continued rambling about random bullshit.

Let's say that I remained polite, gentleman that I am, but insisted again that I should try to get some work done and was finally able to get her off of the phone.

In my opinion, this is a flagrant violation of Booty Call Etiquette. To prevent future complications, I have compiled a proposed list of guidelines. Comments are encouraged.

1. Stick to the initial mode of communication; If I wanted to talk, I would have called.

2. Always offer a rain check if accommodations cannot be made; Don't make me beg.

3. Keep it sexy! Of course, I want to hear about your day. Afterwards.

4. Limit calls/texts to twice a week; Anything more is called dating.

This is all I could come up with so far. I'd like to ramp this up to at least 5 items and see if we can't get something viral going on. It could be the next big thing.


Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

SOMETHING NEW: Make sure you download the new "Freestyle of the Week". It's a new feature I'll have posted every Monday (or Tuesday in this case).

And my homeboy Joe D and I will be performing as Dirty Water on June 8th at The Black Cat here in DC, opening for The Cool Kids. If you're in town, make sure you check us out.

Factoid: Texting is God's gift to the anti-social freak!

...And, in all seriousness, everyone's heart-felt advice was much appreciated. I LOVE YOU GUYS!

Amateur Night

Okay:

So, in case you were wondering, I did not get drunk and make a fool of myself this Memorial Day weekend. I have before. I did not, however, this weekend.

Memorial Day, as far as holidays go, is among my favorites. The weather is usually great, and I cannot refuse a cookout invitation. This weekend I went to friend's cookout around the corner in Brookland.

There, I met the woman I have been destined to meet.

It's rare that I meet women randomly. I'm a busy man, you know. Most of my hook-ups consist of women I know indirectly through friends. So, I was a little bit out of practice with my pickup game. But I put my charm on, ate with my mouth closed and tried not to be the raunchy, uncouth cad that I know I can be when I don't care who's watching.

She was a chocolate cutie with a pretty smile and a nice, well-proportioned booty. And a big basketball fan, which is not necessarily a plus for me. At the end of the night, we exchanged numbers, and I hope to be talking to her sometime this week. I'll keep you posted.

My question is, and forgive me for being rusty on the whole I-think-I-like-this-girl tip, what's the proper etiquette for something like this?

I'll be honest. Most of the women I've dealt with since my very messy and painful breakup, have hardly been the type I want to wine and dine. Booty calls, essentially. But I really enjoyed talking to this girl, and I don't want to slip into my typical game and try to coax her into bed too quickly.

Normally I would invite her out for drinks, get her drunk, bring her back to the crib and hope that she's hip enough to know when she's worn out her welcome. How do I get back into the legitimate dating scene after having had so much practice being a whore?

Let's not underestimate the delicacy of such an operation. I've come to learn that catering specifically and almost exclusively to your physical needs is a dark, lonely and dangerous path. But getting out of a pattern of behavior that has been fairly easy, painless and fruitful is more than a notion.

How many days do you wait before you call? What kind of message should you leave if you get the voicemail? These may seem like basic questions, but for all intents and purposes, I'm a beginner here.

Usually I would just be blunt. "Hey baby. What's up with me and you doing the natural thang?"

Seems crass, but believe me, it works 8 times out of 10.

In this particular instance, however, I am uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

And how many dinners exactly do I have to buy this woman before she gives me some? And exactly how much phone time, which I am not a fan of, do I have to put in?

It may turn out that she's not interested at all, which is certainly no biggie. But for future reference, if I do meet a woman who I am interested in, and who's interested in me, and I think there's the potential there for more than just a good nut, what is the current standard courting protocol?

Should I text her a photo of my dick or write her a poem? Help me out here!


Thanks for reading.

SOMETHING NEW: Make sure you download the new "Freestyle of the Week". It's a new feature I'll have posted every Monday (or Tuesday in this case).

And my homeboy Joe D and I will be performing as Dirty Water on June 8th at The Black Cat here in DC, opening for The Cool Kids. If you're in town, make sure you check us out.

Innocent Question: If I talk to her and it seems like she's more interested in busting a nut than getting to know me, should I take her up on it or hold out? (That felt gay typing it).

Almost Kind Of Not Quite Famous

Okay:

I am not famous. Repeat: I am not famous.

I've never sold any records. I've only performed at small gig venues. I rarely ever leave the city.

I am not an Internet sensation. I probably know all my "fans" by first name.

Again, I am not famous.

My career is not in its infancy period. It's still gestating.

So, for the record, I am not famous.

I do, however, occasionally catch glimpses of what fame might be like. Sometimes, while I'm walking down the street, someone will recognize me. "Hey, aren't you Cool Cee Brown?"

To put it in perspective, it's happened about three times this year so far.

It always catches me off guard. And to be honest, it makes me nervous. Some part of me actually gets scared. I start thinking, "Did I sleep with his girlfriend or something?"

Once I caught myself balling my fists up.

Comments range from "I love your blog...especially the one about erectile dysfunction. That happens to me all the time" to "When's your new shit coming out?" or "When's the next show?"

Still, it's only happened a few times this year. I can only imagine what it's like to not be able to leave the house at all without being recognized. I'm just too socially awkward for that kind of thing. It would freak me out. I don't think I could ever get used to it.

Just yesterday I was in the elevator leaving work when a perfect stranger started talking to me. He was a young guy, maybe 20. Skinny, with long dookey locks. "Do you work here?"

Again, I caught myself balling my fists up.

"Yes."

"What do you do?"

"I teach English."

"English...that's one hell of a subject. Very important."

Then, I thought he was trying to hit on me. Which happens more often than I would like it too actually. The motherfucker at the Subway tried to hit on me last week. I don't even know what country the motherfucker's from. He can barely speak English, but someone taught him how to say, "Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No, motherfucker. Just give me my fucking sandwich."

I haven't been back since. And I love Subway.

But I digress. There was the young guy with dookey locks in the elevator.

"Yes. It's very important to read and write and stuff."

"You know. I do a bit of writing myself, actually."

This was probably worse than him trying to hit on me. At this point we were off the elevator and the motherfucker was walking me to my car. "Really? What kind of writing?" I asked, trying to be polite.

"Essays, plays, poetry. All types of shit."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Bust this..."

Then he started rapping. I wanted to run, but by then we were standing right in front of my car. I was trapped. I wanted to kill myself. You know like how a ferret will chew off it's own foot to escape.

The thing about it is, I felt extremely guilty about the whole thing. When I was his age, I didn't have the balls to just start rapping to perfect strangers.

"Maybe I could drop some stuff by your office next week and you could give me some honest critiques."

"Sure thing, bruh. Shit sounds hot. Bring it by whenever."

