My Knowledge of BET Makes Me Smarter Than You Monday, October 19, 2009

I was at a cookout recently and somehow the topic of BET came up; don't ask me how... maybe the fact that we were eating chicken, drinking liquor, and listening to Gucci Mane inspired us to discuss other pertinent aspects of black culture. At any rate, one of my guys goes on a rampage that since being sold to a non-African American entity, BET has went down the crapper.

All in agreement so far.

But then he goes on to say that it has only been a few years since this selling of BET took place. I paused for a minute.

Was I in the jig version of the Twilight Zone? I responded that it has been more than just 'a few' years since Plymouth Rock landed on BET; but with a confidence that shook my belief in some shit I thought I knew for sure, he replied that it has only been a few years (a few meaning three, four at most). I looked around for at least one other colored person to back me up (because I expected all of our white friends to stare uncomfortably at the floor; which they did), but they all shook their heads in agreement with him.

Had it all been just a terribly prophetic dream I had back in 2000 that BET was sold to Viacom? Did it in fact not happen until 2006, meaning I had time to warn my fellow Negroids of our impending doom and chose not to? Had I taken the blue pill after all? Will there be enough chicken left after the cookout to have for lunch the next day?

A couple of days later (after the itis from the cookout wore off) I did the most astonishing thing; I decided to read about it (cause normally I don't be reading for fun). And indeed (and as usual) I was right and the rest of these fools were misinformed (but that has never prevented anyone from opening their mouth to give a firm opinion).

Now I nearly wrote this incident off as me hanging out with a bunch of people who know nothing (which I sometimes do in my efforts to feel smarter and/or gooder about myself), but I decided to bring up BET in random conversations with people whose intellect I respect. Believe it or not, most of them got it wrong. The consensus was that it happened back in 2005 at the earliest.

What in the Dixie-Birth of a Nation-Diff'rent Strokes hell has this country done to the Negro? It's been nearly a decade since BET sold us out and yet somehow in the collective minds of the average spook I spoke with, it's been a few years tops. I mean I know my attention span is short, only because I smoke weed and hate listening to other people while they're talking, but I will never forget the day Robert L. Johnson admitted that his name was Toby so massa would stop hitting him sold BET to Viacom (I bet some of you will also fail to remember that he backed Hillary and not Obama).

And check this out if you're really interested in how greasy BET is nowadays (or maybe you just want to read a good old-fashioned airing out).

Shit like this makes me so upset, that I'll probably barely enjoy the next episode of Frankie and Neffe.

How to Legally Choke Kids Thursday, October 15, 2009

As many of you may already know by now (and by many, I mean the twelve of us who bother to read my blog; sometimes even I forget to read it), I am back working in the education system; because times are hard and education is always looking for more black men to jerk around. School ain't what it used to be not even in the four or so years that I stepped away from working with kids.

Part of the problem is that there is way too much damn coddling going on with these little bite-sized terrorists. The fact of the matter is they need less Mr. Belvedere and more Mister Joe Jackson. Say what you will, but he raised two musical icons in the forms of Janet and Michael; even Jermaine had a shot, but he didn't know how to tell his stylist 'That's too damned much vaseline you be putting on my face!'. I'm tired of watching one of these little brats punching the little brat sitting next to him, and then the principal wants me to pull him to the side and discuss his feelings about punching his neighbor.

Eff yo' feelings nigga! They don't need their feelings to be discussed.

They need to be told '... sit the eff down, shut the eff up, or someone's going to come through and beat the eff out of you!' But alas, that isn't allowed when other adults are present.

I remember the last time I worked for the school district, I got into trouble for breaking up a fight between two sixth graders; not for breaking up the fight, but because of how I broke up the fight. One student was trying to stab another student with a pencil, so I horse collared the lil' sum'bitch; similar to what they outlawed in football, except I yanked this heathen by his soul. The principal pulled me into a conference, I thought to give me a medal for saving a life, but instead he wanted to talk about the life I almost took. Douchebag.

They got too many first year teachers in the schools these days. They're the opposite of neva scared... they're always scared. I can't tell you how many times (this week) I've had to personally escort a student to the dean's office, all because his/her teacher was a punk and a half.

Here's a new rule: you are not allowed to be scared of someone that you could literally sit on to death. Write that one down.

Eff yo' segue nigga! Brief tangent alert.

I run into a lot of jigglets that act like our president can do no wrong. I support Obama still, but here's something he did wrong; he took the CEO of a failing education system, and put him in charge of all the failing education systems. If two students get shot a week (notice that they don't keep stats on all the students who were simply shot at) in your school system, I feel like you've forfeited any promotion that may have been coming your way. Could you imagine me consistently burning the apple pies at McDonald's, yet still getting promoted to fries? Ronald McDonald would turn into Homie D. Clown over some shit like that. But what isn't good enough for fast food is apparently good enough for our kids.

Ironically, at the rate we're going, most of these little shit stains won't be able to get jobs at McDonald's. Oh yeah I almost forgot, I believe children are our future.

Vh1 Behind The Music 'Lil Wayne' and Inadvertent Racism Sunday, September 13, 2009

I caught the majority of Vh1's Behind The Music 'Lil Wayne' episode (my limited attention span won't allow me to look up the next airing in hopes of catching the episode in its entirety), and I must say it was actually good viewing. I'm not a huge fan of Lil Wayne, but I've always found Vh1's Behind The Music to do a fairly good job of providing that much needed and oftentimes severely lacking third dimension to some of these artists'ss (RIP ODB). So in that sense, I guess I walked away with a little bit more respect for what it is that Lil Wayne does as a rapper; though Vh1 provided no in-depth analysis on why it is Lil Wayne kisses men on the lips (from this moment on, I need not see anymore studies/surveys that classify us lowly jigs as less tolerant of homosexuality more so than other communities).

