The Old Dude at the Club...

“ I've been afraid of changing, because I built my life around you. But time makes you bolder, children get older. I’m getting older too.” Fleetwood Mac - Landslide

I recently met up for drinks with a girl 10 years my junior. Within 10 minutes, I think we both suspected that the age gap would likely be too steep to overcome. My suspicions were confirmed when I inquired as to what she would like to drink, and without batting and eye, she replied, a "Pina Colada".  

As I drove home, the idea that I had reached a point in my life where it was possible for me to be "too old for a girl", and she be too young for me, sparked moderate introspection. I then made recollection of a time 2 summers ago, when I ran into a familiar face, belonging to an older gentleman, whom I've seen in passing at social functions, on many an occasion. Prior to that evening, we had not made verbal acknowledgement of one another. But this time, we crossed paths at a different venue than we were accustomed to. The change of scenery all but left us with no choice but to exchange pleasantries. After we had made acquaintance, although my intention was to expeditiously part ways, he, apparently being quite the garrulous chap, struck up an unwelcomed conversation. During which, he randomly spoke about some music artist from the early 1970s. I absolutely did not know what artist he was talking about. I was a bit confused. I mean, just who was this joker? Why would he think I would be familiar with some obscure artist whose time had come & gone before my birth? And what was he doing out so late on a Tuesday anyway. Shouldn't he have been home in bed? After all, he was old. 

Then the unthinkable transpired. While increasing his inquiry, he proclaimed, "You know who I’m talking about. We're about the same age”. 

I was caught off guard. Did this man just 10 to 15 years shy of retirement age, really think we were "about the same age".  Not unlike most people, I’m secretly vain & shallow.  I covet youth and money in the same manner that  Diddy covets… well, youth & money…You can’t tell me Diddy doesn’t have an large box of “Just For Men” hair-dye in his medicine cabinet next to his Duke Pomade, or that he did not demand an exponential increase of complimentary toning gel, during his recent “Proactive” contract renegotiation. No shame in the game, Diddy. We all desire to “preserve our sexy”.

Anyway, when the smelling salts kicked in, and I finally came to, I was informed that I had spiraled into an unfortunate bout of dizziness,  followed by violent convulsions, and subsequently passed out. As I gathered my faculties, I found myself looking up at two faces. That of the EMT who had been called onto the scene to tend to my momentary cardiac arrest, and the same salt & peppered, jheri-curled Negro whose spectacularly astonishing accusation, suggesting that he & I shared the same age demographic, had left me flailing on the hard concrete.  

Thinking back to that occasion, perhaps it's time for me to begin to check myself. I absolutely do not want to be that guy. I refuse to be the old dude at the club. 

 I fear no man. I fear only five things; God. Heights. Manual labor. Those ghastly, hybrid squirrel-rats, that breed down in the bushes on 14^th Street. And one day becoming “the old dude in the club.”

After all, life presents few instances more decidedly pathetic than that of witnessing firsthand, the excruciating decline of an aging narcissist, careening uncontrollably, toward an inevitably dismal future… I don’t want to die alone. But I really don’t want to die at 2am, sweat pouring from my veins, purchasing drinks for a woman half my age, knowing full well that she’s contemplating little more than plotting the execution of her escape route, the very moment I hand to her, said drink.

And so I need to be mindful... My age allows me to vaguely recall the debut of “Thriller” on MTV… I constantly find myself launching dialogue with phrases like “back then” & “nowadays”… Plucking a handful of gray hairs out of my beard has become an excruciating & routine part of my pre-happy hour preparation… And my oldest friend, (who is one year & 4 days my junior) & his lovely wife just recently celebrated the birth of their firstborn child… I must be conscious of when to say when.

With this newfound awareness, I have decided to formulate a list of “dos & don’ts” that I need to stay conscious off... A list that will inevitably make its way to my refrigerator door, my bathroom mirror, & every other station that I visit on consistent basis … Perhaps I should also post it on the Facebook Page of that thick lil joint whom I met last week, (ironically at the club), because I stay all up in her Facebook albums… But that's neither here nor there....