There are several morals to this story. Number one is, sometimes I allow myself to forget how weird I really am. Reminders like the elevator incident let me know why career has stalled out. People freak me out.

I'm an artist, so of course, I love attention. However, I may be unique in the sense that too much attention makes me extremely uncomfortable.

Extremely uncomfortable.

Another moral is part of choosing the arts as a career is politics. You gotta smile and shake hands sometimes, even when your mind is telling you, "Run, Cee Brown, before they get you!"

But, like I said, I'm not famous. So there's really nothing to worry about.


Thanks for reading.




GOBAMA!

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

Factoid: Despite the occasional panicky feeling, I am always flattered. So, if you see me on the street, please don't hesitate to speak. I promise I won't punch you in the face.

A Blog About My Blog

Okay:

The jig is up. I have been found out. All of my friends know I blog. I kept it a secret for a while. But word got around and now, people are talking.

Most seem to have mixed feelings about it.

My big sister is very supportive. She emails me about my typos and calls me when she thinks I've said something interesting or made a thinly veiled cry for help.

Gill thinks it's great for business.(Remember, we're supposed to be selling records here). Occasionally he may come up to me and say, "So...you've got fucked up feet, son?"

Our White Homegirl forwards it to her friends and is generally, enthusiastically supportive.

And there are others.

But what I've been hearing more of than anything else these days is, "This doesn't go in your fucking blog!"

In fact, conversations often begin that way. We're all sitting at the bar having drinks and shooting the shit then someone has something to say. "I remember this one time...(PAUSE)...and this better not end up in your fucking blog, Claude."

Then everyone else at the table kind of nods as if to say, "Yeah. And nothing I said tonight better end up in your blog either."

So, allow me to clear something up. I rarely ever blog about people without telling them first or immediately afterwards if I think there's even the slightest potential that they might find it an invasion of privacy (i.e. "I think I'm gonna blog about this" or "You showed up in my blog today"). And I have never refused a personal request to delete a sentence, a passage or even an entire blog!

But that's not really what they're saying.

"Oh, we know you won't mention names, and you'll obscure locations and change details. But I don't want the gist of what I'm saying to be repeated."

So, it's like an intellectual properties issue. Something I had never anticipated.

For the record, I don't think it's really fair. It's hard blogging everyday. I need good material. And I think I practice good discretion.

It took me months to convince Our White Homegirl to let me write about the "big...round titties" incident.

You read this blog. I've never put a friend out there.

"My homeboy told me his herpes was so off the hook yesterday he had to call in to work." Yes, that's funny. But certainly a betrayal of trust, I think.

So, if you know me personally and you're concerned about how much personal information to share with me for fear that I may make it public knowledge via the Internet, don't sweat it.

Now, people I don't like should try very hard to not say anything stupid around me. More than likely, you'll end up in my fucking blog.


Thanks for reading.



GOBAMA!

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

Factoid: I recently reached my 100th blog milestone. It's kind of difficult to say exactly how many, for various reasons, but I'm sure I surpassed 100 a week or so ago. So, yeah for me! I'm gonna buy myself a drink today.

Strippers Need Love Too

Okay:

So, the question of the day is 'Would You Date A Stripper?'

I'm probably the wrong person to ask. I have a fairly unique perspective on strippers and strip clubs. My personal opinion is, unless it's one of those really nasty ones where anything goes, strip clubs are pretty much pointless and nothing to get excited about. By virtue of this, stripping just seems like a silly thing to do for a living. Not nasty, not dirty--just silly.

Also, and I hope not to offend any of my readers who are strippers or have stripped, I think electing exotic dancing as a means to generate income speaks to your self-concept and value system.

Basically, you let men gawk at your genitals while you gyrate as to simulate sex and pretend to be aroused...to music. For a little somethings extra, you may sit in his lap and rub your genitals on his genitals, dry humping as it were...to music.

So, I take it back. It is nasty.

Maybe not dirty. But certainly nasty.

So would I date a stripper? Probably.

Go ring shopping and take her home to meet mom and big sis? She'd have to be one charming fucking stripper. But perhaps.

Still, I think I'd have to evolve to a Buddha-like level of objectivity and general detachment. I just can't imagine how it would work out logistically.

She comes home after her shift at 4 in the morning, all sweaty and covered with glitter. "So, honey. How many people do you think saw your pussy tonight?"

"Well, I only made $500 so I'd estimate 50 or so."

"Well, get ready for 51! Hey, is that a greasy fingerprint on your ass?"

"Probably."

"Cool."


The truth, of course, is a lot of strippers are just normal people. It's a job for them. Hell, somebody's gotta do it. But I think most of these 'nice girl' strippers would tell you that their co-workers are pretty fucked up on average. A lot of them are on drugs and/or whore on the side.

How do you know so much about strippers, Cee Brown? you ask.

I plead the fifth.

Now, male strippers (*pause to vomit in my mouth a bit*) are another story entirely. My opinion here is that at least 90% of them are gay. Nothing wrong with that of course, but I think the ladies should know this in case they were under any illusions about running off with Officer Hardcock. If he tells you he doesn't go anywhere without his partner Jim, take the hint.

Any woman foolish enough to date a male stripper must know that she is likely to end up on a small claims court television show, trying to get $1500 in "loans" back from Leonardo DiBlackrio.

Would I ever strip? No. From what I understand, the straight ones have to be unreasonably comfortable in their skin.

But if I had the body for it, I'd consider posing nude. It'd have to be tasteful though. And artsy. Call Annie Leibovitz.


Thanks for reading.



GOBAMA!

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

Innocent Question: If you were dating a stripper and you proposed, would it be unreasonable to expect her to quit before the wedding?

The Many Delights of YouTube

Okay:

So, last year everyone was talking about this crazy YouTube video called "Two Girl And A Cup". I asked around and everyone except me seemed to have seen it already.

I asked Gill, "You don't need to see it, son. Trust me. Your life will not be the same afterwards."

"Holy shit," I said. "I gotta see it then."

"Trust me, son. I know you're curious and it seems exciting, but YOU DO NOT WANT to see this video."

"Wow," I said. Then I left it alone. Normally I would have run straight home to see for myself what all the hoopla was about, but for some reason, Gill's strong caution kept my curiosity at bay.

For a while.

This past weekend, I woke up one morning thinking, "I think I'll watch that 'Two Girls And A Cup' video today.

Well.

As they say, curiosity killed the cat and it fucked the dog up too.

I am scarred.


A few weeks ago there was some buzz at work about another YouTube video. "You haven't seen the Soulja Girl video yet, son?" asked Gill, his eyes wide with excitement.