Anyway, you have to see Vh1's Behind The Music 'Lil Wayne' episode for yourself to get the full effect, I'm only here to talk about the gist.

At some point during Behind The Music, they delved into Lil Wayne's childhood. I didn't quite catch what exactly it was that happened to his biological father, but Vh1 described Wayne's life as 'finding stability' when his mom married a street hustler.

Let's analyze the coonishness of such niggerdom.

Where in America does having a street hustler for a stepfather equal stability in the home? Could you imagine? My dad sells crack and, aside from the ever present threat of law enforcement kicking in the door without warning and making the entire family lay down on the floor and spreading our butt cheeks while they execute a search warrant, life is stable.

I doubt that if Britney Spears' dad would've converted the family's kitchen into a meth lab and commenced to serving The Smack to the neighboring trailer trash, Vh1's Behind The Music would have hardly referred to it as stable. As a matter of fact, they would have listed it as adversity that she had to overcome.

But see for us black colored African-American negroes (pick one), having a pimp, gangsta, and/or prostitute for a parent is good enough in the eyes of Vh1's Behind The Music. The way they see it, slanging crack rock is much more lucrative than having a wicked jumpshot (because clearly school is for dummies and you uppity negroes).

Actually Vh1 kind of highlighted the larger issue of society painting black people in a singular dimension. I'm sure Wayne's stepdad kept him geared up with the revenue he was making, but that doesn't make it a stable household. I'm sure Wayne oftentimes worried about pop duke's safety in such a growing career field as street hustling. Hardly stable in my opinion. But society seems to think that if black folks got money, then they should have nothing to complain about. Hence, mom duke marrying a street hustler is just the same as you and your big brother Willis being adopted by someone with the last name Drummond (one day I'm going to find the time to break down my thesis on why Diff'rent Strokes is way more racially offensive than Birth of A Nation).

I'm not saying Vh1 meant to be racist, I'm just saying they can go to hell (wit' dey racist asses).

The Importance of Having A White Dude Signing Your Checks Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Let me preface all of this by saying that nothing is more important than getting to the stage of going into business for self and signing your own checks (but I ain't on that... yet); however, I did have a little freelance/consulting thing going on for a minute and that gave me a lot of the experience of someone who runs their own full blown business.

Working for the establishment, while not giving you the greatest comfort in job security, does give you an ultra-secure feeling on payday. You are guaranteed to be paid for the work you did during the pay period. I learned from freelancing and consulting (I mainly worked with Black-ran nonprofits and the occasional White dude-ran operation) that on Fridays, White people got your money; Black people got excuses.

As Black people (raised on healthy amounts of Black pride and self-hatred; both taught by White schoolteachers), we learn at an early age not to do business with other Black people. We're taught that our own are always late, lazy, and lackadaisical; that doing any type of business with a White man is generally a more pleasant experience. So of course, with me rejecting most things that society has thrown my way in an elaborate game of Social Values Hot Potato, I brushed my shoulders off with that notion (odd as it seems, I didn't feel anymore like a pimp than I did before doing so; Jay Z is a liar in this regard).

That was until I became an adult and started doing business with my people.

This isn't an ode to White Jesus or anything, but more like a calling out of how we have to do better. I can't tell you how many times (actually I could; my Shit List record keeping is quite thorough like that) I've shown up to collect my dollars from a Black organization, only to be told that they ain't got it. Or worse, have one of these jigs straight try to avoid me; as if I would somehow forget I'm owed money. And the excuses I'm oftentimes given, generally speaking , have nothing to do with me.

This one guy I used to work for would straight up avoid his office on payday (good thing I know how to pawn seven year old office computers). Why do niggas think ain't nobody got bills to pay but them? And have they ever considered that the people they promised money to on payday are part of the bills they need to pay?

But now I work for the miseducation system where I'm sure there's some old White dude who, in between drawing up Willie Lynch-type educational policies and writing down the names of all the students he thinks would make excellent degree-seeking candidates for the Public School to County Jail Scholarship Program (free room AND board), finds the time to sign my damn checks.

Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.

[Editor's Note: The only thing worse than working for my people, is working at an establishment whose accounting department is ran solely by White women who don't wear glasses; don't ask why, it just is.]

Don't Trust Dem New Niggas Monday, August 17, 2009

So I'm starting over yet again. Recently just moved from the Chi, back to where it all started... the college town where I learned to a. be man, b. smoke weed (without coughing up a lung), c. lie to women, and d. backtrack out of said lies to said women. I've decided to go back into the field of education; and if there's one thing I learned from previously working in the field of education, it's that all resemblances of a social life go out the window.

Ear Hustlin is what I started when I was King of the Red Line and hearing shit that was too good not to share with the group. Now I'm thinking about changing the name of my blog to 'Go to Work, Come Home, Drink the Beer, and Poke Fine Women on Facebook' (don't be so modest babygirl, I do mean you). And a lot of people have asked me why would I ever leave such a wonderful city like Chicago for Smallville. My answer: you ain't live where I lived.

You ain't lived (or died) until you've played Roseland's version of the 'Grand Prize Game'... some folks call it a drive by. Scratch that. This is how you know we living in a recession; cause there's been way more walk bys than drive bys. You really have to have a certain amount of disdain for the next man when you shoot them, and the best exit strategy you can come up with involves escaping back to Big Mama's house on foot. Can you imagine the prep talk someone gives himself before committing a walk by?

'I ain't got no car... but this nigga think he good... nigga think he can whoop me, and I know he can't whoop me... the nigga's whole style is chump!' (bonus points if you can name that movie)

But I mean, gun violence was only a minor determining factor. Freelancing/consulting had dried up for a sec, but even when it was good I still need that stable money because Uncle Sam was getting more and more suspicious of my tax returns (prove that I earned more than a hundred dollars over the last three years).