Anyway, I will post this list in the same manner that Martin Luther posted his “95 Thesis”, sparking the “Protestant Revolution” on the church door. It will serve as a blueprint, to myself and others. A beacon of light, helping to navigate through the dark backstreets, before we turn onto the well-lighted main road, as we collectively matriculate our way down to the club. 

3. Look at your peer group

Are the vast majority of your high school friends, & college buddies married with teenage kids?

Are you getting informational brochures, and enrollment applications from AARP?

Do you find yourself constantly turning down the advances of the 45-year-old woman in the HR department, & secretly hoping that you might be able to score the sexy little 20-year-old intern who started last week? 

So while you’re steadily milling about the office, not-so-inconspicuously lurking around her cubicle, and sneaking into her work space to sniff her keyboard when she goes to lunch, she’s busy increasing her Facebook security settings, and unbeknownst to you, has given you the nickname “Creepy McLurker”, when addressing you to mutual coworkers.

Get it together bro. 

2. Look In the Mirror.

Michael Jackson’s classic song “Man in the Mirror” should not serve exclusively as a reminder of your social responsibilities, or spark memories of the glory days when you were 25-years-old, but should also serve as a sobering reminder that you were 25-years-old, when this song debuted, 25 year ago! Basically, you’re pushing it dog... You were in undergrad when Kid & Play’s classic “House Party” film, documenting their high school years, hit theaters; and were walking down the aisle at your Graduate school commencement ceremony when that God-Awful sequel, documenting their college years, “House Party 2” was released to theatres.

Tell you what. Since you’re so hot on walking down “aisles” during “ceremonies”, why don’t you do yourself a favor, and try walking down a church aisle, at your wedding ceremony? The 45 year old HR lady is single, desperate and in church every Sunday, praying for salvation in the next life, and pleading for God’s everlasting mercy, that she should not be subject to die alone, in this one. Time to cast your ideals aside, and go for it!

Seriously though… Check your waistline. Whereas people who haven’t seen you in a while used to say things like “hey, you’re looking well”; do they now say things like, “hey, looks like you’re eating well?” 

Could you get a part-time job at the Mall during the Holiday season as Santa Claus?

Has the once jet-black hair on your haggard beer belly, now turned grey?

Does it resemble the same bushy gray hair that is now uncontrollably sprouting out of your nostrils, and totally masking the once clearly-visible skin on your back, in a similar manner to which Michael’s talent masked the lack of talent possessed by Jackie, Tito, Jermaine & Marlon? And who would know better than you? After all, didn’t your parents surprise you with Jackson Five concert tickets for you 16^th birthday?

1.      1. Don’t be Oblivious to the Obvious

Next time you’re trolling the club, seeking women half your age, take a moment to look around. Now ask yourself, “am I the oldest m****f****r in the building?!

If the answer is yes, retreat immediately… And don’t get my wrong, I’m not saying that you cannot go out. I’m simply suggesting as we grow older, we must become more particular in our decision making. 

You can still go out. Just be more selective... Happy Hour is fine. Just be sure to vacate the premises by 10pm or so. Under no circumstance should you allow midnight to find you in the club. Think of yourself like a werewolf or a vampire.  No good can come to anyone around you, after midnight. And not unlike a werewolf or vampire, you my friend, are 300 years old.

“Marriage is an important part of getting ahead. It lets people know you’re not a homo. Married guys seem stable. People see the ring and think ‘at least somebody can stand the son of a bitch’” – Alec Baldwin – The Departed

N*gga Jeopardy...

Me: How was Miami?

S: So much fun! But I'm, exhausted! I always make the mistake of not taking a couple days off from work when I get back from vacation.

Me: Vacation?

S: Yeah, vacation. What would you call a trip to Miami?

Me: Things n*ggas do on the weekend.

I swear, give a n*gga a 3-day-weekend and them mofo's are all but guaranteed to catch the first thang smokin' to South Beach...

I'm joking. Well kinda. But yes, perfectly respectable black folk travel to South Beach.