"Is that Soulja Boy Tell Em's new music video?"

"No, son," said Gill, shaking his head. "It's this girl on the train in Atlanta screaming Soulja Boy lyrics at an old lady."

"Well, that sounds interesting."

"The shit is crazy, son. They're video taping everything now."

Before I got home that day another friend called. "Have you seen that Soulja Girl video yet? YouTube it and watch it RIGHT NOW."

And so I did.

Again, I am scarred.

As a consolation, I haven't laughed that hard since I was a kid. We had a half-hour debate about whether she's bipolar or on drugs. The consensus? Both.


The winter before last, all my high school buddies were in town. Everyone ended up at my apartment for a night of drinking and catching up.

"Have you seen the 'Dick In A Box' video yet?"

"Dick In A Box?"

"Yeah, 'Dick In A Box'."

"I don't think I wanna see no dick in a box."

"Trust me. You WANT to see this dick in a box."

Well, that one kept me laughing for weeks. We may have watched it 10 times that night, and each time was funnier than the last.

Justin Timberlake has won himself a permanent place in my heart.


But more impressive than them all is the YouTube phenom, Alexyss Tyler.

"Have you see Vagina Power yet, son?"

"No, but it sounds right up alley."

Well. It's a mystery why this woman has not been given some kind of award. At least an Image Award or a guest appearance on the Tyra Banks Show. Every teenage girl should watch this.


There are lots of other sights to been seen on YouTube, God's gift to the idle mind. One day I hope to get my 15 minutes of YouTube fame and become someone's precious hyperlink.


Thanks for reading.



GOBAMA!

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

Warning: I purposely did not embed a "Two Girls And A Cup" link because I don't think anybody should see it. If your curiosity gets the best of you and you should do a google search on your own, don't say I didn't warn you.

Morning Wood

Okay:

So perhaps the ladies won't be able to relate to this one, but it's worth talking about.

And, to be honest, it's been bugging me.

Every subsequent morning after I got my first erection, I woke up with a rock hard boner. I could count on it like I could count on the sun coming up. But a few years ago, waking up ready for business became more of an occasional thing. I don't know what changed in my body chemistry, but at this point it's less than likely unless I have someone lying next to me. Even then, it's not certain.

So what happened?

For all the ladies, confused by the sometimes temperamental nature of the erection, allow me to provide some clarity.

It's not really something we have any control over. Most men cannot will themselves into action. It's an involuntary thing. We see something that arouses us for whatever reason and, voila! There it is.

But sometimes we see things that would normally arouse us and nothing happens at all. Every guy may not be willing to admit it, but I don't really have any hang ups about it. Sometimes the motherfucker just doesn't want to cooperate.

My mind is there. My body isn't.

As I've gotten older, however, I've come to realize that this phenomenon is less random than it seems. If you really sit down and think about it, there's usually a pretty simple reason.

Had too much to drink.

A little stressed out.

Anxiety.

Too much anticipation.

Overstimulation.

And...get ready for this one, ladies. Just not that attracted to her. Or, she's a lazy lay.

Of course, this all explains regular old garden variety erectile dysfunction. But what about my Morning Wood? What's going on there?

When I was 20 I thought it was a nuisance. You're coming out of a good night's rest, but you're not quite ready for the world. You toss and turn a bit, hit the old snooze button. Then you roll over onto your stomach and get jerked out of your slumber by excruciating pain. You've bent your dick.

Ouch!

Or you wake up with a full bladder. You run to the bathroom, but pissing from an unyielding chubby proves surprisingly difficult. You have to kind of stand on your tippy toes and lean forward to avoid pissing all over the lid.

Or you wake up with an unsettled stomach. You rush to the toilet and sit down, but what in the hell are you going to do with your stiffy? You can't tuck him down like you normally would. That would be too uncomfortable. You have too sit him up on the seat until he calms down. But, as we all know, you can't do number 2 without doing a little number 1. So you end up pissing on your bathroom mat a little bit.

He may, sensing that you are about to do something decidedly nonsexual, decide to calm down enough to be tucked. But you're still at half-mast. So, more than likely, he'll end up dipping in the yicky toilet water a bit.

Ewww!

Still, I miss my Morning Wood. Not having him around makes me feel like middle-age is coming more quickly and assertively than I would prefer.

I'm just saying.


Thanks for reading.



GOBAMA!

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

Innocent Question: When your gentleman caller cannot rise to the task, what kind of thoughts run through your head? Honestly.

The Woman Of My Dreams

Okay:

Last night I had the most vivid sex dream about a woman I absolutely cannot stand, one of my co-workers. It's not that she's a bad person. I simply don't like the woman. Of course, we've had a few run-ins. And trust me, I remained a gentleman the entire time. But had I given my thoughts a voice, I probably wouldn't have a job right now.

That is not to say, however, that she is not attractive. When I first got the job, she was one of the first women I noticed. She has a spectacular, well-proportioned body, a pretty face with full lips and nose, and she wears her hair short, which I like.

So, you say, No wonder you had a sex dream about her. You're obviously attracted to her. Which is probably part of the reason you dislike her so much.

And you're probably right. If she were ugly, I wouldn't pay her enough attention to dislike her. But it's not like I think about this woman when she's not in my presence. I can pretty much forget she exists altogether if she's not standing right in front of me.

But she does have a mean walk. And a nice little booty that kind of winks at you.

But I typically don't have sex dreams about women I know. It's always some blank-faced freak with either a really fat ass or huge titties or both. Sometimes celebrities.

But back to the dream.

I'm in what I presume to be her townhouse way the hell out in Maryland somewhere behind God's ball sack. That's another thing I hate about her. She's late for work everyday because she insists on living an hour away in one of those slapped-together townhouse communities with gazebos and jungle gyms and streets named after flowers.

But there I am, lying in her bed, thinking to myself, Wow! Who woulda thunk it?

Still, I had enough presence of mind to know I was dreaming. Weird, I know. It's a talent. So I figured I wouldn't actually get to have real penis-in-vagina intercourse. Typically, in a sex dream of mine, things fall just short of that. But in this dream I ended up getting the full monty. And lots of it. I even put on a condom.

I think at some point in the dream she turned into someone else. But she turned back into herself eventually.

So, this is how it ended.

She is trying to leave to get to the malls early or something. It may have been Christmas time. I end up bending her over the coffee table for one last on-your-way-out-the-door hump. (Which women love by the way, fellas. I've never been refused one. I like to wait until they have their coats on.)

So, we're getting into it when the condom snaps. I tell her to wait right there while I run upstairs to get another one. But before I could make it up the steps, her parents come home.