Also, while some people find teaching (which isn't exactly what I'll be doing) stressful, I like the fact that working in a school means that I don't have a boss who's above getting cursed the hell out (now, runteldat!). I had a disastrous cursing match with this one principal a few years back. I don't remember the details of what led up to it, but I'm sure it revolved around the fact that he was a cracker-ass cracker that hated black kids (but don't quote me on that; it could've been because he was a cracker-ass cracker who just hated my black ass).

So umm yea, I'm going to be throwing chalk at people shorter than me working with the kids for the next year or two I suspect. No disrespect, but... all these other dudes is good artists'ses; but Castro is for the kids!

Black Man's Handbook to Dating: Rule BFF - Grown People Don't Make New Friends of the Opposite Sex Friday, May 8, 2009

I have real bad news for most of you... the friends of the opposite sex you have by this point in your life, are all the real friends of the opposite sex you will ever have. Quit lying to yourself. That chick you met at the club during the office's Christmas Eve gathering is not your damn friend. As a matter of fact, if she wasn't so fine, you would have stopped talking to her the moment she started breaking down how her views on politics are based on astrology. If that didn't drive you away, then surely the fact that she talks to her cat should've been the straw to break the camel's back; and by talk, I mean engaging in meaningful discussions and the occasional debate (the shocking part is that according to her, the cat usually wins).

So what the hell is it all about? Generally, the new opposite-sex friends you make are just associates of the opposite sex that you haven't engaged in relations with yet (and if you keep giving her the impression that she's your friend, you never will; but that's a different topic altogether). Yes, it's true. If not, then ask yourself why is it that you make it point to describe her to your real friends in terms like fine, gorgeous, pretty, etc. If she was truly your friend, then you would describe her just like you describe all your other friends; 'cool'. This is why your circle of close friends remain pretty consistent, while there's a constant rotation of peripheral opposite-sex friends. You tried to forge a friendship (actually, you tried to forge a friendship with benefits) and when that doesn't work out for whatever reason, you drop them like collateral damage.

Why do people tend to throw around the term friend so eagerly in the first place? Well it makes things a little less messy when these 'friends' slip in and out of your life; otherwise people would have to call it what it is - whoring. Ladies and gentlemen, if you make a new 'friend' every single time you enter and exit a club/bar/sporting event/church/places where whores like yourself are known to congregate/etc., then you are doing little more than whoring yourself out to the highest bidder (and by bidder, I mean those persons willing to overlook the flaws that have kept you single for so long in the first damn place). Which isn't a bad thing, necessarily.

The bad part comes when one of my genuinely platonic lady friends (yea I know; just let it go) introduces me to one of her new male friends. I'm usually about 95% sure she's either: A. screwing him, B. soon to be screwing him, or C. mentally screwing him over by misleading him to think he's going to get to screw her at a later date. This is always an awkward introduction because homie is generally looking at me like, 'I wonder if she's screwing him too?' Then after a maximum of a few months, homie disappears and my platonic friend has nothing good to say about him; which is unfortunate, because I had a good time whooping homie's ass in Madden when they would visit... but alas, we were all led on.

How the CTA and PACE Conspired to Ruin My Life Tuesday, January 13, 2009

I've been doing a lot of exploring different streams of conscious thought. That may sound like total bullshit, only because it is; however, you didn't know that for sure until just now. But that wasn't my point at all.

So sometime in 2008, the CTA/Pace decided that Chicagoans were getting spoiled by a transit system that nearly made an ounce of sense; hence, in 2009 they decided enough was enough. You now need two completely different passes to get aboard buses that travel nearly the same route (and are both usually late). Did I mention that even the CTA and Pace buses that travel identical routes don't necessarily make the same stops. Totally not a good look when you're waiting at the bus stop in near blizzard like conditions. The icing on the cake is that this new system will also cost you more this year than it did last year (they put the squeeze on me while your granny, who never leaves the crib unless someone comes to get her in the first place, still has the option to ride for free).

For about fifteen minutes this morning, I inadvertently became the 'Loose Square Dude' up at the Red Line. See, I generally give away one or two cigarettes per day as my way of ensuring there's never a dull moment in hell for when I get there spreading the love. So this guy asked me if I had another cigarette (besides the one I was smoking, as I stood there pondering the pros and cons of me waking up with ambition and purpose every day), and as I handed it to him he filled my hand with two quarters (the market value of a loose square) before I had the chance to inform him that I'm not the Loose Square Dude.

Next thing I know, a dozen or so people bum rushed me (three of which I suspected of being actual bums) waving dollar bills and quarters (I felt like a stripper who couldn't command the salary she did in her prime). I wanted to tell them I wasn't in fact selling cigarettes, but I had a feeling that they would have taken them from me.

Rewind that.

I ain't no punk, no hoe, no bitch; and I stalk these South Side streets with a subtle yet sophisticated dose of righteous anger. And with that being said, I still had the wisdom to understand that these nicotine baseheads were going to take my cigarettes from me. After all was said and done, I had enough dough to get the 6 Wing Dinner from J and J's Fish (yup, I went into a fish place and still ordered the chicken; why must I be such a nigglet).

With public transportation imploding, and the price of gas declining I now see fit to never turn down a friend when they offer me a ride. This past weekend my friend came and picked me up bright and early on a Sunday morning. I can't quite remember exactly where we were, but we got into a completely minor and inconsequential accident. We were sitting at a red light when the car behind us apparently decided that wasn't good enough reason for him to sit at the red light; he barely nudged us.

My friend was not raised on the South Side, nor in the city for that matter. However, through life experiences and ultimately settling down on the South Side, she officially earned her South Side armor. As such, she responded in the way all South Siders respond to traffic accidents; she exited the vehicle cussing as if God had let her down for the very last time. I've never been more scared proud of her.

Back to how much I hate these buses.

