It's Black Thursday, didn't ya know?

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Gayacology...yeah! (Wait A Minute, Band!)

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What a Yippee-Kay Yay Taught Me About Our Differences

So check this out my domain-in-ites...

(Ok, that sucked the teet of a fat man who had too many donuts, true, but hell, it's 11:34 at night, and G. has to get at 8 AM and take his kid to his weekly Catholic Training...Luke, the 79 saints in the Church are strong in you....Luuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuke)....

Anyway, Let's move on!

I was messing around with my car stereo (as usual, as my wife in her slumber shivers, since she can't stand my rather expensive habit) setting up some radio station presets in it, and as I hit the scan button, I came across the country station she spends most of her commutes listening to. Now, don't get me wrong, I have probably about 300 or so country tracks on my 'pod (if ya with someone for long enough, u'll pick up some of their likes; however, an overweight black man in cowboy boots and a hat is as about as sexy as the present Day Val Kilmer...geech!) so I have nothing against men and women singing about losing their house/trailer/loves/cats/dog/chew/whatever else they sing about in their twangy compositions .

But, while I was listening to one song that I actually liked, it got me to thinking (and when that happens, evil little thoughts leak out...sort of like that little bit of "after-pee" ladies have to catch before they stand up from the toilet).

Music is truly the great segregator on this planet...especially here in the U.S.A.

Most folks, for example, who listen to country (or play it from bars all the way up to the big arenas all over the U.S.) have nothing in common with other non-country listeners. I mean, hell, I was born in Manhattan, and raised in the Bronx for many years.  I WOULD OF HAVE MY TESTICLES SEWN TO MY LIPS IF I WAS CAUGHT LISTENING TO COUNTRY IN THE 1970s and 1980s.

I grew up on R&B and Hip-Hop (not RAP music; trust me, there is a difference), with some Big Hair Pop-Metal (the Bon-Jovi/Warrant/Whitesnake/Poison and the like) mixed in. But it wasn't necessarily a black/white thing, even though during my formative years, it seemed like that to me. Before folks like Leann Rimes, Faith Hill, and the biggest hitter of them all, Garth Brooks came along (biggest seller of all time except for The Beatles) and actually made "New Country" (not that Randy Travis "I lost my dog because my woman fell in love with him" shit from back in the day) a big deal, let's face it, if you were not a country fan, most folks swore you lived in a trailer, thought Dale Earnhart (or in the 1960s/1970s, Richard Petty) was Jesus Christ, and your sister wasn't too far of a reach to be your "first".

Then again, those gangbangin', gun totin', yo mama is a "beeeyotch" fans of hip hop could be just as offended as well.

But beyond the stereotypes, the stories Country Music tells about life in America (I have to admit, country music truly is "American Bread and Born" music; their is nothing else like it in the world) differ from what I, not only as a person of color and a "city boy" (shit, I just realized I left the door open for an insult..."boy", "man of color"...all those who have higher intelligence than, say, plaque, disregard) can relate to. I mean, I don't own a pickup truck (even though I'd love to drive a Honda Ridgeline; at the time of this blog's writing, I thought those were bad ass vehicles), I don't drown my sorrows in whiskey (and no, I am not going to say "Colt 45" you Billy Dee William mofos) and well, my thoughts about America are much, much different than Toby Keith's.

Musical genres like Country Music really, in a way, separate us; whites, blacks, rich, poor, even intelligent/reasonable folks and complete dumb asses blinded by their political affiliations (once again, thank you, Mr. Keith...as i said in a previous blog, The Dixie Chicks were right about our current Commander in Penis-Head). I mean, you expect Caucasian folks who live in small towns to listen to either Classic Rock, Hard Rock, or Country; you figure inner city kids (who are mostly Black) to listen to R&B and Hip-Hop. If the shoes are on the other foot, the Caucasian kids are trying to be "wiggers" and the Black Folks are "selling out."

But what if a Spanish Person listened, to, say, Tim McGraw? Does that make them "Yippe-Kay-Spicks?"

Or a person of Asian descent is rolling down the street listening to T-Pain? Wait a minute, let me warm this up (rubbing my hands like Mr. Miyagi).....

A ChopSueyJapanigga?

Yeah, that was pretty bad (wax on, wax off).

Now I am not trying to offend anyone by using such ignorant terms. But there is a method to my madness.

For 232 years, this supposed "Great Melting Pot" has subconsciously kept the ingredients that makes America what it is on separate shelves in the pantry. Now there is nothing wrong with cultural traditions at all...I am totally for it. But what about learning about different cultures, or music, or languages, or whatever that makes us difference, so that we are more united? Is that so crazy and offensive that it shouldn't happen?

Possibly. 

Perhaps things like Country Music, with the guys wearing the big 10 Gallon hats everywhere (I always wondered if the guys, while having sex, kept the hats on, then as they were about to climax, in the excitement of the moment their big ass hats fell off, covering the girl's face and suffocating them...a "48 Hours" mystery episode suggestion I am going to send in) is designed to keep their fans (predominately Caucasian folks) as "separate", while maintaining the illusion of "equality" intact.

I mean hell, you never see Kanye West at the Academy of Country Music Awards, right? (And for those who do their research, the only reason Jamie Foxx was there last year was because he was roommates and friends in college with the lead singer of Rascal Flatts). It, in the eyes of many, "wouldn't seem right."

Sigh.

I guess I wish that society was like The Grammys. There are a whole bunch of different "categories" there, all in the same room, appreciating their differences, but sharing in the beauty of each. Hell, even the rich folks semi-mingle with the semi-rich folks in the SAME ROOM.

Wow, what a concept.

Oh well...I guess I am a dreamer...but there is hope.

Darius Rucker, formally of Hootie & The Blowfish makes a Mean Country album.

Charley Pride would be proud.

And Now, The Official "Tangent" Of The Domain...

(This one is for one of the finest writers I've encountered (hopefully she'll get the joke)...Also, check out her blogs on my 'roll..."Oh Pshaw" (originally I Put "Oh the Joys", which is good, too...screw it...let's move on!)as well as "So Not The Bradys". Good stuff, kids).