But the whole thing got me to thinking. What if there was a "what n*ggas do" category on Jeopardy.  Like  addressing some of the favorite "Thing's n*ggas do"... In fact, they could probably dedicate a whole week to the topic, like they do with "College Week", or when The Computer wiped the floor with Ken Jennings... Come to think about it though, they shouldn't televise it during a normal 7pm telecast on ABC.  N*gga viewership will undoubtedly be too low at that time...They should do it like in between the 3-point shooting competition & the slam dunk contest during NBA All Star Saturday Night. This way, they'll ensure that n*gga viewership is at a premium.

Now before I offend anyone (more than I already have), kindly allow me quote Chris Rock, when he so eloquently stated, "I love black people, but I hate n*ggas."

I utilize this quote not because I hate n*ggas, (in fact, I'm rather fond of them, as they provide what seems like never ending entertainment) but rather, to draw a necessary distinction, as there is clearly a "discernible gap" between black folks & n*ggas. Or in my case, a "fine line". (One that I treading dangerously close to today)...

But thats okay. I'm very comfortable with the word n*gga; when used by black folk, amongst other black folk. Some people are seemingly very uncomfortable with the term. But I suppose that's their right... Although perhaps they should consider that n*gga has many different meanings. For example, rapper Big KRIT uses n*gger as an acronym for "Naive Individuals Glorifying Greed & Encouraging Racism...

One of my friends back in college had quite the intriguing use for the word "nigga". He used it as a noun. That is to say; any person, place, thing or idea. So for example, if he went out the night before he might say...

I went to the club last night. It was hot as hell up in  the club that n*gga. So I got me a water, and as I was drinking the water that n*gga, I saw a hot chick. So I jumped up behind the hot chick that n*gga, and we danced all night long up in the club that n*gga.

Gratuitous as it may be, admittedly, it was quite entertaining.

Another one of my friends uses n*gga to describe anybody... He routinely launches his thoughts & ideas with something like, "This white n*gga at work...", or "This Puerto Rican n*gga at the gym"... And again, I'm fine with it.

For me, n*gga just means "predictably ignorant".

But I digress... Okay, so remember, in Jeopardy, the "question" is posed as the "answer", and vice versa...

So with that, I present to you: "N*gga Jeopardy"... ROUND ONE.

Contestant: I'll take "Songs n*ggas play, for no good reason at all" for $100, Alex.

Alex Trebeck: The answer: Popular song n*ggas play at their weddings, seemingly for no good reason at all.

Contestant: What is, "Ave Maria"!

Alex: You are correct!

I think it's high time for all non-Catholics to retire this song from wedding ceremonies... The last time I heard this song played at a wedding, I made it a point to inquire with the bride & groom about translation of "Ave Maria". The bride replied verbatim, "I dunno, Something Maria.". The groom just stood there in confusion... Sadly I was asked to be in this wedding party, and was unable to decline. What can I say, we all have n*ggas in our families... I mean at least they were getting married though. Most n*ggas don't even do that... True, he had 3 kids by her, (the eldest was 18 years old at the time of the wedding), and the groom had abandoned his eventual bride on 3 previous occasions to run off with other women; and then shouted out his marriage proposal to her from across the courtroom  as he was being led away in handcuffs, after being convicted on 4 counts of real estate fraud; and then married her one week before he was set to begin serving his 10 year sentence; and they held the wedding reception in his mother's basement, which by the looks of it, had not been refurbished, nor refurnished since the early 1970's. But again, at least they were getting married...

Okay, back to "N*gga Jeopardy"... Now since this "special edition" is airing during NBA all-star Saturday, it's only right that we have a special guest to host the second segment. And that special guest host is none other than... you guessed it... Lebron James.

Why LeBron you ask? "He's not a n*gga", you say... Well, that might be true. But unlike a rose, which by any other name may still smell just as sweet; a "LeBron" by any other occupation, is undoubtedly a n*gga. Sh*t, a Dwayne in most circles is a n*gga.

Seriously, take away the hundreds of millions of dollars, and "LeBron" is as made-up a n*gga name as they come... In my 32 years, I've only come across one other LeBron... LeBron Jenkins. And that n*gga was a 39-year old-baggage handler at BWI airport.