I am literally standing at the foot of the stairs, holding my junk, and introducing myself to her father. Who, shockingly, doesn't seem to notice or care that there is a naked man in his house. They just take their groceries to the kitchen.

Then I woke up.

I want to tell her all about it, but I'm afraid she may go to HR on me. So, I guess we'll have to keep it between us.


Thanks for reading.



GOBAMA!

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

Factoid: Most women, no matter how prude, would secretly be flattered that someone had a sex dream about them.

Cee Brown Goes Green

Okay:

So I was at the bar the other day.

No surprises there.

I was sitting next to this white guy, a girl of indeterminable ethnicity and a black guy. They were all together, but I didn't know any of them from Adam. We were all just having a beer and watching the CNN coverage of the beating Barack took in West Virginia yesterday. I was silently stewing over how quickly the tone of the Democratic Nomination story can change based on a single primary.

Maybe not silently.

I may have barked at the screen, "Time to put this bitch to bed, Obama!"

Then there was a feature story on Morehouse's first white valedictorian, Josh Packwood. I'm sure some people think this is indicative of a rising anti-education culture in the black community, but I think that's a bunch of bullshit. I'm sure there are tons of first-time black valedictorians at predominantly white schools every May, and that is something we would celebrate. Because, on some level, we still think everything white is superior. Especially when it comes to education.

But that's boring.

I was laughing during this story because I was amazed at how Wonderbread this kid looked. You'd expect some brawny inner-city kid with a low cut who could barely pass for white. But this guy could be the husband in the sample photo when you buy a new picture frame. And I couldn't hear the sound--only captions at the bar--but it seemed like he was speaking regular old white boy English.

But as it turns out, he's been around black people his entire life. He's got a black stepfather, and he went to an all-black high school.

Then I noticed his last name. Packwood. Which, you guessed it, sounds a lot like "peckerwood" when you say it fast. The white guy sitting next to me laughed, and nodded in agreement. We both concluded that since it only took us a few seconds to figure that out, he was probably called Peckerwood the whole time he was at Morehouse.

It was probably, like, his nickname.

Come to find out, the multicultural threesome sitting next to me all work for Green Peace. "So, what's the deal with all this global warming shit?"

"It's fucked up," said the white boy. "The US is one of the largest countries in the world and has one of the biggest populations, and we produce more waste and pollution than any other nation on the planet."

"What about China? I bet they produce a shitload of junk."

"We're about dead even. But they've got, like, four times as many people over there. So what does that tell you?"

"That's fucked up. So should I start recycling?"

"Do you even know how? They've made it so difficult now that most people don't even bother. Especially in rural communities. My mother has to drive all the way across town with her garbage in the car to recycle. Who's gonna go through all that trouble?"

"Not my black ass."

"Not my white ass either. Then this ethanol bullshit."

"The corn energy shit?"

"Yeah, the fucking corn. In South America, entire agricultural communities are totally dependent on corn. They eat it like Asians eat rice. Now that it's becoming the newest trend in alternative energy sources, the prices are gonna shoot through the roof. Millions of people will starve."

"Holy shit. That's fucked."

"Then the fucking polar bears are eating their kids."

"WHAT?"

Until this point I had just been marginally participating in what was a fairly boring conversation. I was also watching CNN, eating some french fries and texting a friend. But the polar bears? The fucking polar bears?

"Yeah. They're resorting to cannibalism because of global warming. All their food sources are depleting. They'll be extinct before you're dead."

"Holy shit." He now had my undivided attention. I thought that he should start beginning with the polar bear line, but I didn't tell him so. "So should I buy, like a Yuris or something? I drive an Altima. Is that cool?"

"Yeah. Until we get some of these laws and policies changed, the best thing you can do is drive a car with decent gas mileage and don't drive more than you have to. Or don't dive at all. And recycle if you can. The major changes have to take place on the government policy level though."

So there you have it.

It's a quagmire. There's not much we can do, but everyone should do what they can do, which is not much.

But we've got to do something about those goddamn polar bears. That's disgusting.


Thanks for reading.



GOBAMA!

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

Innocent Question: Whatever happened to those goddamn whales everyone was trying to save in the 80s? Did they make it or what?

Dirty Old Man

Okay:

I'm called a lot of not-so-flattering things by people. Asshole. Nigger.

The most disturbing, I'd have to say, is Dirty Old Man.

I don't know how I've earned the moniker, but it has stuck. Quite often I will hear, "JESUS! You're only 28? I thought you were way older than that."

"Really? Even with the whole baby-face thing going on?"

"Yeah. I guess it's 'cause you're such a Dirty Old Man."

I typically won't get much of an explanation beyond that. Apparently, I just am.

My ex-girlfriend used to point out old men on the street and say, "Claude, that's you when you grow up." It was our little joke.

The other day, however, I realized that there may be something to all this Dirty Old Man business.

I was at the bar with Gill and Our White Homegirl. I may have not mentioned this before, but Our White Homegirl is nobody's Seabiscuit. She's a very attractive woman, and ranked pretty high up on the hierarchy of eye candy at the job.

So anyway, we were knocking a few back. One of our co-workers was at the bar. A middle-aged, short, portly fellow with black frame glasses, salt and pepper hair, and a nerdy grin. He's never said more than two words to me, and from his looks, I've always judged him to be the quirky introverted type.

As he drank, however, I could see him slowly come out of his shell. After an hour or so, he took his check. But before he left, he stopped past our table.

"Gentlemen!" he said to Gill and I, shaking hands. Then he turned to Our White Homegirl. And I noticed in that moment that he was hammered out of his gourd. The sides of his mouth curled up into a wicked, perverted grin. His eyes narrowed as he leaned in and took her hand.

"I like you," he said, flatly. "I like talking to you. I like listening to you talk."

I could tell this was going somewhere bad. Our White Homegirl, smiled an uncomfortable smile.

"I like looking at you."

Then his eyes dropped.

"And I like looking at those nice...big...round...titties."

Well.

I collapsed into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. Tears were rolling down my cheeks and my body shook. By the time I opened my eyes, everyone was looking at me and our co-worker had left. Then I looked up at Our White Homegirl, and she was not laughing. In fact, she looked a little pissed. Her face was all bright pink.

"That wasn't funny?" I asked through violent giggles.

"No, it wasn't actually," she said.

"Can't you see she's offended?" said Gill. Who was also laughing, but not as loud and long as I was. I chalked it up to him having a girlfriend and being sensitive to that sort of thing.

"You're really pissed?" I asked again.

"Yes! That motherfucker says shit like that to me all the time."

"Well do you need me and Gill to go talk to him on some gangster shit?"