Hello...I am going to talk about stuff that happen to irrtiate me as each day happens to begin...you see, I have noticed certain things that have taken place each day I open my eyes, and continue to mount each day until it begins to itch like an unwiped butthole with hair, getting stuck together due to un-removed poop and dingleberries....first off, why do we have eye crust in the morning, glueing our eyes shut, causing us to stumble blindly into our bathrooms/outhouses/trailer crap dump areas looking for some water to wash our faces? How about that nasty ass taste in your mouth, making you wonder if this is what women in porn feel like at the end of each scene? I don't know about you, but I spend a good 10 minutes trying to get that crap off of my tongue. This is why I could never do man on man sex...and then, and this is just for the males...ball funk...you know what I am talking about...when, if you choose to hold off your shower until the next morning, your sacks smells like cat crotch and baby poop, gagging you like there's no tomorrow? Hell, you can't run away from your own testicular funky-tude. And ladies, it happens to you, too...that, well, food that spoiled at Red Lobster funk that Massengil couldn't eradicate. Just sort of sucks. So ya turn on the shower, right, to hopefully handle that bidness...in the meanwhile then, after you like scrape the nasty film from your oral cavity, soak your nuts in Dawn Dishwashing liquid so you can get it detached from your right leg (or for you ladies, dip your tampons in vinegar and hope for the best), and wash that glue that is keep your eyes shut off, you take a shower and, when done, go downstairs (or, once again, if you are a trailer dweller, you...hell, I don't know, move the tin foil walls out of the way) and go to your kitchen, where if you are employed (or trapped if you're not the boss; nobody gets rich if you work for someone else) eat stuff that is so not healthy for you (sugar cereals when you know your butt is like 50 with diabetes, or 8 pieces of bacon as you can hear your arteries cracking due to the pig ass you're eating) and the undertaker is standing over you, shaking his head at you as you consume what you KNOW isn't good for you...you then jump into your vehicle to head for work...hold on, I got more on this friggin point...when you have to really let out a helacious, kick ass, would raise the dead to start dancing to "Thriller" farts, and you're trapped in your car with it...I mean you are like in traffic, minding your business, listening to your favorite lite rock/you've lost any semblance of cool station, and "brrrrrrrip!"...you feel this really hot air escape your Hershey Highway, and you hope that it isn't followed by warm syrup topping-like poop-goo in your shorts/panties/thongs...ugh, wait, in thongs, not much "catcher's mitt" room in those...not cool...Then, after you fart and the funk has permeated your clothes, making you smell like your uncleaned port-a-toilet you call a bathroom (we all know friends that have lavatories like this in their homes), you have to spend 1/3 of your existence each day in some sort of mini Rubik's cube from hell, getting paid slave wages while you stare at a computer all day...and wouldn't you know it, you probably have a boss with afterbirth breath in your face, asking you where your assignment is...then you're watching the clock and shit, as each second feels like your eyebrows being plucked by a pitbull with a lashes fettish...and damn, it ends up being like lunch time, and you are trying to get to like Taco Bell and whatnot, even tho u melted your car seats with that ass expulsion on your way to the daily prison sentence you call a job, but u get like the nachos bellgrande with an extra side of beans, and you eat it, drowning it down with 200 empty calories (most people call it soda), and as you walk out, you lift your left butt cheek, and you let a "greatest hits" bit of flatulence out, thinking you are going to cute...and this time that syrup that you avoided earlier spatters against your undie-walls (or, if you ladies are doing the thong thing, a brown splatter pattern not seen since last week's "CSI:Compton" episode begins to be visible on those white slacks that you know that you shouldn't of worn, cuz it's like 2 months past Labor Day)...so you are making that squishy sound as you walk away, cuz you are like rushing to the bathroom to use the sink to spray off the corn chunks from your cheeks, and those groovy "Old Navy" slacks (and hell, a guy could be wearing those, since your mother gave you those pants, and she's controlled you all your life, you wear them once a week to make her feel good) that "Grissom" from Las Vegas is taking forensic evidence from the forming crust due to air-drying...and you have 10 minutes to get back to work...

Whew...thank God this isn't a long, useless point that isn't going anywhere...dude, pass me the bong, man...

(cough, cough)...damn, that's some good shit...

wow...is that Mr. Snuffleupagus over there...

Holy Crap...I think Big Bird is doing Elmo...what's in this bong, dude...

wow, ok...what was I saying...oh yeah...

So you get back into your ride, with your car now reeking like an unwashed Vegas Hooker, and you are like, so, so late...your bad breath-havin' boss is gonna yell at ya, the reports are going to be 2 days behind, and now your little soldier (or your love canal) is swinging free/taking in air, causing the odors that you had earlier this morning to return, cuz you had to dump your soiled drawers in the Taco Bell bathroom waste basket (you know, the kind with that lid that you have to step on that damned pedal to lift open)....then, like someone cuts you off, and you swerve, and you end up running over someone's dog, that sort of looks like Toto from "The Wizard of Oz"...and you are like "Ah Damn, I killed Toto!"...forgetting that you are now 45 minutes late, and your getting out of your car, right...the "Toto" look alike is all flat and stuff like a thin crust pizza from NY, and the little girl whose dog it was like is crying and stuff...and her 275 lb Dad is running towards you, looking like Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson...now you're like "Oh Poop", not cursing like an adult because you're about to get beat like a stepchild by this little girl's dad (note: if this is a female with that thong I mentioned earlier, replace "The Rock" with "Chyna")...then you get smart, run for your car, and speed off as quickly as your sticky, naked tail can take you..I hate when that happens, you know...so you get back to work (52 minutes and 30 seconds late), and your boss is in his office doing his mistress, and you take a deep breath, knowing it's a good thing the boss is being done, and you're still employed (since you were the one who wrote the memo about anyone who is more than 15 minutes late would be terminated)...then it occurs to you that since he is "occupied" (or is "occupying" his mistress), you better sneak your stank ass out of the office before someone smells what's afoot (or a-ass)...you begin sneaking down the steps, trying to get out of the building...when you slip on a used condom that your boss left the other day during the "Bang and a hot dog for 1.99" personal lunch special he had with Nadia, the 38EEE mistress on Tuesday, and now it's Wednesday...which explains where your bonus went last year...you slip, crack your head open, blood gushing everywhere, and Grissom comes up the steps and says to you...

"Wake up, you're dreaming."

The alarm rings, and as you try to look at the clock, you cannot see it, because your eyes are glued shut due to that eye-goop that formed overnight.

"Shit," you say to yourself, "where's my toothpaste?"

What's My Name, Baby...Who Does "It" Belong To...Fellas, C'mon!

Ladies, I know this won't come as a huge shock to you, but fellas enjoy sex.

Let me put this another way...guys like sex like George Bush likes starting s*it he cannot finish.

It's like that.

I enjoy sex a great deal...as much as I can remember it. I have to look it up in the dictionary just to see if I can spell the bloody word. 2 small children who demand all of your attention (and suck the required energy to even fake it, much less dip into the pool of lust...as dried up as it has become due to the rugrats) just sort of nips that in the bud (beyond birthdays, mistletoe (or, if you are lucky, mistle"blows"/licks) and alcohol fueled/door locking trysts.

I am pretty sure it is still spelled with 3 letters...but ever so often I have to go to http://www.whitechickslikechocolatebarswithnougatcenters.com/ just to remember what it looks like, much less how to do it (note, that isn't a real website...at least I hope not; I also don't peruse those sites...well, not anymore, anyway. I came to the conclusion that porn is like a homeless person looking in a restaurant and watching someone eat a steak; a great looking piece of flesh, but you're not going to get to enjoy it).