A little known Chicago fact is that these bus drivers are in cahoots with the stick-up kids. No, it's true. When the bus drivers say 'Good Morning', it's not because it's the proper and polite thing to do. They're screening to see if you're soft enough to say it back. You must ice-grill that simple sum'ama bitch with all you got. When he says 'Watch Your Step', it's not because he has a vested interest in seeing you get off the bus safely. He's testing you fam! Now you have to exit the bus as recklessly as possible; like you don't give a damn if you slip and fall or not, cause you a 'G' like that and you gone be ok.

I wonder how I'm getting home today.

I'm Back Thursday, January 8, 2009

I have a habit of disappearing which, as a New Year's resolution, I've promised family and friends that I would do a lot less of. A lot has changed. Toward the end of last year I finally gathered the required testicular fortitude to leave my old job. It wasn't that hard to do, seeing as how I got paid in pocket lint and the belongings of coworkers left unattended (if it's your watch, why come it's in my pocket?). Word to the pawn shop. With my new found free time, I've gotten into spewing out random thoughts. You've been warned.

What does one do with no job during the holidays? The same thing everyone else does during the holidays, chill the hell out. Since I had nowhere in particular to be for those couple of weeks, bathing had become a completely optional exercise in padding my self worth (yes ladies, I'm quite the catch). Without my job I must admit that I fell way behind on email... I probably won't be getting up on that anytime soon. But let me address a few concerns en masse.

First I would like to thank everyone who sent email/wrote on my Facebook wall/threw small rocks at my bedroom window/etc. to say happy birthday. Things like that start to mean more when you're my age (I turned 25 yet again). Also, to my homies that emailed me about Xbox/PlayStation games of theirs I've had for way too long, have a freakin' heart... what else do you expect me to do while I battle unemployment? To those that have emailed about money I owe them, you may want to talk to my attorney G. Breadman; his office hours are a little shady, so catch him if you can.

I been eating a lot of jelly lately.

A couple of Saturdays ago, I got into a heated cursing match with this homeless blind dude from around the way (the handicap are not exempt from my aggressiveness, because that would be discrimination) who swears up and down that I bumped into him while he was walking down the street. If you are blind and in motion, can you ever really be certain that someone bumped into you and not the other way around? At the end of our exchange this dude took like six or so swings at me; but by that time I had already quietly walked past him.

If more dudes openly admitted to banging fat chicks, Maury would have a lot less of those DNA paternity test shows, thereby and hitherto making the world a better place for you and for me. I would now like to take this opportunity to swear on a stack of bibles that I have never banged a fat chick that I will ever admit to. [INSERT DIVERSION HERE]

Castro in '04 '08 '12 (I know for a fact that I got at least two write-in votes in '04 because I voted twice).

Keeping My Cool During A Gang Fight Friday, November 7, 2008

There's an impending change we can all 'believe in', but we must change first.

So I'm chilling at a bus stop shelter on the West Side (because I work there; never would I go to the West Side for fun) with a couple of other individuals; A Latino dude and a black dude. Both looked relatively young, I would guess late teens or so. And we were doing the typical Chicago bus stop dance, the one where you're looking at the other people standing there with you (if for no other reason than to size them up in case the drama pops off) but at the same time avoiding direct eye contact. Seemingly typical waiting on the bus scenario, right?

A car rolls up, and I couldn't see the number of individuals in the vehicle because all the windows were tinted. Anyway, they pull up at the bus stop and say a few words to the Latino dude; no big deal. I look away to see if the bus was coming and saw that it was about a block away. Then I noticed the guys in the car and the guy at the bus stop were not having a friendly discussion at all. As a matter of fact, from what I was able to ear hustle in such a short amount of time, it seemed as though they were members of rival gangs.

Before I finished that thought, however, two of the individuals exited the vehicle. The guy at the bus stop was clearly alarmed; I can't say if the black guy took the events well or not, because apparently he had purchased an invisible cloak days earlier (I mean this jig was nowhere to be found; he ran away from the shelter so fast, I'm not entirely sure if I didn't just make him up for the sake of my story). Every black man knows that the acceptance level of running increases as the probability of potential gun violence increases (this is also known as The Jesse Owens Theory of Relative Danger), so I can't knock him for doing his thing.

The bus driver passed the stop and signaled for me to walk down a bit to get on the bus. And there was my dilemma; I was in no way as fast as The Dude Who May Not Have Even Exist, so what happens if I run and they start chasing me because I'm running (it's well known in the hood, that if you start running for whatever reason, someone will likely start chasing you)? I'd be caught, that's what would happen. I'm a smoker, a drinker, and a tad bit lazy when it comes to physical activity (not to mention, my level of sexy decreases when I'm seen running down the street holding up my baggy pants and screaming fire); I'm sure it would have been like trying to outrun a 747 passenger jet while riding on a bike with two flat tires and greasy handlebars.

So what did I do you ask?

I casually walked to board the bus (and for those of you who know me, you already know that nobody walks as casual as I do). As I got on the bus, the driver (a chick) is yelling at me about taking my own sweet time and about how I almost got caught up in a gang fight. She was as livid as my mom would have been in a situation like that. She was literally screaming at me (though she was expressing concern for my safety) to which I replied, 'my bad'. Then I took my seat and noticed that a playa like me couldn't breathe (now imagine if I had in fact ran). I was a tad shaken up only because the situation could have been way worse.

We hear all the time about how people get shot while simply standing outside, and for all I know those cats could have just as easily rolled up and started squeezing clips indiscriminately. The thing is, I have been in worse situations than that; so why wasn't I prepared for this? Then I remembered; my guards were down going back to election day.