Okay, relax. I'm not painting LeBron Jenkins with the n*gga brush expressly because he carries peoples bags from the trunk of their cars, to the curbside check-in, for tip money at 4 o'clock in the morning. In fact, if anything, I consider his ability to show up for such unrewarding employment; rain, sleet, hail or snow, clearly demonstrates a great deal of dedication, and a commendable work ethic, on his part.

So why do I identify LeBron Jenkins as a n*gga? Let me count the ways...

1. What is LeBron Jenkins' favorite pizza topping? Hot Sauce.
2. What is LeBron Jenkins' idea of a fine imported cigar? Black & Mild, wine wood-tip.
3. How many residences has LeBron Jenkins lived in in the past three years? Six.
4. When was the last time 39-year-old LeBron Jenkins bought a pair of Jordan's? Yesterday.
5. What is LeBron Jenkins' current side hustle? Selling Amway.
6. What was LeBron Jenkins' previous side hustle? Selling weed.
7. Does Lebron Jenkins have even the slightest idea why I utilized an "apostrophe" after the final letter of his last name in questions 1, 2, 5 & 6? Nope.
8. Does Lebron Jenkins even know what an "apostrophe" is? Perhaps, but I'm leaning toward "no".

But even if he does, LeBron Jenkins is a n*gga...

Geez. Here I go getting sidetracked agayne... Back to our regularly scheduled  "N*gga Jeopardy", with our special guest host, LeBron James...



Contestant: I'll take "Things n*ggas put on the back of their cars" for $400, LeBron.


Lebron: The answer is our DAILY DOUBLE!

In the words of Kayne, "even if you're in a Benz, you're still a n*gga in a coupe"... Especially when that Benz is an E-class, two-models-removed. 

  

The Nissan above belongs to a resident of my condominium compound. I can say with a fair measure of certainty, that I'm confident it takes less than the 6 months my neighbor has been toolin around  town with these bootleg cardboard tags, to acquire a new license plate from the Department of Motor Vehicles, when your old tags get stolen. 

Okay, it's time for FINAL JEOPARDY. With another special guest host, New York Jets Cornerback, Antonio Cromartie...Antonio, or "Cro" as his teammates refer to him, was awarded the privilege of being the second guest host, not just because he's a black man named "Antonio", but because Antonio, at 27 years-old, is the proud father of 7 kids, with 6 different women, who live in 5 different states. And when asked to name his kids during an interview on HBO's "Hard Knocks", he demonstrated a tremendous measure of difficulty in doing so...

Antonio Cromartie: The Final Jeopardy Topic: Crass things n*ggas say...

(INSERT FAMOUS FINAL-JEOPARDY JINGLE HERE)

Last week, when the author of this blog, "Black Don Draper", went out to get lunch 10 minutes later than he had planned to do so (by the grace of God, & the tomfoolery of "Tee") because he was engaged in a Gchat conversation with "Tee", which included her stating that although she likes kids, she doesn't fancy the idea of compromising her lifestyle when she has one, thus she will "throw that lil n*gga in her bag, and take him wherever she goes"...

Upon arrival at the shopping center where Black Don Draper traveled to purchase lunch, he was surprised to find police cars, ambulances, and news cameras everywhere... 

The entire shopping plaza, consisting of "Trinity Deli", "Wings Over Washington", "Quiznos", Chase bank, and the adjoining parking lot, was roped off with police tape.... As it was reported on the news, a black male's attempt to  rob a Dunbar Armored Truck, making a delivery to the Chase Bank. But the robbery was thwarted by Dunbar security, who sensed the robbery, and proceeded to waste the would-be robber, with several shots to his head and body... The news anchor also reported that eyewitnesses saw a "Gold Cadillac El Dorado, being operated by another black male, sped away from the scene of the crime as the events were unfolding". (Like they really needed to clarify that a Gold Cadillac El Dorado, was being driven by a n*gga... That goes without saying.) 