(Oh, please be honest and let me know how many of you actually clicked on that link and tried to see if it is real; if it actually brings up something, you gotta let me know...I can use a good laugh these days).

Now, as much as I remember about the activity (which is somewhat vague, as I have mentioned earlier), I tried to make it a point to make sure my partner is satisfied before I let my, ahem, "Milky Way" flow to whatever direction my partner is willing to enjoy the sticky wickyness. (Face it, some women are more, well, "liberated" than others). I feel that as women have our kids, clean our houses, mess with our stained underwear (fellas, 5 out of 10 men are "streaking"more than naked guys at football games), and cook dinner for us most of the time; the fact that they would make the time to let us "make love" (I hate that term...let's face it, you either screw/have sex/bone/do the horny pony with the one you love or do the act with the one you wish to make your deposit in...or on, for that matter) we should at least put aside 5% of our income to upgrade their jewelry/clothing/shoe collection once a year (besides Valentine/Christmas/Anniversary occasions).

But, there is a habit among some males that, well, is just an ego boosting, "Johnson extending" really sad exercise that does nothing to enhance the enjoyment of the activity, to be blunt.

And I am happy to say that I have never had to do any of the following:

1. Ask a Woman what my name is during sex.

Seriously, I think that sh*t is funny. First off, if you are doing a good job (I mean, the chick is speaking Chinese and she's Jewish sort of good job), she'll let you know who you are in no uncertain terms (and perhaps remind you of your name if all that blood rushing to your other "head" makes you forget it). The ultimate point is to satisfy your partner...if she wanted you to ask questions, she'd enroll you in "Bang Class" and give you a test, OK?

In short, get her off multiple times, and she'll take out your protein garbage for you.

(Quick aside...ain't it a female dog (see my "bitch" blog for my proper term usage) that women, if done properly, can get off that many times? Beyond the ego boost for the dude...or the girl, depending on their orientation, it's a total hose job...sort of like taxes. And as for gay men, that is double wrong...the pain, and the 8 to 10 second payoff...thank God for the Hetero Lifestyle...at least their is some moisture in the deal).

Let's Move on!

2. Asking a female "Who Does "It" Belong To?"

Sigh.

A little insight for we Neanderthals...a woman owns the "hoo-ha"...which, in turn, means she owns YOU. If a woman has made her man say "Ma Ma Se,Ma Ma Sa, Ma Ma Coo Sa" like Michael Jackson said on "Thriller" because the booty was soooooo good, she owns you. Why? Because she know she can replace "The Big Man on Campus" (as you may think of yourself and the skin and blood vessels in your pants) with a better model, making you man stuff the "Hyundai" and her replacement the "Lexus" that is now parking in your former garage.

3. "Am I the best you ever had?"

Don't, don't, don't...might as well put a Bulls-Eye on your penis, and hand her a crossbow. You are just asking to get shot down.

Let me put it another way, to illustrate the last point. I had a friend once I graduated from college who thought he was the color on the sh*t when it came to satisfying women. He hooks up with this female customer service representative he was ordering phone service from. Meets up with her on a Friday night, and tells me he is gonna have her screaming so loud, she won't need operator assistance to get heard (yeah, that's a quote). Comes by my apartment on Sunday to watch the football game, and his confidence is like totally shattered. I ask him what happened, and he said he couldn't get her to climax; hell, he said he tried everything, and she sat there and watched "The Tonight Show" (when Johnny Carson was on, and it was, well, actually funny).

He never bragged about his prowess for the remainder of our friendship.

As someone who has been rejected more than Health Care Reform in the U.S., I learned once women started to dig my flow that if you handle them with care, dealt with their idiosycrancies, and tried your best to give them as close to that "Prince Charming" image that had been drilled into their skulls by society since they popped out as possible, most times things will turn out OK. (Note: some woman are just psycho hose beasts, so this doesn't apply to them). That in turn improved my luck with women, which in turn improved my sex life tremendously.

I also figured out how to listen in bed to what ladies want, and adapted accordingly. Even my wife, before the "sex-deprivers" that are my children arrived, let me know what worked, and what didn't. I then learned to be quite good at it.

Not arrogance, just fact.

Now, I do have to defend the fellas a little here too. There are men out there that can be called, well...

"The Jackhammers of Sexual Satisfaction!" (dum, dum, dummmmmmm!!!)

Those women who have these tools of lust-cology in their lives and bedrooms have no complaints....no need to actually have each name said while in bed (had a friend who recently told me some dude ask her to say his first, middle, and LAST name during sex; she said she would of rather of had her pubes pulled out by pliers, this guy was THAT bad), or to be asked to break out a rating scale while being done doggy-style and be scored like they were on "Dancing With The Stars."

They are just...well, relaxed.

And depending on their man, have stock in wheelchair companies.

In short, for the fellas, if you listen to a lover in the beginning, and work to get things right in bed, she'll know your name, birthday, underwear size, and what hair jell you use (or, if you are a brother, what wave pomade or Afro-Sheen you prefer).

And ladies....if you happen to have a good tool at your disposal...

"Smack It Up, Flip It, and Rub it Down."

And lock that s*it up.

Nothing worse than having to replace a good tool with one from the "Fisher-Price" collection.

You're Thinking About My Baby, It Don't Matter If You're Black Or White

I have a zebra coalition going on in my household.

I guess the proper term for it would be "mixed"...or "mulatto." Or, as I like to say to myself (for fear that my wife will use my man stuff for microwave experiments; Ball Park Franks, people!)...

The "Bla-Kitey" Duo.

(OK, I am the only one who thinks that's funny).

My 2 sons, aged 6 and 2 (going on 3) are the products of a straight laced white girl who actually had rhythm (until 15 years working in a respected children's hospital , a car accident, and having 2 kids makes it difficult to turn around, much less shake your ass to the latest dance song) made her as fluid as sludge on a winter's day) and myself, the dark chocolate, slightly off kilter, never afraid to stick his size 11 1/2 (you know what they say about men with big feet....their toejams are thicker) in his mouth man of color. Born out of love....the world knows "who da baby daddy is."

Color...hey wait....wrote a blog about it...wanna hear it? Here it go!

You know, it's funny (why do people always say that? I mean...it may be funny to the person who's tells a story, but to the person whose listening it may be like having your pubes pulled out by Hulk Hogan as he body slams you by grabbing your crotch bristles)... My folks grew up in the Jim Crow South, and for a good chunk of my life I was always taught to not trust folks with less melanin than me (maybe that's why I have had more tanned white friends...hmm). My mom even told me point blank...

"Don't Bring a White Woman into my house."

She will deny every saying this, of course (as she has done in the past for the, oh , 3 or 4 times she was actually wrong in our relationship...parents are good at being proven right once you become an adult....f**kers), but that is what she said.