"No, I don't need you and Gill to go talk to him on some gangster shit."

"Cuz we'll do it. Just say the word."

"No, thanks. And for the record, you can't tell anyone."

"Are you serious?!! This is, like, the funniest thing EVER! I want to tell everybody."

"And it definitely CANNOT go in your blog."

"Fine."

Sometime later, while I was giggling about this to myself, I realized something. This is funny to me because it is totally something I would say. So much so that it had never occurred to me that Our White Homegirl would take offense.

So there it is.

I am a Dirty Old Man.


Thanks for reading.



GOBAMA!

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Innocent Question: Would you have been offended by the comment and/or hurt that your male buddies didn't have the presence of mind to defend your honor when it happened? I certainly would not take offense if an older woman told me she liked looking at the bulge in my jeans.

My First Ass Whooping

Okay:

I grew up in an upper middle class neighborhood in northwest Washington, DC. Because I am curious, I found a way to become a delinquent. But had I followed the path that was laid out for me, I'd probably be a lawyer or an accountant.

That is not to say that I am a tough guy. Not hardly.

My delinquent period centered around drug and alcohol abuse and promiscuity and general oppositional defiance. Not violence and crime.

But having grown up in, what was then, the murder capital of the country, I was constantly faced with the challenge of proving myself. Sometimes I had to fight. Most of the time, I avoided it.

When pressured, I could put up a good enough fight so that it didn't happen again. But if the opportunity to walk away presented itself, I always took it.

I do, however, have quite the temper. It's buried down deep inside and difficult to get to. But once you're there, God help both of us! Such is the way of the passive-aggressive personality type.

My aversion to violence comes from a rather tragic childhood experience.

When I was in the fourth grade I had a crush on the girl who lived across the alley. She was a cutie! She had hazel eyes, which I thought meant something in my younger and less enlightened days.

Anyway. I wasn't her type.

I was short and socially awkward. I read comic books, watched musicals and listened to gangster rap. And my high-top fade wouldn't grow past an inch and a half.

And I couldn't dance.

And my teeth were bucked.

And I had a lisp.

She, however, was a flawless vision. I saw her a few summers ago when I was temping downtown though. And I'm happy to say that she is no longer cute enough for me. She has adult acne and problematic hair.

But I digress. There was the crush initially.

We were in the same class. Mrs. Williams was our teacher. A tall overweight white woman with short-cropped hair, lesbian style, and a big fat green wart on the back of her neck.

An adopted Thai kid named Peter was also in our class. He never said much. Kept to himself. I barely knew him.

One day we were on the playground, lining up to re-enter the building after recess. I, being the bad ass that I was, was playing a fun game. I was running down the line and smacking everyone on the top of the head. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

What I did not know then, is that it is considered a grave insult in Thai culture to touch someone on the top of the head.

How could I have known?

The next thing I knew my back was on the wall and Peter was giving me the beating of a lifetime.

The teachers separated us and let us come back inside without making a big deal of it. No principals office. No phone calls home.

Once inside, we were all sitting at our desks. I was still sore and pouty. The little hazel-eyed cutie was passing out our afternoon worksheets. When she got to my desk she leaned in and giggled, "You got your ass whooped."

I suppose I learned my lesson early on and should be grateful. There have been numerous situations since then where, were I inclined to strike, I could have landed myself in some pretty deep shit.

So, really, I have her to thank.

And she has those unsightly pimples as reward.

Peter, however, has an ass-whooping coming to him.


Thanks for reading.



GOBAMA!

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Confession: I've got a short list of people who have ass whoopings coming to them should the opportunity ever present itself. What about you?

Booty History 101

Okay:

So, the black man's fondness for big, round booties is a well-known, frequently-perpetuated and widely-accepted stereotype.

I, of course, am no exception.

No one told me to like fat asses. My father and I never had any conversations about it. But around the time I started getting erections, I started noticing butts.

It's strange, I guess. Buttcheeks are pretty much useless sexually and often get in the way. But you can't beat the visual.

But this is not to say that women with little understated booties should feel inadequate in some way. Quite the contrary. A big booty is often a red flag for serious weight issues toward middle age. The waist-hip ratio will predictably get out of whack and become something less and less appealing as the years progress. So be encouraged.

Better to be well-proportioned.

The question still remains, however. What is it with the brothers and the booties. Is it innate?

I had the good fortune of running into this brother at a bar this week who broke the whole thing down for me.

We were having a tangential conversation about politics, which led to Barack, which led to Michelle, and, eventually, fat asses.

According to him, and these are not my words, the black woman is like a camel.

Bear with me.

She's like a camel. And when we were in Africa, it was known that the camel stored water in his hump so he could survive in desert climates where water was scarce. In some areas of Africa food was also scarce and droughts were common. It was believed that a woman with a fat ass had nutrients and vitamins stored in her butt, so if there was ever a food shortage, she could live off of what was in her butt. A man knew that if he married a woman with a fat ass, she could survive a famine and help him take care of the family using the auxiliary energy from her ass.

Eventually the small-bootied women died out. Some were spinsters who never gave birth and weren't able to pass on their small booty genes. Some were not able to survive because their asses were too small.

Thus, the black man's desire to find a mate with a fat ass is embedded in his genetic code.

I don't know about you, but this makes perfect sense to me.

Again, ladies.

If you have a small butt, there's no need to worry. Here in America, food is abundant.

If you do have a fat ass, send me your picture in an email attachment.


Thanks for reading.



GOBAMA!

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

Innocent Question: A man with a small penis can suffer from crippling insecurities. Is it the same way with women with their booties? And is it worse because it's difficult to keep your small booty a secret?

A Woman Who Has Everything

Okay:

Sunday is mother's day. It's one of the very few holidays I still celebrate.

Mothers deserved to be celebrated.

I face the same issue every year around mother's day though. First of all, I always seem to be painfully broke around this time. Secondly, my stepfather really raises the bar when it comes to the whole present game. Which is certainly a good thing for her, but it makes it damn hard for me to find a gift that will make some sort of impression.

One year I bought her a couple of good books to read. He bought her a pair of ruby earrings.

See?

Then now that my sister is good and settled into a fairly lucrative career, she also will throw in her heavy hat. So, I have to compete with two big spenders.

"Thank you, husband, for this matching luggage set. Thank you, daughter, for this insanely expensive handbag that I was too embarrassed to buy for myself. And thank you, son, for this very nice hat."

Earlier this year, on her birthday, I bought her an iPod, which went over very well. My sister went out of her way to complement me. "You did a very good job this year," she said when we were alone.

I haven't figured out what to buy her yet, but I am hoping that I'll be able to come up with something good. But it's going to be difficult to top that iPod.