Though I told myself I wouldn't, somehow I got swept up in the hype of Obama's victory and I just felt like cats at the ground level would at least make an attempt to not be on bullshit (except for the harmless bullshit I be on). On the Wednesday after the election I can't begin to tell you how many smiling faces and friendly conversations I bore witness to, and the same vibe persisted through Thursday as well. But when I woke up this morning (Friday), even before I left out the house, I could sense that the 'good vibe' was slowly giving way to business as usual in the hood.

And just so you know, when I got on the bus and looked out the back window, I observed that the Latino dude from the bus stop was on the accounts receivable end of a beat down. It was a bit of a downer, but the only thing I can do is find out where that other homie got his cloak from.

Ear Hustlin' Inside Scoop: More Layoffs Expected at the Chicago Tribune Before Christmas Tuesday, October 28, 2008

So for today (and today only, mind you), I decided to use my writing in a pseudo-serious manner. I ran into a guy this morning that has inside ties to the Chicago Tribune. Just having casual conversation, I asked him about potential openings in their editorial department. Now I knew beforehand about the eighty or so jobs they cut from editorial earlier this year, but I thought with the new design and new approaches to content, the Chicago Tribune was moving to a 'happier' place. Home slice (I told you I was only going to be pseudo-serious) informed me that not only were there no openings, but that the Chicago Tribune was on course to have another round of layoffs before the end of the year.

How Scrooge McDuck of them.

Now how true this guy's claim was needs to be put into several contexts. First, I must admit I left the crib looking a tad grimy today, so he could have quite possibly been sending me off as to not have a potential co-worker who dresses like a stick-up kid. Also, he could have been quoting speculation and hearsay (which are kinds of evidence) that is floating around the Chicago Tribune on an unfounded basis. However, his ties are with the finance department so if anyone would know first about the layoffs, it would be the dudes that count the money (on the days that Scrooge McDuck isn't swimming in it).

And there you have it, my big scoop. Good thing I don't own any Tribune stock, which is sure to plummet even more in the upcoming months if my source pans out.

Black Man's Handbook to Dating: Rule #187 Her Baby's Father Is Indeed Crazy, And Crazy Indeed Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Once again your boy is holding you down with sound dating advice based upon smoking good green and thinking about it scientific empirical evidence. The dating scene has changed for both men and women, and if you don't evolve your game then you will find yourself spending Friday nights Googling the names of your exes hoping to read bad news about them (anyone who says they've never done this, is a liar and the truth ain't in them). The landscape has transformed, and things that were a non-issue in the dating world years ago are the top issues on today's dating agenda. So today I present to you another excerpt from my Black Man's Handbook to Dating.

Black Man's Handbook to Dating: Rule #187 That Nigga's Crazy!

Once you reach that age range of twentysomething (or in our community, seventeen), the number of eligible single women is a bit skewed because a lot of those eligible women have kid(s) from a previous relationship. Now I used to be from the school of thought that a woman having children was an automatic deal breaker (this may sound excruciatingly effed-up, but I used to refer to them as 'might-as-well-be-men'), but I abandoned this line of reasoning recently because A.) it was based on my own warped sense of self-importance, and B.) Friday Night Googling was getting old real quick.

However, there is something all men should know as it pertains to dating a woman with kids. Regardless of what she says, the father of her children is a complete nut job. No really, he is. Sure she'll downplay it, all the way up to the point when this fool runs up on yall at the IHOP in his pajamas, singing his favorite Boys II Men song with a tear in his eye, while swinging his bat (true story). And in all fairness, it isn't the woman's fault that she is raising the child of a lunatic, but she could at least prepare you a little better for the inevitable encounter. Maybe if women kept it real about the mental stability of their ex, then we as men could be a little more understanding.

But instead women choose to follow the cycle.

You know what the cycle is, even if you don't know what the cycle is. The first leg of the cycle starts when you and the chick first get involved. You guys are getting to know each other. She may briefly make references to her child's father, but usually in a minor context. Time passes.

Now during discussions of past relationships, she offers a little bit more insight of what her relationship with her ex was like. During these discussions gentlemen, it is very important to listen carefully. If you do, you will always catch that one specific detail about her ex that makes you think something ain't right with this dude. This is known as foreshadowing. More time passes.

You and her are really feeling each other and believe there's enough chemistry to maintain a relationship. You accept not only her, but her kid(s) as well. As a guy, I know how hard it is to listen to a woman that's talking; however, you must listen attentively when she starts to make references to her baby's daddy. You will start to hear terms like 'restraining order', 'failure to appear', 'he tried to choke me once', 'the last time he tried to choke me, he succeeded', etc.

The last part of the cycle is the actual face-off between you and Mr. Voorhies. Now this face-off is unlike any face-off you've ever been a part of, especially since the guy will run up on you in your blind spot and just start popping off at the mouth. Usually this happens when you and his baby mama are in a public space, and chances are he followed yall there (which is totally within his personality traits, too bad you weren't listening when she told you about the 'Car Chase' incident). At this point, she has no other choice but to fess up to the fact that he's a lunatic; but by this time the cops have arrived and would have diagnosed him as such anyway.

So am I suggesting staying away from single mothers? Of course not. But there is only one tactic that I've found to consistently work with crazy baby daddies - you must out-crazy them. Yep, you have to make it known that no matter how crazy he thinks he is, you're way crazier. Even if you're not crazy, he doesn't know that. What can make a crazy person think you're crazier than they are? Crazy shit obviously. Go outside and bite a dog while making cat noises; consistently talk to your left hand, to make him think you're trying to talk it out of beating his ass; start your car, then go back in the house and watch t.v. for about an hour. To you these may sound like private moments of temporary insanity. However, what you don't know is that there is nothing private about these moments; he's watching you, and hopefully is a little disturbed by what he just saw.