Thank God my spouse won her over...even if it took a conversation about their monthly woman thing to have them bond. (Yeah, I know...no punchline necessary...I'd rather have a V-8...shit, I just made myself sick with that line...damn it!)

Anyways, back in my rearing up in the Bronx, once I got into girls (after I got over my cartoon/Star Wars/Battle of The Planets phase) I, based upon my parent's stern warning, chased after Hispanic young ladies (they are sort of "the other white meat, 'cept cooked medium) and of course "sistas" (who I struck out with more than Reggie Jackson at the plate; that is another blog for another day). It wasn't until I got to college (and was exposed to bands like Queensrÿche and other "white" bands...yup, another cheap pop for a future blog) that the ladies of the Caucasian Clan drew my attention (3rd cheap pop; I promise that will be the last one for this post).

Now, it wasn't like I has a master plan or anything to conquer the white flesh of America. I mean, while I listened to my folks, once I got to college, a whole different world opened up to me, and I eventually ended up marrying a woman who 17 years before we met I'd thought would never happen.

Anyway, 12 years, two Chess Boards for Children and 2 mortgages later, here I am as I approach the beginning of the 5th decade of my life, and I chuckle at times on where I am in my personal life, and how people perceive my family when we are out and about. It's funny (no it isn't, dumb ass, stop saying that!) that, based on where I live, I really don't get that much guff from being married to a white woman.

As a matter of fact, I get more dirty looks in NYC (my hometown), and that is supposed to be the "Great American Melting Pot" (Schoolhouse Rocks!)

I guess interracial relationships causes rashes or something if you toss it into the recipe.

The state I reside in has not had the most glowing history of acceptance for this sort of thing (even though it has gotten somewhat better over the last 20 years, according to my spouse; hell, I am still breathing, right?) And my marriage is not immune to the interracial angle; my spouse and I always rib each other over the black/white thing, and we have said some outrageous things to one another (which I won't repeat here; if I ever make some money off this blog to the point that I can do this for a living I'd hate for my mom to come after me...nothing worse then getting your ass kicked by a 5ft 2 inch black woman).

But, even as I wish for a world that it doesn't matter if the obvious ethnic differences (for example, if my wife's hair is dirty it's obvious (oily, looking like it is screaming for a shower), if my hair (if I had any) got dirty it would be dreadlocks), I know two things will sadly never change:

1. People still will hate me because of my skin (and, well, be jealous because I can play stickball with my penis);

and...

2. The spouse that happens to be white will never truly understand (until the Hispanics take over) what it is like to be a minority.

Oh, there is a "1a"....some folks will hate me even more because I am married to a white woman and have interracial kids. I'm so sorry that I helped "mess up" the gene pool (wait...folks who sleep with their siblings did that...I just added some Hershey's Chocolate Syrup to the mix, tis all).

I am not going to get into the whole skin color thing, 'cuz you can find 10 million arguments on both side of the equation for all that.

As for point 2, I will say this...ever so often, my spouse will, well, be a white woman. She's a wonderful person, and technically being female is almost like being a minority on this planet (hello, WASP Men...Wake me up before you go-go Don't leave me hanging on like a yo-yo!). But I don't know if it is because she's Republican, or the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree (her mother when she hugged me for the first time said "You are the first black person I've ever hugged!" Now that's small town America; I believe her...there are very few Negroes in the town she grew up in, and the ones there now I am convinced were paid by the Census bureau to make it look good), but on rare, rare occasions, she will act like part of the majority.

What do I mean?

Well, let's face it...if you don't know what it is like to be looked upon like a drug dealer, or to be assumed that you are butt-ass ignorant, or just because you like rap music you are automatically a hood, then you don't get it or truly understand it.

Especially if it has never happened to you.

Now women are looked upon as sex objects, Hispanics (supposedly) steal hubcaps and are on Section 8/Medicaid, Chinese folks stir fry dogs and cats, and so on and so on. Ignorance isn't always based on skin color.

But that ain't the subject of this sermon, so "raspberry" to you, damn it!

So let's say a Mexican woman (who obviously works in a kitchen in some restaurant, right?) marries a black guy (whose name has to end with a "quan"...duh!)

That would make them an interracial couple who steals hubcaps while listening to rap music, washing dishes on the side.

Or, they could be a doctor and a lawyer like "The Cosby Show."

The thing is....

Who the blue hell should care?

Do you question or make assumptions about white couples? Black couples (unless they have 6 kids, looking like they are trying out for "The Jerry Springer Show"...shit, that isn't right...that's for White Trailer Trash, which is the original "white" meat, only covered in mullets and NASCAR logos; black folks got "Maury.") Is that right?

Is it right for me to assume everything in the last paragraph? (Don't worry, I'll flick myself in the 'sack to punish myself for that comment).

Hell, I am guilty of it. I assume when I see a well dress white woman with a big ass rock on her finger, I assume that she has golden knee pads (and a mouth that should be registered with the CIA) and her (has to be white, she couldn't possibly be with a black/Hispanic/Chinese...wait, maybe Chinese...they're the "somewhat" other white meat without MSG) husband is probably doing his black secretary, sending her off to shop to shut her up.

Ooh...double stupidity on me....foul, 2 shots, and the ball to ignorance!

So, to conclude, there are times that I look at my wife, who has carried us for the past year because I haven't been working this year. She's exhausted, tired, grumpy, and not in the mood to play with my stickball bat these days.

I can dig that (and use past sexual experiences with her like "I Love Lucy" reruns...still good, even though it isn't like fresh new comedy). She has my highest respect, even though she is fearful that all we fought for may end up being auctioned off like pootang at a Vegas auction.

Yeah...my baby is a white woman...my boys are products of love. I mean hell, isn't that the point? Can you help who you fall in love with? A person's likes and dislikes, their tastes in the opposite (or same sex....nutter butter...4th plug...sorry, I lied!) is based on how their life's story is written. It's a matter of how your grew up, your surroundings...it is what makes you...well, you.

Let's say I never went to college...or hell, went to a church where the congregation was predominately white. (You know, I gotta stop saying "white." Y'all are like peach ice cream...usually when u're white, you're either scared, about to blow chunks due to too much alcohol, or close to dead...at that point, u r just not that doable or attractive).

Or better yet, supposed all the "sistas" out there stopped saying that I wasn't "black enough" for them?

I'd probably fall right in line, had my dark (but still sexy) kids, and a wife that would look like Halle Berry.

BAAHAAHAAHAA HAA! Naw...she'd probably look like Esther Rolle from "Good Times."

Hmm...there's a rap song by a Caucasian (yay, I didn't use white!) rap group from the late 80's/early 90's called 3rd Bass called "Products of The Environment (a very good song that relates well to the earlier point of, well, being a "product" of where you grew up)." They basically were reared around, ahem, "African-Americans" and became pretty good rappers for the short time they recorded together. One member of the group, MC Serch, did marry, well, a Caucasian female.