With a large crowd gathered around the scene, 15 uniformed police, 3 plain clothes detectives, 5 news trucks, and 2 Emergency Medical Technicians loading the man's lifeless carcus into the back of an ambulance, in plain view for all to see; a black woman with neck tattoo, turned around and says what to another woman?

Contestant: What is; Damn, why'd they have to close the stores though. I mean, rope off the parking lot, and go on ahead and close the bank if you want. Whatever... But keep the wings store open. I been thinking bout them God damn Honey-Barbecue Wings all God damn morning?"

Antonio Cromartie: Congratulations You right my n*gga! You right! How'd you do it?


Contestant:  Game recognize game, Cro. Game recognize game. (as his smile revealed his 10 karat gold grill)

"I'm coming home. Tell the world that I'm coming home. Let the rain wash away all the pain of yesterday... I know my kingdom awaits, &  they've forgiven my mistakes."           

             
         THE GAME:  A 3-part series; as told by The Black Don Draper... Coming Soon

Is Tweeting Cheating?

As some of you may know, I possess a faint desire to one day throw my hat into the political ring and run for public office. I mean, I'm not sure how adept I'd be at  like writing policy or enforcing legislation, but Lord knows I can deliver a rousing speech.

Till this point, I've considered it likely that the most significant obstacle to achieving my goal of public service would be my ability to overcome the sensationalist headlines that would no doubt be published when my bitter rivals begin  to one-by-one emerge from the woodwork, providing the media with their trumped-up, unilateral tales of my long and sordid history of public intoxication & general unruliness.

Just in case I do run, let me throw this disclaimer out there now... *All such future claims are totally unfounded. Even those associated with video evidence and/or court documents.*

So yes, a part of me did want to run. That was until recently, when New York Congressman, Anthony Weiner, was all but forced into resignation from office for a scandal that included nothing more than him tweeting photos of his private parts. That was it. Tweeting... No physical encounters. No exchange of favors, gifts or currency. No underage photo-recipients... Just a few, pedestrian, smart-phone executed, megapixels of his privates.

Granted, I have never tweeted, emailed, texted, videotaped, or even taken a private photo of my manhood. I'm a prude that way... In fact, I'm a little embarrassed to admit that until I heard Kanye's opening lyrics to "Runaway", on the heels of Brett Farve's text messaging mini-scandal; I was naively unaware as to just how prevalent such practices apparently are... So although I personally have no desire to share my person with the world in such a manner, I can't help but feel a little bit restricted...I mean if our civil rights & liberties are being infringed upon to the point where we cant even tweet a misbehaved, hyper-sexed, middle-aged, housewife in Timbuktu, without fear of repercussion, then what can we do?

It's the principle. Ya know.

But in all seriousness, I ask myself; is tweeting cheating?

Yesterday, a beastly early-evening nap left me wide awake at the most God forsaken of hours, with little more to pass the time than piddling around the house, and aimless channel surfing. I was on the very brink of cancelling my Comcast Cable subscription for its consistent lack of decent programming, when I stumbled upon the best show currently buried in late night cable..."Cheaters"

First off, let me say that I absolutely love Cheaters for two reasons. First, because, not unlike "Cops", it practices equal opportunity exploitation. The only color the producers of this show give a damn about is the "green" provided to them by late night "As seen on TV, Not Sold in Stores" advertising dollars...

Secondly, this show makes me grateful to live in DC. So while it's true that we do our fair share of dirt in the Northeast; at least we don't do it in that miseducated, low-rent, drunk-off-rail-liquor from T.G.I.Friday's, Middle-America kind of way... But I digress.

Where was I? Oh yes. Cheaters.. Okay, so a distressed stripper was having her low-life fiance trailed by the Cheaters investigators/camera crew.

They followed him for 3 days, meticulously collecting video footage of him cheating on his fiance with another woman... On one occasion, he was even so trifling as to carelessly leave his 7-week-old infant at home unattended, while he drove around the corner to savagely fornicate with his haggard sidepiece, on the well-worn, cloth-interior, of the backseat of his circa early 1990s Nissan Sentra; (of course purchased for him by his unwitting fiance), who had gone to work; presumably forced to bypass the minimum, state-mandated time period, allotted to women for maternity leave; to resume her position on the pole, so as to successfully scrape together a few dollars to ensure that she could fortify her newborn with exorbitantly-priced, baby formula. All the while, her no-good fiance was gallivanting around with what I could only imagine to have been the town's most undesirable single woman.