My heightened anxiety over this is a result of my having been such a troublesome child, I think. Had it not been for my mother's unflinching insistence that I not become a waste-of-space, I probably would be in some phase of the correction system by now.

I feel I owe her a decent mother's day present.

I've gotten more and more serious about this as the years have progressed. One year, as a belated gift, I bought her three baby tees with funky little slogans on them, like, "Do you know where your boyfriend is?"

I told her she could get her "young girl on".

Those didn't go over very well.

I think my sister called me. "Claude, what the fuck did you get our mother for mother's day?"

"Baby tees."

"Baby tees? Is that supposed to be funny? Like, that's not funny. That shit is fucked up. She's your mother. You can do so much better than that."

This year, however, I'm going to separate the men from the boys. I'm going to give her something that will make her smile and improve her life dramatically.

I'm not sure what yet. But it will come to me.

Suggestions?


Thanks for reading.



GOBAMA!

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Confession: I owe her some money. Maybe I could pay her back in full.

Nigger

Okay:

The word has never bothered me very much. Even when white people use it. I'm sure that has a lot to do with me not growing up in the hot and racist times of my parents and grandparents. In fact, I grew up in one the most liberal cities in the country. I never got the impression that any of the white people I knew were prejudiced in any way. And if I ever heard the word, it was certainly coming out of the mouth of someone who looked like me.

The first time I ever heard a non-black use the word in a negative way, I was away at reform school. There was this Korean kid who had been adopted by a white family. Other than his very Korean-sounding name and his very Korean-looking face, there was nothing to distinguish him from his white classmates. For whatever reason, there was a sizable Korean student population at the school. But they didn't socialize with him. Sometimes he would interpret for new Korean students or speak briefly in the mess hall. But he was certainly not embraced.

And he was the only one of those motherfuckers who didn't do that karate shit. Which I learned is something like being black and not knowing how to dance.

But none of that seemed to bother him. He was a firecracker. A short, loud, fast-talking, quick-tempered motherfucker. One day we were sneaking a cigarette in his dorm room when he whispered to me, "I hate niggers. Can't stand 'em. But, for some reason, I like you. You're not like the others."

I had no response for him. I just nodded.

If someone said the same thing to me tomorrow, I might do the same thing. How should you respond to something like that?

These days, however, I'm called a nigger more frequently than I ever have been. By my own people. And it's not really meant to be a complement.

"You know what, Claude?" someone might say, "You are a nigga."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know what it means. You got your bourgeois side like everybody else. But most of you is pure nigga."

"Are you trying to insult me?"

"Take it how you want it, nigga."

The sad part is that I seem to be having this conversation at least once a week with different people.

I might say to a friend, "You know, such-and-such called me a nigga last week and I don't think they meant it as a complement."

"Well, you know how you are."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Aw, nigga, stop pretending. You're, like, the biggest nigga I know."

"Nigga like coon nigga? Like Sambo?"

"Naw. Nigga like you might piss on somebody's elevator nigga."

"Piss on somebody's elevator? I would never do that."

"Well, you certainly got everybody thinking you would. Be honest with yourself and embrace it. You love being a nigga."

There is a part of me that loves being irreverent and contrary. And I suppose that's what they're talking about. But it has me thinking, "If this is what your own people think of you, then what are the others thinking?"

Good question, I think.

And who knows? You'd be hard-pressed to find a white person in this town who's willing to have a candid conversation about race. It's still too controversial and everyone's so goddamn liberal and politically correct. But my imagination tells me that if my own folks think I'm a nigga, then I must be like Ultra Nigga to white people.

Not that it matters.

In the end, I'm not flattered or insulted. I'm not indifferent either. I'm concerned. It's one hell of an indictment. When I'm dead and gone and people are trying to tell my daughter what kind of guy I was when among friends, I don't want them to say, "Sweetheart, your father was a pure nigga."


Thanks for reading.



GOBAMA!

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Confession: I might be a little bit flattered.

Endless Love

Okay:

"You're dead on the inside," a woman once said to me.

I've been hearing variants of this statement a lot lately. I think it's a fairly superficial assessment of my attitude towards relationships. I'm just not interested in seriously hooking up with anyone right now. So I keep my emotions in check.

But as you know, I might as well wear a sign that says, "If you love me, I will change."

And before I get a bunch of nasty comments, trust me, I do realize that this is part of the human condition and is not gender specific. Everyone wants what they can't have.

In fact, for anyone who is feeling insecure about their stock price in the dating market, I would suggest a year of emotional fasting. Stay intentionally single and maintain a healthy distance from all suitors. Notice I didn't say abstain. Just don't attach. My guarantee is that within a year's time, you will have at least five suitors from which to chose.

I once had a woman give me the blowjob of all blowjobs, and then it seemed like before I could get my pants back on she was asking me where our relationship was going.

"That's not fair," I said, "You know there's a fifteen-minute, post-ejaculate suspension of logic and reasoning. Ask me again when I'm sober and flaccid."

"You're dead on the inside," she said.

Pretty cold, huh? I hadn't done anything to her. I hadn't disrespected her. Treated her like a lady the whole time, made her laugh, paid for dinner, was a considerate and passionate lover. I just didn't fall in love with her. And this frustrated her.

It would frustrate anyone.

But before you assume that this is all about ego and fear of commitment and/or vulnerability issues, I assure you there is a spiritual element to the approach. The Buddha says, "The cause of suffering is attachment."

To be clear, this does not mean that you should become a zombie. Love and attachment are two different things. My ideology is more in line with "if you love something, you should let it go," as opposed to, "if you love something, you should hold it close to you and never let it go anywhere or do anything it wants to do because it shouldn't want to do anything you don't want it to do because you love it so much."

The Buddha also teaches us to remember that "Change is unavoidable. All things are of the nature to change." I don't think anyone can dispute this. But the Western concept of love is in direct contradiction to it. "Love" as we are taught to understand it, is forever.

So, I was on the phone with the young lady I was dating. We had been hanging out and talking on the phone for a few months. She had made it clear that she wanted more, and I made it clear that I was not interested in rushing things. After a while she said to me, "Claude, I think we should start seeing other people."

So I said, "When did you come to this conclusion?"

And she said, "I don't really want to talk about it. Can I call you later?"

"That's a little fucked up, I think. You drop the bomb on me and then tell me you'll call me later. No explanation."

"I'm sorry, but I have to go."

I sat and thought about it. I was pissed a little bit. And then a calm rushed over me, and I was okay.

The phone rang.

"Is it okay if we talk about it tomorrow actually? I'm going to be really busy tonight," she said.

"You know," I said, "We don't really need to talk about it. I think it makes sense."