Now you'd figure that, hell, he used an "African-American" music genre to make some money (both albums they put out went gold, which for the time was a huge amount for a rap album), why not try to "get with" some "sistas" or a Hispanic female?

While he was a "Product Of His Environment" he fell in love with, well, I assume a woman of his ethnic and religious choice (MC Serch is Jewish).

His choice, his love.

Isn't that the point?

Yo Michael J, take the song from here.

Hey, I cried when Chandler and Monica Got Engaged, Damn it!

Sigh.


This is going to be a tough one to write.

I am stuck between trying to be funny (intentionally, not being laughed at) and making a point, knowing that I am opening myself up for some fairly vicious attacks.


But f**k it, oh well...I am 260 lbs, and as long as y'all don't have guns, I can defend myself.


Let's Move on!


I am a sensitive dude. I mean, truly sensitive...not like "Can I come down there and sing to you?" Michael Jackson sensitive (you notice that I use a lot of MJ ancedotes alot...sigh, it is just sad what he's become...but he makes great comedy material), but more sensitive that the average guy. I mean, hell, I try to be (as best I can) society's misconceived and somewhat sad version of "manly" as much as I can.


Hell, no one wants his or her ass kicked...or give anyone the notion that they can do it to you.


But whenever I get super, super, pissed off like a golden shower party, my emotions spill over like a Peter North money shot. It's pretty bad, and I hate when it happens, because, well, it makes me look like...ugh...like this (see this previous blog, as that I am trying to stop using that term to define women or male weakness). Depending on how angry I get (and as a protective mechanism against smashing in the person's face with my considerable physical prowess), I will start to, well...


Cry after a man gets kicked in the ding-ding.


I have always been like that, and it sort of sucks, as that my dad always taught me that "a man doesn't cry." My mother said the same thing as well. My guess is that all those "Marlboro Man" ads back in the 50's and 60's drilled that into their and America's consciousness.


Men cannot show weakness...cannot show emotion...has to be as hard as their penises with or without Viagra.


Unfortunately (even though I have gotten better at hiding it as I've gotten older), I have yet to get rid of this albatross. Whenever my emotional "non-control" hits, I excuse myself very quickly, usually to let go in the bathroom (not like "Peter North" let go, even though in the past I have been known to tag a gal like Cool Whip on a banana split). After I cry my brains out, I then wash my face, put on my "man" face, and while to the world I still seemed obviously angry, there was no evidence of any "girlyness."

It's the only way not to get "BlackBo" on someones ass, because I have a very vile temper when provoked too far.


My dad always got on me for crying. During my NYC growing up days, I had a really nice watch stolen from me by some dudes who put a gun to my head. As that this was was just giving to me as a graduation present from Junior High, I was a 14 year old kid who was rather upset over it (never mind that I was 2 seconds away from becoming a statistic). After I told my dad what happened, he proceeded to berate me....in front of all the kids in the neighborhood. He said I should of fought for my watch.


Ok...I'll grab my "Superman With A Tan" costume so I can deflect those bullets, Pop.


This, of course, made me cry some more, due to the humiliation...and it's been the same ever since, nearly 26 years later.


Now I have 2 kids on my own, and my oldest...sigh...it's like watching the sequel to "Teen Wolf" (i.e. a film that should not have been made; note, not my kid shouldn't of been made...never mind, u get my friggin point). He will let his emotions spill out at any time, any where.


And sadly, I am sort of making the same mistakes my dad did with me when it comes to dealing with it.


Now, I don't do it in a way that I would humiliate him in front of his friends. I just get frustrated, as that I don't want the boy to suffer through childhood like I did. He just picks the wrong spots (sporting events, which is a BIG NO-NO in the manly sports regime) if things go wrong. I try to explain to him that other boys will not respect him for doing that, and it is like telling O.J. Simpson not to get into situations where he ends up going to jail for the rest of his life.


So I have to ask myself (and my readers)this question....


Is it OK for a guy to be sensitive if things affect him (beyond someone dying, of course)?


I read this blog recently by a very crass, but very funny man...one of his most recent posts debated what would make a man "gay" if he did certain things. Not exactly in the same area I am speaking about here, but it sort of connects in a way. Society all over the planet seems to have this notion on how men are supposed to act. Now I admit, as I have a fairly tactless sense of humor (really? like you couldn't tell from this blog!), the blog I read was straight up funny. But at the same time, it points a laser beam to this point...

Any emotional outburst by someone with testicles is automatically perceived as weakness or, well, "gay."

People see this, and they try to take advantage of a dude as quickly as Paris Hilton buys a pair of Jimmy Choo's (and the fact that I know what these are doesn't make me "gay". An educated man...as well as a man who can use his "thang" as a substitute jack is sexy to the ladies, OK?)


So it's like I am stuck in the middle...I decided long ago that I, being emotional, is pretty much who I am, and probably isn't going to change. However, I have to hide it from the world (good work by posting it for the world to see....LOL...wait, I only get like 15 visitors a day, and 1/2 of those are repeats...not that I don't appreciate that) so that people don't think I am not a "man." And I have to continue to pass on society's perception of "manhood" onto my sons.


So, what do you do? Hide? Cry like a baby who's finger got stuck in the door jam at a fast food Italian restaurant (even though the dad didn't see it, but he should of been more responsible and paid attention, and the kid's finger got swollen like a helium balloon? Sorry...flash back here).


Or do you just be....well, you? Trying to adjust when you should be that person, without worrying on how society will look at you?


It's a pretty shitty choice.


It's one that I have dealt with for nearly 40 years, and now I have to help my son figure it out as well.


Sigh...I can hear the comments now if more than the 5 people I slipped $5.99 (U.S., 4.03 UK, 7.27 Canada, 583.52 Yen in Japan as of 11/13/08 at 7:21 PM EST) to read my spittle-age....p*ssy, wuss, bitch....blah, blah, blah.


You know what...that's cool...I don't expect to get glowing reviews for the spittle I dispense here at "The Domain" all the time.

Just want y'all to think, tis all.


As for the title of this little ditty, it's true...I did get misty when Chandler and Monica from "Friends" got engaged. For years I told my wife to never tell a soul about that.

But isn't the point of good writing is to get to some sort of emotions? If it isn't good, you end up with, well, movies like "Teen Wolf." (Sorry Michael J. Fox...I miss ya; you are one of the great TV comedic actors of your time).

By the way, the first "Teen Wolf" was sort of humorous, I sort of liked it, actually.

I have also teared up during "reality TV" once or twice as well, just to let ya know.

So, if you wish to call me a "bitch", well...

Yo Mama.

(That is like the perfect insult comeback, isn't it?)

When White Girls and Boys Go Black...Next on Fox!

I was driving down the road a couple of weeks back, listening to my somewhat loud car stereo, on my way to do something of some relevance (at least in my mind I was, as that I haven't worked in 11 months, and I was probably going to get something to fatten myself and become the world's first all dark-meat turkey), when I passed a local high school, just about when the kids were about to get out for the day.