What the Hell Happened to Saturday Morning Cartoons? Monday, October 20, 2008

Most of you may think I'm too old to still scour the television on a Saturday morning in search of a good cartoon; to those people I say, 'I have some rocks, perhaps you'd like to kick them.' I'm not nearly the avid fan of Saturday cartoons like I was when I was a shorty, but every now and then if I happen to wake up early from Friday night's hangover, I'll grab the remote and see what's on. To my surprise I found complete and utter garbage. And not garbage in the sense that I don't get the shit because I'm a grown up now, but garbage in the sense that what was being projected out of the television screen had the distinct aromatic fragrance of Chicago's finest city dump. To be fair, my Saturday morning viewing was confined to local stations, as opposed to cable. Not that I was conducting a scientific study or anything, but I had to let cable go because well, not only does Comcast not believe in Vaseline, but they don't even bother to give you a reach-around.

So what was I subjected to? Loads of visually impressive cartoons that were as fun to watch as a tour of Abu Ghraib. The one advantage the kids today have over cartoons back in the day, is that today's cartoons are graphically impressive. But there aren't a whole lot of action cartoons that come on nowadays. I saw some b.s. this past Saturday that looked like it was about some damned squirrels living in a tree or some shit shit like that. Enough to make G.I. JOE go straight Full Metal Jacket in his grave. Maybe I'm tripping (which is highly possible since I'm twentysomething and ranting about cartoons), but does no one else see the direct correlation between these pusillanimous cartoons and young boys growing up sexually confused?

Cartoons are supposed to have lots of colors, explosions, and a highly evil looking dude screaming out, '... I'll get you next time!' Not some damn squirrels sitting in a tree sharing nuts (you decide if 'no homo' goes here or not). By ten o'clock I was reduced to watching Hanna Montana and The Suite Life of Zack and Cody; don't judge me. They were by far more entertaining than anything else I had seen that morning. But that's like saying that one prefers sinkers to floaters (though I will probably tune in to Hanna Montana again next week; don't judge me).

Where are the Thundercats, Transformers, and He-Mans for this generation? Personally, I think this is why we have so many school shootings nowadays; because none of these little bastards are learning how to fight. And where's the best place to learn how to fight? Well I can only speak for me and the other kids I grew up with that frequented the school nurse's office with me, but we learned our best fighting maneuvers from cartoons. Because if I saw Lion-O straight wack Mumra with his sword something ugly, then you can bet fo' damn sho' that on Monday morning I would be recreating that scene with the teacher's yard stick and Jerome's forehead (this fool still has the mark after like 20 years; I feel bad now).

But alas, we're raising a generation of squirrel lovers. From now on, Saturday mornings are reserved for college football and Hanna Montana (you know what, go ahead and judge cause I'm tired of you giving me the stank eye).

I Swear to God! Vol II Friday, September 12, 2008

I swear to God that I will trip the next chick who doesn't even acknowledge my presence when I choose to open the door for her.

Now I'm not even asking for a flirtatious smile, a small conversation, or a phone number; but dammit, if I open the door for you and I don't even know you, don't just walk through that bitch like it's an automatic door (though I do know this one crazy homeless guy who does say thank you to the automatic doors down at Walgreen's). I say thank you when people open/hold the door for me. Opening the door was instilled in me because both of my parents are from the South, and they raised me to be a gentlemen (disregard the fact that I frequently refer to women as chicks and broads). Not because I want some chick to notice me; if wanting women to notice me was my true intent, then I would go to the club, get drunk, and whip it out introduce myself and start a conversation.

I open the door because it's the nice thing to do.

Today I opened the door for this broad while I was downtown. I'm not going to lie, she was fairly attractive (but not my type; I like 'em 215 with low self-esteem), and based on her appearance and the setting we were in, I made the safe assumption that she was probably somewhat educated (not to be confused with having some goddamned sense). As I opened the door and gestured for her to pass through before me, she totally walked through and flicked her hair at me in the obnoxious white girl sort of way (even though she was Asian).

But I didn't get angry right away, I thought maybe she was in a hurry and didn't have time for politeness. You know, like how people give a little extra leeway to fat people at buffets; you know they're excited (and fat), so they get away with a little pushing and shoving the closer you get to the chicken wings. Anyway, me and Miss 'I don't have to say thank you to anyone for anything ever' were coincidentally waiting on the elevator. When the elevator came, guess what I did? I motioned for her to go in first. Did she say thank you for that? If she did, why would I be writing this; try to keep up. No. Since her destination was about five floors above mine, I thought about letting one go and leaving her on the elevator stuck with it. But I didn't have one 'prepared', and I didn't want to force it and risk a shart (it might be best if you don't know what that is).

But the elevator scene was only the sweet n' sour sauce on the large shrimp fried rice (how racist of me), I was still pissed about the whole front door incident. So on the elevator, I did what any black man would do; I stared at her. Not even the 'I'm checking you out' stare, but the 'if you look back at me, I'm going to say something outrageously foul' stare. This is the stare you get from DMV employees who know they could be doing something to help out with the long lines, but instead choose to stand there and stare at you.

If this was an isolated incident, I would let it go. But it happens a lot. I can understand why sisters don't say 'thank you', because the true 'thank you' is watching them walk past (I confess, I'm an assman; and not in the homo way in which that sounds); but even still, a verbal thank you would be nice every once in a while.

So this is my pledge to 'both elbows pointed outward at 180 degrees, two-handed, Rudy Ray Moore in his prime, somebody done called my mama out her name' pimp slap the next chick to walk through a door that I opened for her without saying thank you. And since I don't hit women, I will substitute the pimp slap for long awkward stares in secluded places.

Sarah Palin Gets Off Easy Tuesday, September 2, 2008

I can't help but feel that treatment of Sarah Palin's teenage daughter's pregnancy is somehow getting swept under the rug. In an age where we prosecute R and B singers for pissing on teenage girls (on a voluntary basis mind you), I knew for certain that a bigger stink would have been made of the fact that Sarah Palin's daughter, Bristol, is about to become a 'baby mama'. I had visions of John McCain either A. distancing himself and trying to renege on his VP pick or B. publicly offering to remedy the whole situation with his trusty wire-hanger that he affectionately refers to as 'Mama Nomoe'.