"Okay," she said.

And there you have it. I enjoyed the time we spent together, but we were on two different paths. It was time for her to move on. Me trying to stop her would have been selfish, I think.

Relationships are like good meals. They are enjoyable, but, by virtue of their nature, are not meant to last forever.

But it was certainly a bitch finding a new and suitable lover. Which, I think, is the biggest reason people hold on longer than they should. Not love, the noun. Love, the verb.


Thanks for reading.



GOBAMA!

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

Factoid: Unless you count this (And I wouldn't. I was seeing other women the whole time anyway) I have only been dumped once. And it hurt like a bitch too!

The Wondrous Benefits Of The Doubt

Okay:

As a kid, I hated reading. I had an aversion to it. In fact, I was a senior in high school before I read a novel from cover to cover. Black Boy by Richard Wright.

Then I went to college and majored in English.

And it was another three years before I read anything else.

My senior year I went to my adviser's office to make sure everything was all lined up for May. He pulled up my file on the computer and started making faces at the screen.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"You're not going to want to hear this. You're three credits short."

Panic rushed over me. "Three credits short! How's that possible?"

"You're missing American Literature II."

It couldn't have been a bigger disaster if I had planned it so. The only guy who taught American Lit was the most notorious stickler in the entire department. Dr. Floyd "Flunk 'Em" Farabee. I was in a world of shit.

"The only thing you can do," said my advisor, "is go to Farabee and ask to test out."

"Test out of American Lit II?"

"Unless you want to walk next year, it's your only chance."

I could've killed him. Some of this was his fault. He was my advisor. We spoke often. How could he let me get a month away from graduation and tell me this? The flip side is I should have had a better grip on my own affairs, but still. I could have killed him.

Luckily, Farabee took mercy on me. I had passed him twice. And I think he liked me. He gave me a condensed version of the syllabus, two books to buy, and a week to prepare.

And, of course, even with the stakes being so incredibly high, I still waited until the weekend before the test to start reading. To be fair, there were other finals to study for. But I wasn't worried about those. It was the Saturday morning before the test when I looked at the sheet he had given me. I had truly fucked myself. Not only were there two dozen short stories and poems to read, but a novel. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

I did the math. I'd have to read that fucking thing in one day's time.

And I did. And I passed the test. And I walked with my class.

I visited Farabee the day after graduation to give my sincere thanks. "By the way, Doc," I said, "how'd I do on that test?"

"Claude," he said smiling, "Isn't it enough to know you graduated?"

Then he left the room and I haven't seen him since.

I say all to say this. I have a student of mine who's going to be graduating in a month but reads on a second grade level. He has smiled and charmed his way through high school. Everyone loves this kid but is secretly appalled that he managed to meet the credit requirement.

The other day I asked him, as part of his reading assignment, to find the definitions of unfamiliar words from his assigned novel. One of the words was "karat".

He sat down with his dictionary and began thumbing through the pages. After five minutes or so, he looked up and exclaimed, "Mr. Nadir, someone stole the "k" section."

I looked at his dictionary to make sure it wasn't a half volume. "There's definitely a "k" section in there, son. Recite the alphabet to yourself to help find your way. Sometimes I have to do that."

He looked over at the young lady sitting next to him. She had found the "k" section in her own dictionary. "Look, Mr. Nadir! She the one who stole the "k" section!"

My point is this. If someone hadn't decided to take a leap of faith, in the hope that I would eventually earn the break(s) I was given, I'd have been in some pretty deep shit. People had bought plane tickets. And Dr. Farabee allowing me to test out of American Lit II was certainly not the first or last instance.

This kid is functionally illiterate. But he's going to graduate anyway. Hopefully, one day, the lights will turn on.


Thanks for reading.



GOBAMA!

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

Factoid: Inspired by this near tragedy, I began reading incessantly after I graduated. I read a new book almost every week. That has slowed significantly as I've aged and taken on more responsibilities. But I've always found it ironic that I didn't enjoy reading until I had completed my formal education. See? College is dumb.

The Evolution of Cool Cee Brown

Okay:

So, I have my daughter in one of those fancy, well-funded white public schools uptown. She's getting a top-shelf education, and her circle of friends is as ethnically diverse as an American can hope for.

The question is what to do about middle school. Never mind the sheer horror of her becoming a hormonal preteen, the development of her mind is a whole 'nother matter.

Being a school teacher myself and having worked the better half of the past decade in urban education, I am doubtful that the city has anything good to offer as far as secondary education goes. So, of course, I'm thinking private. Only it's more than a notion. Tuition at a good private middle school in DC is twice as expensive as my undergrad Alma mater. By the time she graduates from high school, it would cost well into six figures.

I did the math. We could do it if I bought one of those big SUVs with fold down seats for us to sleep in. And since Child Protective Services frowns upon that sort of thing, I'm hoping we might be eligible for a scholarship.

"You know, Claude," my stepfather says, "in order for her to get into one these good schools, you're going to have to put on a pretty good show."

"What do you mean?"

"It means you can't be you. Them white people get a good look at you and figure out what kind of nigga you are, she'll never get in. And it'll be your fault."

"I think I clean up pretty good."

"It ain't good enough, Claude. You gotta learn how to put the face on and say the kinds of things they want to hear. You can't go in there with your tattos showin', makin' funny faces and talkin' that hip hop shit. I see you at some of the school functions, lookin' all out of place. You gotta get over that shit and fit in, motherfucker."

So, after this conversation I took my daughter to the playground to teach her how to ride her two-wheeler. A friend of hers was there with her father, so I struck up a conversation with the guy. A forty-some-year-old white man wearing a Red Sox hat. We talked about work. Turns out he's a software engineer who always wanted to be a math teacher. I'm a teacher who has always regretted not having learned more about computers. We talked about "Iron Man" (which was FUCKING AWESOME by the way). Next thing I knew we were walking to his house for a play date.

My daughter has been screaming about this play date business for months now. This is apparently what parents do in that neighborhood. They make dates for their children to play together. While their children are playing, the parents get to know each other better. Drink coffee.

I know, right? Makes me want to vomit too, but that's how things are done around there.

I've always avoided it, thinking that I would be intolerably uncomfortable trying to socialize with middle-aged white housewives.

"So, what's it like sitting on your ass all day doing Pilate's and taking pottery classes?"

"It's not bad actually. What's it like teaching those scary black kids from Southeast?"

"Challenging yet rewarding. You should come volunteer. I would protect you."

It had never occurred to me that these play dates can be arranged through the fathers. Which, obviously, is less intimidating.

"Would you like something to drink? Beer, juice, coffee, water?"