As I happened to turn my head (just cuz, well, I can still do it without arthritis), I saw a few kids of the Caucasian persuasion talking to each other, iPods blasting in one ear, the other earpiece dangling by their sides. If memory serves (thanks, Spock), there was a cute white girl surrounded by 3 white guys. They were dressed up in current day, Hip-Hop inspired gear, and between the various hand motions, caps with the bills turned to the side, and pants that looks like were picked out by random, explaining the 2x the correct size dimensions, I started to chuckle to myself, as I continued to drive out of the school zone towards my hopefully achieved cellulite-induced orgasms (I ended up at Taco Bell...that Volcano Taco they have out now is tastier than a clean g-spot entrance).

About 10 minutes later I am chomping down on one these lovely bits of death food, when a question happened to pop into my rather large cranium (not the large head I would of preferred, but hey, a woman can at least tell if I am excited).

As I chomped down and felt that volcano sauce seep down my throat like a Jenna Jameson instruction video, the question completely formed in my brain, thinking about that high school I passed by, and those kids...

When did White folks stop being...well, white folks?

Now here at "The Domain" my goal is to try so smash a few pre-conceived notions about folks here in the U.S. and abroad. As a big music fan, you will find everything from traditional "Black Music" like Hip-Hop and R&B (I'll be going off on how music sucks ass today at a later date), and "White" Music like Classic/Modern Rock, Heavy Metal, and for the old wrinkly crowd (stereotypically, of course), some classical and instrumentals residing on my mp3 player. The nice thing about leaving and going away to college back when having a box and a CD player made you look rich is that it opened up my mind to a different world...music and people (especially, well, women of other cultures...here's another cheap plug for an upcoming blog...stay tuned!)

But over the past, say, 15-20 years or so, perceived "Black Culture" (especially with today's Hip-Hop Artists like T.I., Lil' Jon, T-Pain and the like, and actually sort of even started by older artists like Jay-Z, Digital Underground, and Pop-Rap acts like Tone-Loc and Young M.C.) have gotten into white boys and girls, as what was once uncool and "colored" is now the cool thing to do.

This phenomenon has prompted me to pull out one of my (shamefully so) terms of endearment...

"The W*gger Revolution."

Yeah, I went there. As the motto of this blog states up top...I offer you "Grub For Your Mind.

Sometimes that grub may be liver with a side of Castor Oil.

Now, for those who may not be familiar with this lovely term, a "w*gger" is pretty much a white girl or boy, predominately those who may have not seen a black person before junior high, who after seeing (or assuming) that black culture is the "new cool", adapts the stereotypical mannerism, music, dress, and culture of what is perceived as how a person of African Descent is supposed to carry themselves.

(Quick note...as that I have never been to Africa, I am going to assume that originators like Run-D.M.C. didn't get their start back in the villages of that great continent...at least I am pretty confident in that. Oh, this doesn't apply to Hispanics either, cuz, well, they won't be the majority until the middle of this century.)

Now, I have no problem with different cultures adapting and liking things that they traditionally would not have been exposed to. Hell, that's been going on since Chuck Berry created Rock N' Roll, and white folks stole it, flipped it, and created Elvis "The Original W*gger" Presley (of whom I have plenty of his music on the 'pod; I give credit to where credit is due). Folks are folks...we are all born, then we all die.

Sort of how it all works.

But it sort of makes me laugh (if not perturbs me sometimes) when a white kid comes up to me and says "What up, dawg?" as if that is the only language I can possibly understand. Or just because you listen to Hip-Hop, a white kid can say that your friend is "yo' n*gger" (and note, I don't agree with when black folks get mad when white folks use it as a term of endearment; we've got the copyright of continuing that ignorance, and 50 Cent would be worth a quarter if he couldn't use that in his lyrics), but half the time they won't dare date someone of a different race (unless he was dumber than a follicle on George W. Bush's head). Mother And Father Richie Rich-Pants wouldn't take too kindly to their Harvard-bound Son Bobby if he used that at a cocktail reception, now would they?

Now I've noticed that a lot of white girls who follow the culture/music/etc will be more open to dating a black young man (or Hispanic, taking out the Mexicans, the "other white meat") than the white boys with the caps blown to the side by Hurricane-Force winds would date a black girl. Hell, if they like the guy for the guy, and not because they look like T.I., giving them "Whatever You Like" (well, actually mean "They Wanted", but it wouldn't be the correct title of the song) and it's simply to be coo cuz they got the hottest "brutha" in school, that is cool with me. But if they are looking to, say, get pregnant because "mixed babies are so pretty" (I have heard this more than once)...

That's just wrong.

Now, if you are simply more attracted to a White/Black/Hispanic/same sex/HIV-Positive/person with 3 teeth trying to smile person, that is your right in this fine country that we reside in. And it is healthy, in my humble opinion, to keep an open mind about anyone and everyone you meet; if we take the time and learn about each other, perhaps things like hate crimes, or at the very least, ignorance, will go away. That's been my philosophy for over 39 years.

But...and this is for all those 14 to 18 year old's who have the spinning wheels, 15 inch subs blaring major bass and hip hop kinda folks, if you are going to get the "w*igger-notion" a little request from me and other people of color that might get a little irritated by your choice...

1. If you are going to dip into the "Ebonics Dictionary", drop the attempt at supposed "Black" inflections when you use the terms, or in speaking in general. A lot of times you sound like Jim Nabors watching too many episodes of "Good Times", or more recently, HBO's "Oz".

2. White girls, if you get knocked up, please do not say "my baby daddy." That is stereotypically reserved.

3. Fellas, don't walk like you have polio. FDR will come up out of his grave and whoop your ass.

4. Ultimately, just enjoy the culture....actually read about it, learn things, be more accepting.

5. And finally, whatever you do, please don't say "that's my n*gger." While I am sure that most of you mean no harm (as you were taught by the sometimes dumb-assed rapping world that this term is cool to describe a friend; it's about as bad as using the word that rhymes with "runt" for your mother, wife, or sister...well, a sister may fall into that sometimes), some radical brother who thinks Malcolm X is the Messiah will stomp your ass back to the golf course they assume you belong at.

When it comes down to it, my question about "when did white folks stop being white folks" is really silly...I mean, does a Cacasian baby, when born, automatically want to be the evil, "blue-eyed cracker devil", golfing, eggs benedict eating enemy? Does a child of color when born automatically wish to be in the Crips or Bloods (west coast and permeating throughout the country), speak broken English, father (or mother) 92 babies and move their heads in a circular motion (women) when angry? How about Mexicans?

Never mind, they are going to run this country, and I will be old by then...don't want to piss them off.

Ultimately, all this stuff is TAUGHT to someone when they are young...a seed is planted, one if continually watered by ignorance will be next to impossible to grow out.