But alas, after the story came out the media immediately glossed over it. I'm sick of hearing '... she plans to marry the father of her baby'. NEWSFLASH: Every 'baby mama' thinks they're going to marry the father of their children, but having it actually happen is usually a different thing. Don't they have teenage broads on the talk show circuit all the time talking about how they are going to marry their 'baby daddy'?

People of America, you are now witnessing the first clue that this Sarah Palin may actually be white trash. The second clue is that she lives in Alaska.

I can't help but wonder would the story be handled the same if the Obamas' had a teenage daughter that was all preggers and whatnot. I am sure this would have cost him an election, and probably would have been the punchline of enough racial slurs to last us well into the next century. You must understand, that there exists masses of white people that are looking for a reason to not vote for Obama, even though they said they would. There's no poll to suggest this obviously, but I've overheard plenty of water cooler discussions to totally validate what I'm saying.

See when McCain chose a woman as his VP, then white people around the nation had a moment of relief because they had been offered an out. Now they can claim they are voting for McCain because he 'thought outside the box' (why is that such an 'inside the box' phrase?) by picking a woman; and they can still make history by electing the first woman VP.

Truthfully, I know more about monkey strains of human diseases than this chick knows about being the second in command of a damn country. Vote OBAMA 2008.

Black People's Guilty Pleasures Vol I: The Maury Show Thursday, August 28, 2008

The older I have gotten, the more I have realized that most of my friends are of the highly educated variety. Yet and still, as much as we can all agree that The Maury Show sets back black people one generation per half hour segment, we can't seem to get enough of it. Which is strange, because we all have jobs but seem to make time to find a clip or two of the show here and there.

The funny thing about The Maury Show is that it has survived from the period from mid to late 1990s when television solely consisted of shows of the Maury variety; i.e. Jerry Springer (which is still around too, but is way too over the top to be believable anymore), Ricki Lake, Jenny Jones, and even Tempsett Bledsoe ('Vanessa' from the Cosby Show) got in on the action. Some of those shows looked like they actually were shot on the same set (why buy more than one garbage can for one bag of garbage right?), but for some reason Maury is still around (remember when The Maury Show was called The Maury Povich Show?).

The thing that makes that show so gully is that we all watch it for the same reason; the paternity tests. And TiVo/DVR has made The Maury Show that much more off the chain; nothing like being able to rewind and pinpoint the precise moment when one and/or both of the Maury's guests show the first sign of saltiness (it kind of becomes like that JFK movie; 'back and to the left... back and to the left'). And it usually never fails that guys at home watching are hoping the baby does not turn out to be the man's, and women are at home rooting for the baby mama's vindication.

Now see if Maury was the true marketing genius that I am, then he would find even more ways to capitalize off the popularity of those paternity test shows. Personally I would turn 'skank ass baby mama running off the stage after she finds out the baby does not belong to who she claims' into an Olympic event. Instead of 'on your mark... get set... go...', Maury could kick off the race with 'you... are... NOT...' (because usually by the time he gets to the word 'not', those broads be all the way by the emergency exit backstage).

What makes Maury even more of a guilty pleasure than it needs to be, is that somewhere deep inside all of us, we all hope to see someone we know but aren't that cool with on the show. One of these days though, black people are going to band together and get Maury taken off the air for the platform he provides people to play themselves on national television; or at least convince him to move to BET.

Common Sense About John McCain Wednesday, August 20, 2008

America has yet to spend one day honoring and confronting the truth during one day in my lifetime; and because of that we're in the situation that we're in. If America faced the truth that most corporations really are evil faceless entities, then we wouldn't be so surprised when we find out that big greedy investment banks have totally screwed the housing market (did we learn anything from the savings and loan scandals of the eighties?). If we faced the truth that Iraq had no weapons of mass destruction, then we wouldn't be surprised to find out that we went over there with ulterior motives. But all of those things are water under the bridge. Yet it is still not too late to grasp our latest moment of truth; John McCain is a crazy old man.

Can I call John McCain both crazy and old with no validation? Sure I can. It's my blog and if I needed facts for every opinion I had then I would write for the New York Times, now wouldn't I? However, let's use our voices of reason to apply common sense to the Republican candidate for president.

I'm a firm believer that the hood has more to offer in the vein of nurturing intellectual thought than any university in the world (and the fact that I attended college and live in the hood make me extra smart; 'the most ballin'-est shit ever, son'). With that being said, how many of us have ran into the crazy Vietnam veteran dude in the street or on the bus? You know the dude who is still fighting the war mentally and occasionally makes machine-gun noises with his mouth while sitting next to you. Not fit to run the country, is he? As a matter of fact, my bus route runs past the V.A. Hospital and I wouldn't let any of the dudes who get off at that stop make me a ham and cheese sandwich; let alone define the country's foreign and domestic policies (maybe one or the other, but both is just insane).

But see, when it comes to John McCain you're only allowed to sum up his service to this country as him being a war hero. You're never allowed to go into much more detail than that. Once again America (much like the girl everybody asked to prom) you're looking in the mirror and refusing to admit the truth (they asked you to prom because you're a whore). We all know that people come home from war absolutely insane. Why wouldn't they; they've seen things. And those are the ones who haven't been held captive by the enemy...

Add to that the fact that McCain is 72 years old (and we're talking earth years; not that '72 is the new 62' bullshit), and what do you have? A dude with a bad memory, the propensity to fall asleep mid conversation, yet may just wake up mistaking you for an enemy combatant. Bad combination. Yes America, they are only asking you to the prom because word got around.