"No thanks, I'm fine. Wait. What was that first one again?"

We sat in his living room for an hour or so while the girls played downstairs. We talked baseball, real estate, local politics. He even offered to help me hook up my old laptop with WiFi so my daughter can play on Disney.com while I'm working. It was one of the more interesting conversations I've had this year. He had an XBox.

"Have you ever been to one of those PTA meetings?"

"Once. Those women are insane. Way too much time on their hands."

"Exactly."

Long story short, I'm going to try to get more involved with the parent community. I'll wear long sleeve shirts and try not to say "fuck" or "pussy".


Thanks for reading.



GOBAMA!

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

Innocent Question: Does this mean I'm selling out or growing up, and is there a big difference?

Supersize Me

Okay:

A young lady posed a very interesting question to me the other day.

"Cee Brown," she said, "You should write about this in your next blog."

This is beginning to happen far more frequently than I ever thought it would. I started this blog as an avenue for promoting my music. Somewhere along the way, the blog eclipsed the music and I often hear, "You should write a blog about this."

I'll be out drinking with friends and something funny will happen and someone will say, "You gotta put that in your blog!"

Or something embarrassing will happen and someone will say, "I better not read about this in your blog!"

At any rate, this was the young lady's question: "Why do guys with average-sized penises buy Magnum condoms? I mean, who do they think they're kidding?"

"Hmmm," I thought. Well, I wasn't about to take a survey. "That is an interesting question," I said. "But the answer is relatively simple. Men have major penis complexes as it relates to size. It's probably the single most determinant factor in how a man interacts with people."

"I realize that," she said. "But it's, like, delusional for a man with a six inch penis to whip out a Magnum and think that it's creating some kind of optical illusion that's going to trick me into thinking his dick is bigger than it actually is. Maybe he doesn't know it's average."

"No. Every man has a general idea of what category he falls in. Small. Medium. Large. Then there's length and width to consider."

"That's what I figured."

"Is it any different, in principle, than a push-up bra though?"

"I would say so. Because some clothing requires that you wear one in order to make it look right. I used to have a friend that was so flat-chested she had to wear chicken cutlets. She ended up getting implants because she was just so sick of it, you know. Which I think is understandable."

"I'm sorry. Chicken cutlets? What in the fuck are chicken cutlets?"

"Silicone bra inserts. They're shaped like actual chicken cutlets."

"Holy shit."

"You know, I used to date this guy. He was a real sweetheart. But he had, like, a baby's penis."

"That's probably why he was so nice."

"I think he was a good candidate for an implant."

"Like, a penis implant? They can't do that. It's a muscle with an intricate piping system."

"Of course they can. The breast is also muscle with piping."

"But if they fuck up, your dick may stop working. It's not a disaster if your titty stops working. You just won't be able to breast feed or get nipple sensation. But if your dick stops working, it's a bad scene. That's a bad, bad scene, man."

"I think that's why most people don't know about it. It's not very popular and I imagine it's for that reason."

"Yeah. Having a huge dick that doesn't work would suck. Like, having a dick that just pees and that's it. I would kill myself."

"But back to the Magnums."

"Oh yeah. Well, it's the first brand I ever bought for myself."

"Yeah. I can imagine some kid wanting to create that impression and thinking that he actually needs it, but a thirty-something-year-old man? Unless you have, like, a minimum of eight inches and some pretty serious width, I'd say you're just kidding yourself and when she gets around her girlfriends they are all gonna laugh at you."

"There's probably no difference anyway. But it's a brilliant marketing strategy when you think about it."

"Exactly."

So, fellas. The moral of the story is, don't let her see it until you're already in there.


Thanks for reading.



GOBAMA!

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

Innocent Question: Ladies, can a man with a large penis get away with a lot more shit within the context of a relationship than a man with an average or small penis? And, would you treat a man with a super small penis differently? Like, would you be less patient, less considerate, less giving?

Curiously Strong

Okay:

So, eventually I had to write about his because it's something that has always perplexed me. That is not to say that all women are basket cases who can't handle stress. And that's not really my point anyways. What I want to talk about today is, of course, something more quizzical.

More perplexing, than the varying moods of women is their physiology. Namely, the vagina.

What a curious, curious thing!

To be blunt, it's a poorly placed orifice that, within the course of a month, will excrete every fluid that the human body contains.

But that's God for you. The ultimate comic genius.

Now, I'm the last person to complain about the vagina. The vagina and I are close, close friends. The world would be a cold and lonely place without the vagina.

But I certainly would not want to have one. What a mammoth responsibility!

The penis is simple. Like a retard.

You keep it clean, well-entertained, and make sure it doesn't get itself into too much trouble. Because without a responsible guardian, it is doomed.

But that vagina.

It's like a beautiful, yet problematic, classic automobile. The owner cherishes it but must devote an inordinate amount of time to cleaning it and making sure it runs properly. And everyone wants to ride in it.

My question, however, is about the general upkeep and how that can effect the smell.

I am more than positive that I am not alone in saying that I have, on more than occasion, been faced with the dilemma of what to do with a less-than-fresh vagina.

You put a lot of time and energy into getting a woman's clothes off, and when she finally takes them off, you discover that things have somehow run a foul.

The first time it happened to me was in high school. I finally got this young lady to the house, and we were about to do the deed. She disrobed and all of a sudden a sweet, sweaty funk filled the room.

Honestly, "funk" might be a strong word. Farts are funky. The vagina is not necessarily so. But it does have an odor. And when that odor is curiously strong, it cannot be mistaken for anything else.

But what to do, oh, what to do!

Option A:

You keep it real, but in a concerned way. "Oh my God, sweetheart. What is going on with your vagina? Are you eating properly? I think your PH balance might be off or something."

Option B:

You keep it all the way real. "Holy shit! That's some funky stuff you got down there. I don't think this is going to work out. That smells dangerous."

Option C:

You deflect. "Hey, I've got an idea. Let's take a shower together. It'll be hot. I could wash you up. You dirty little minx."

Option D:

You fight your way through it and do the deed anyway.


I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that most guys would chose Option D. The path of least resistance. I know I did.

It certainly was not the last time it happened. I've always chalked it up to the complicated nature of the beast. The flip side is, a really strong odor could be a red flag for an STD. Luckily, fingers crossed and knocking on wood, that has never been the case.

It hasn't happened in a few years, but I'd like to think that if it happened tomorrow, I'd have the balls to implement Option A.


Thanks for reading.



GOBAMA!

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

Confession: All the fellas can vouch here. If you've ever gone a weekend without bathing, you know that the penis and scrotum situation can become equally problematic. In fact, the scents are remarkably similar.