That is where the "Revolution" comes into play. What was once assume as the way things are with black folks is now "cool", but is assumed as all there is.

Sucks flat boobies with knobs for nipples, I say.

As I depart, two quick personal anecdotes...

I have a friend named "CH" a Caucasian female who is, well, "blacker" than I am. She used to tell me to brush my hair because, while white people may not notice if I decided to skip freshening my appearance, but SHE can. I always thought she was humorous, and would a fine example of "w*ggerness." She lived on the east coast, and she is NOT someone who you would want angry with you (and I am sure when she reads this post, I will need to buy an iron cup for my line and tackles). But she truly has picked up all of the stereotypical mannerisms of a woman of color.

My point concerning her is this...while most times I find her very, very funny (and quite cool people), I guess what bothers me leads me into anecdote No. 2...

Back in college I was a DJ, handling the R&B evening shift for my school on Wednesday Nights. A member of the early version of the "Revolution" (and we ain't talkin' the "Let's Go Crazy" version) called into the station and asked me if I was a white guy, sounding like she just got off the "Oh, No You Didn't" bus. I asked her why she thought that way, and she replied "because you sound white."

This bugged me a little, because my first thought was "just because I can complete a sentence I automatically have to be a white guy?" Anyway, being 21 at the time (and still reeling from the "great breakup" of my life (another blog, another several stiff drinks), I forgot about the comment, and I ended up meeting this girl to see if I could at least reinforce that whole "black guy" stereotype in the privacy of my dorm room.

2 days later I was waiting downstairs for her to show up. She walks in the door, and I was stunned that she was a white girl...in skin color only. Had the Black/Hispanic/East Coast hairstyle of the time, with the clothes, the jewelry, etc. And she swore that using broken English was the cool thing to do. Adapted the "ASSumed" inflection of the voice as well, which set me off...

And made me as ignorant as she was when she called me that night.

At the time, I simply wanted ass (which by the way, after about 2 hours in my room, I am glad I didn't get, because she turned out to be bigger "bait" than what's found on the Fishing Channel).

But in hindsight, I guess the big pet peeve (leaving my aforementioned friend out of this conclusion) is that when these young folk from the Caucasian persuasion pick up this culture, they think that is all we can be, or we cannot evolve beyond Hip-Hop, or gang culture, or "What Up, Dawg?" Personally I could care less if non-blacks picked up on it...if they bothered to look beyond it, and learn about the entire story, and how it works into the grand culture of society.

My boys, as I depart, actually have an interesting choice as they grow up and are influenced by both sides of the coin based on their parents.

Will they be their own men, or fall into "The Revolution?"

Messed up question...as long as they are just one woman's "baby daddy" and they are married, they can rock on or rap-along, or any extreme in-between.

Marble Cake, anyone? That would be "a'ight."

A Quick Cheat...

Hi kids...being slightly lazy this time...this is a quick posting of old blogs from MySpace. I plan to update with fresh material by 11/11, but since I got a couple of positive reviews from 'em, and I want y'all to hopefully dig my vibe, here we go, each dated and left uncircumcised. Peace and anal cleanings.

(Note: These Pieces of the "Ill Funk" are based on late nite irritations...sort of like hemorrhoids. As you can see in the newer ones and in the future, my tone has changed...at least slightly...:)

Happy Friggin 38th bday! (Originally Posted 7/26/07)


Alrighty then! First blog from TNWTE (The Negro with the ego). Hmm...it is my 38th birthday, and it has suck the cream of a hung horse today, let me tell ya! My youngest (who seems to have a knack for getting sick/injured/messed up on every day off I have) ended up in the hospital (just 2 days after he left the hospital for heart surgery) because his pooper wasn't being cooperative. Sigh, gives a whole new meaning to a crappy day, doesn't it?
Anyway, I guess I can't totally complain...I mean, I am alive for another year, despite my best efforts to tick the good Lord off and have him strike me down. And, as u can c, I do have 2 pretty cute kids (and no, they are not adopted; someone actually have the nerve to friggin' ask my wife if they were...I mean damn, I know I am not the sexy beast I once was, but give me a friggin' break...lol) so I guess life ain't totally skid marked like fruit of the looms, right?
Forgive my mood; just sort of been a disappointing year all around. I doubt anyone will read this mug, but if you do, let a brother know that I made ya smile, at the very least. I am out...hopefully my spouse will wake up (she has a migraine; as I said, been a hell of a day) and take me out for some steak to salvage this day. I do like to write, so hit me up if u get a chance...see ya!


Toe Jams are not Groceries (Originally Posted 7/28/07)

It's good to get the creative juices flowing once again...even if the audience for this dribbling of funk from my cranium consists only of myself, a good tune, and the spinning sounds of my ceiling fan to the right and above from my sloppy armoire.
Anyway, not much to write about...came back from Louisville, KY, using my 10th and final day off for the year. Yeah, it is only July, but I won't bore you w/the details with how the year's gone so far for moi and the fam. Besides, don't u hate mofo's who actually bore you w/the details of their mundane existence, considering that more than likely your life is either...
1. Much better than theirs, so u don't friggin' care;
2. Your life is worse, so u really don't friggin' care;
3. If u actually do care, it shows, so that person keeps talking, which makes u end up not caring and u tell them to "expletive" off, which ends up hurting the person's feelings, ruining your day, AND even making you even care less the next time they come to you...whew!
So, I won't go there for those who actually may read this blog...say, in the next 6 months to a year, when I probably won't care to write again...:)
Anyway, good weekend to all ( unless u r in Australia, which means it's already Sunday and their weekend's about shot...:)


Let me tell you about kids... (Originally Published 8/21/07)

'sup dark ones and those who have all the paper! (that would be the white folks...lol). Kidding, of course...as that I am married to one of the poor white folks (I know, shocking...not like the kids weren't a dead giveaway..:)) Anyway, as that no one reads these things, I am gonna be brief this time. As you can see, I have 2 kids....one of them special needs. However, both of them...well...are sort of like an anal scratch...u'd love to get rid of it, but the consequences may not be ones u want to pay...LOL Don't get me wrong...love my boys...damned proud of them too, especially the little one and his multitude of healt problems. But don't you wish you had an "off" button for kids? I mean, y ou'd be richer than Bill Gates OVERNIGHT...:) My oldest, and I think this must be a 5 year old thing, will not shut the (*@(*@ up! I am going to find the Kaluhua fo' real on this one, just so I am too blitzed to feel the pain! If I could resign from this job, I would...LOL

Anyway, enough of that...peace and fatback, y'all.