When Jesus Calls, He'll *67 You Tuesday, August 19, 2008

The nerve of some people in this city. Every morning on my way to work by way of the Red Line, I'm assaulted by the church people; you know, the folks that run up on you with the 'Holy Handout' (which I don't particularly mind unless they broad shoulder my path). These folks roll so deep at the 95th stop, oftentimes I mistake them for Gangster Disciples. But again, I have nothing against them because as all South Siders know, the South Side needs Jesus.

But today I was annoyed because the Church Lady (if that's even her real name) ran up on me with the handout shouting 'Jesus can save your life!' while on the damn cell phone. Really Church Lady? Really?! According to God via yourself, you had one job to do this morning and that was to deliver his word; and you go about it on the cell phone. Now do I take extra long smoke breaks, two-hour lunches, and nap in the bathroom? Of course I do... but my boss isn't Jesus, so I can get away with it. Surely if she believes that God is watching over me as I sin, then she must also believe that God sees her half-assing The Word because she's talking on the phone.

So being the semi-jerk that I am (read: asshole in a 'my vocabulary is bigger than yours' sort of way), I stand there and wait for her to get off the phone so that I can ask what church she is from (not because I cared a whole lot, but curiosity is a mutha when you need a reason to not be at work on time). Did she get off the phone? Nope. Did she at least acknowledge my presence? Yes, but only because she didn't like me standing around while she was on the phone. Does Jesus love her any less? You betcha.

So Church Lady expects everyone to read about becoming a follower of Christ, but she can't even make eye contact with me. Call me a cynic, but I'm sure there's a special place in hell for people who talk on their cell phone while doing field service (right next to the dude who services himself while text messaging). You ma'am, are not worthy of handing me literature about a god I only believe in out of fear.

How Much Should You Really Hate Your Ex? Friday, August 15, 2008

I got into a deep philosophical discussion the other day (drinking tends to invoke the great debater in everyone) about the proper level of hatred to have towards someone you used to date. I know people that have (for whatever reason) great friendships with their former significant other, and then others that have reciprocal restraining orders. Now for me, I don't hate any of my exes, but not seeing them is better than keeping in touch with them (which can be a form of hate I guess); but that's what works for me.

I know this one guy that fills out mail forwarding requests, just so he can receive his ex-girlfriend's mail and toss it in the trash (true hateful bastard shit); and I know an otherwise completely sane young woman who calls her ex-boyfriend's cell, and if the new chick (of that particular week) answers she goes into a story about she just found out she was pregnant, all in the name of bringing grief to that man's home. Of course those two people are slightly nuts, and I'm glad they can't read (this blog).

And to directly contradict myself for a moment, I would like to say there is an ex that I 'hate', but in a way that's healthy. See my hate for her keeps me away from her. Granted there have been more than one occasion in which I've wished for a small fire to take her out (not even a house fire, but a little bitch ass fire that would make everyone go 'How the hell did that burn 70% of her body?'); or maybe get attacked in the eye by a flock of birds that only go after people while they're driving. But these are just jokes (only because I haven't found a genie yet), and only serve as personal reminders to never find myself back together with that person.

Everyone knows the chronic 'break-up to make-up' couple, and the only reason they exist is because they hate each others' guts and haven't realized it yet (and probably won't until they get married). So how much should you hate your ex? Well I personally measure it in the number of seconds it would take for me to react if I saw the ex in danger. For example, if I saw my ex-girl getting beat the hell down, I would count to seven (with 'Mississippi' in between, and without taking my eyes off the action) and then intervene. See that's healthy hate right there; however, for those that would watch their former boo get monkey stomped for a solid ten/fifteen/or twenty-five seconds (one person in the debate last night said he would count to one hundred) then: a. You hate your ex a little too much, and b. You've just witnessed a crime.

The Hood Comes Out At Night (and sometimes in the day) Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Oh, So This Is What They Mean By Gentrification?

I don't get out much for social endeavors as I think I should, but I find myself traveling all over the city in the course of a day for work-related purposes. Usually I'm bouncing from my West Side office to downtown, and back again; but most of the places in between become CTA induced blurs (i.e. I sit on the bus and look straight ahead, to avoid contact with everyone who's avoiding eye contact with me; a little game all Chicagoans play amongst ourselves on the buses and trains).

So earlier this week, I had a meeting over on 35th Street and I got off the Redline to see all the baseball fans headed to the Sox game; my meeting was a bit east of The Cell and I chose to walk instead of taking the bus. As I'm walking, the police are out in full effect; which makes sense because one drunk white person can create as much havoc as five unemployed black dudes (though with the weakening of the American dollar and rising oil prices, that conversion rate is sure to fluctuate). But what strikes me as odd (and by odd, I mean so glaringly racist you don't believe your eyes) is that the police are handcuffing niggaz left and right. And I'm sure some of them did something (after all it is a Sox game, and white people make good targets for the stick-up kids).

But could there have been like seven different criminal offenses within a four block span? All along 35th Street? But it was like whatever for the moment; I'm sure these jigs would have done something before the night was over (even my conditioning, has been conditioned).

A day later, I returned to that area for a follow up meeting and this time there was no game going on. However, five-O is at it again. That's when it struck me... I had fallen victim to the Bush-like word games (a-la 'enhanced interrogation techniques'). See we've been calling it 'gentrification' for so long, that even a well-read, government-distrusting, vote-neither-democrat-nor-republican, black man such as myself had forgotten what really goes down. They don't just tear down buildings and resurrect new ones that our people can't afford to live in; the key component of gentrification is to arrest niggaz (though if they could tear down your building with your black ass in it, they would do so).

So from now on, the proper term for 'gentrification' is 'arresting niggaz'. And here's how you would use it in a sentence:

'Have you been on the West Side lately?'

'Yea, it's starting to look a lot better over in North Lawndale, where they putting up the condos...'

'That's cause they over there arresting niggaz.'

Arresting niggaz.