Grits ain’t toothpaste (Originally Published 12/1/07)

Morning (or evening, depending on how you look at it). As that I was about to go to bed (sad as it is, as that 10 years ago I was just headed to my next club on a Saturday night/Sunday evening), but decided to stop on myspace to see if anyone cared to drop me a note.
Shockingly, I got 2...as if I should be surprised, since, well, I ain't as sexy as I once was...:) But, to the one or 2 people who wanted to get their annual charity out of the way and be nice to me, thank you, and I'll send you that $9.99 payoff in the mail shortly.
Anyway, let me see what I wish to talk about...not much has happened since I last posted to this site...the kids are still trying to make me, well, die from frustration and stress (and sadly, the little one has become, well, a part time A**hole; love him to death, but the terrible 2's are comin) and after hearing from the doc that I probably have diabetes, I need to haul my fat, tugboat, titanic sinkin' a** to a gym and eat celery sticks instead of pork rinds. Quick piece of advice to the few people who may read this who are about to turn 30; enjoy eating what u want; your body will say f**k u shortly.
So anyway there is an associate of mine who came by to see me on Saturday, bummed out 'cuz she cannot find love, and she always is looking for love in all the wrong places (damn it, I know that is sung by some white dude; if someone can give me the title, I'll be sure to NOT put it on my iPhone...:) Anyway, it is an old tale of a good looking female, successful, smart, etc not being to find a dude who either isn't married, gay, stupid, or friggin' emotionally confused. So, being the good friend that I am, I said to her a few things...
1. men are well, stupid. This is why Joni Mitchell wrote "Got Til It's Gone." We are about as swift as used toilet paper at times.
2. Stop trippin and cut that zero (thank you Doug E. Fresh). u can have any man u want; u have an a** that u can bounce quarters off of and come back as dollar bills.
3. Finally, God is never late.
Now, considering that I just called my adorable son an a**hole a few paragraphs ago, it is probably odd for the .5 readers of this article for me to bring religion into the conversation. But let me break it down like this. As I told a friend of mine many times, God even watches over the wicked. It is my hope, for example, that I get smart and start looking at women's breasts and say "damn, that makes me thirsty" and try to get my soul straight before I am the devil's ping-pong ball for eternity (even tho I am pretty much that way here on earth; for the agnostics in the world, well, this part won't matter, since u r convinced that u'll be just dirt and s**t when your clock is punched. However, one of us will be proven wrong; u better hope it is me...lol). But, as I tried to explain to my friend, "Someday....her prince...will come!" (Disney, bit**es, c'mon now!) Love generally sucks the tastes of a dirty scrotum most of the time, but eventually, the victory will be yours. She took my advice, thanked me, and split.
Probably didn't do piss, but perhaps someone who reads this might dig it.
And oh yeah, Grits Ain't Toothpaste.
Peace and chicken grease, w/a side of fatback on the side.


Up at 2:25...i’m too old for this s**t (Originally Posted 8/3/08)

Eh yo....not like u folks read my rantings, but ya know, it's good therapy for me, especially when I can't sleep...:)Lessee...what shall I bitch about today...:). Well, beyond my lack of income these days, life isn't too shabby...it usually isn't too bad when u r not, well, dead...LOL. Just turned 39 9 days ago...had a pleasant evening with the spouse, so that's all good...I do wonder tho where time went so friggin' quickly....for one, I remember hanging out in the boogie down Bronx, being afraid of getting my ass kicked (or kicking someone's ass, as before I got 2 kegs of beer where my nice stomach once once I was a pretty strong guy) playing handball, stickball, hanging out on the "stoop" listening to rap music when you were able to play it in front of your parents. And girls...let me ask you something....is something in the water or what? When I was 13, there was one girl who had bigger than a-cups...Juana Alverez. Of course, I never had a shot with here...I was a 170 lb nerd with a head shaped like the official ball of the NFL. Today, u can't tell the 14 year olds from the 25 year olds. And I know I am getting older, cuz I am tellin' them to put their clothes on....WTF?Now don't get me wrong....I don't act my age...I think my frame of mind (and face it white folks, y'all age f**ked up; my dear wife, who I love to death, is so far avoiding looking like her mother, but check back with me in 2018...lol) keeps me young....and there are times I can actually tell what is playing on the radio. Folks at my former employer used to pick on me cuz they ASSumed that all I listened to in my car stereo was 80's era music. While I admit that about 40% of my music would fit in my genre (hell, I listen to the 80's station on XM most of the time; most of today's music is crap...and yeah, I am beginning to sound like my parents...lol)I am always on the outlook for new stuff. There's this track that my wife pointed out to me..."I Kissed a Girl" by Katy Perry....catchy as hell. There are still some musicians out there that don't rely on your basic "my wheels/my rims/my bitc*es/let me do you/let's use the same exact beat for every song I put out" mentality that permeates today's music. So if I am old in that sense, suck the flab out of my belly, ok? :)Anyway, during my time off I have come to conclude several things, which I will end this latest rant with...1. I am deathly afraid of dying (isn't it funny..."deathly" and "dying" in the same sentence, especially since well "deathly"...never mind, u figure it out!) due to my many sins, flaws, whatever you call them. I had an associate (sadly I wish I could say friend, because he is a fascinating fellow) from my former employer who is pretty much an atheist who I enjoyed bantering with. My thoughts ran across him when one of the funniest men in America, George Carlin, died last month. He didn't believe in God either. Now I am a crappy church goer, and I need to bring my kids up right...but one thing I do know is this...being out of work for 8 months and still having my home and my possessions tells me that SOMEONE is watching my ass somewhere. In short, I need to figure this thing called life and faith out before my "fear" becomes a reality. As my friend, as I am sure Mr. Carlin has found out, either Christians or he is going to be wrong.2. Getting fat is much easier than losing weight. When I was in college up till my mid 20's, I was about 180 lbs or so (maybe 190 w/muscle, but whatever...lol) When I was a male whore (hey, I admit it, while I was an honest one, I was a whore, nonetheless) I for one of the few times in my life thought I was a decent looking guy. THen I met my wife, and oh, 80 lbs later, I look like a miniature Fat Albert (if u are under 30, u won't get the comparison...google it!). I know the countdown to 40 has begun, but dayam, when u need a tank of oxygen on the top and the bottom of the steps, something is wrong. Now, my dear cousin sent me a late birthday present, and while it hasn't arrived yet, my bet it is the "Wii Fit." Hopefully the "Fit" will get the "s**t" off my my ass.3. Your mindset determines your life's outlook. Whatever faith you follow plays a major part in this as well, but as that I haven't made one red cent in 2008, and every month is a "how do I pay my friggin' mortgage" game show, I still joke, laugh, dispense advice if asked, and general act as if nothing is wrong, even tho I know everything I've worked for may take a major crappola the following month. So, I'll bid adieu by saying that the way I've survived the devil's crap throw is just trying to be the head of my family and say "hey, I won't have to sell my bootie for cash." Hey, I don't even like it when the doctor checks "up there". :)Anyways, I am out....I doubt anyone will read this, but if ya do, be kind, please rewind (yeah, maybe I am an 80's guy after all...:)