So when his now informed fiance, with the Cheaters cameras  in tow, finally accosted him in the frozen meat section of the local grocery store, making-out with the same substandard sidepiece, one might think he would acknowledge that he had been caught red-handed. Nope. Not him.

Despite being apprehended in plain view, with what appeared to be an entire tube of smudged orange lipstick smeared across his face, he vehemently denied any wrongdoing... So they rolled the videotape of the previous 3 days. There he was, on film:  in and out of his side piece's home. Holding hands, playing tonsil hockey, purchasing steak-ums at the grocery store... Obviously the jig was up, right? Wrong.

Even with such damning evidence, he still managed to maintain his "innocence"... Still, I wasn't surprised. The only thing that truly surprised me was how taken aback his fiance was. I mean considering  she met her baby daddy/fiance at the strip club, while he delicately tucked one dollar bills into the strap of her thong, as she descended from top to bottom, upside down, on a well-greased pole... Like, how surprised could she have been surprised that the relationship ended in such salacious fashion.

I figure all relationships that start like this one, can only end one of two ways: "Cheaters" or "Maury".

Still, my point is, that's cheating. There's no grey area there.  Nothing's up for debate.Just shameless, morally deficient, stone-cold infidelity.  That Karl-Kani-wearing, hair-full-of-lint-having negro had an overwhelming penchant for obese white women, and he didn't care if he had to leave little Barack at home alone to fend for his infant self, he was going to score with every sloppy pink-toe he could get his grimy little haven't-done-an-honest-day-of-work-in-his-entire-life hands on.

But Weiner on the other hand, was tweeting women he'd never met; some of whom lived half-way across the globe. So are we still to consider his behavior as "cheating"?

I don't know. And with that, I decided to conduct a poll. I mean, not like an extensive poll. I asked like 3 or 4 people on G-chat before tiring of the small talk that either preceded my inquiry, or subsequently ensued. So at that point I lazily threw the question out into the Facebook universe, and let the miracle of Mark Zuckerburg do the heavy-lifting for me... I figure if Neilsen can somehow purport to know with certitude, the television viewing preferences of 300 million Americans, by monitoring the television choices of 25,000 households, taking that data, and extrapolating outward, then my inquiry of 15 people would be quite sufficient.

Of those 15, 14 being women, 12 concluded that Weiner had indeed cheated... Although for different reasons. Some felt that the act of a married man tweeting photos in and of itself constituted an act of cheating. Others said that his actions gave him a platform to cheat. A gateway to infidelity if you will.... The two women who said he was not cheating actually have a reputation for being a bit loose. In fact, one of them will outright tell you she's a floozy if you were to ask.

Anyway, even after I completed collecting the data for my poll, I remained unsure...

I considered perhaps this whole thing to be a matter of semantics. And with that I turned my attention to the dictionary, where I uncovered 12 separate definitions of the word "cheating".

Regarding relationships, cheating is defined as being "sexually unfaithful". A person wouldn't have to be in receipt of some fancy law degree to argue Weiner was not "sexually unfaithful."... However, ironically, in regards to "baseball", cheating is defined as "positioning oneself closer to a certain area than is normal or expected"... I actually consider this definition to be a more accurate description of Weiner's transgression. 


And I'm actually comfortable with the word "transgression." 


Did Weiner cheat? Maybe. Depends on who you ask.
Did Weiner practice infidelity? Kinda. 
Did Weiner commit adultery? Nope. 
Did Weiner commit a transgression? Yes! he most certainly did. 


And really, who among us is without Transgression? Let he without sin cast the first stone!


"Know ye not. That the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God. Be not deceived: Neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor effeminate, nor abusers of themselves with mankind, nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God. And such were some of you: but ye are washed, but ye are sanctified, but ye are justified in the name of the Lord Jesus, and by the Spirit of God" - Corinthians 6: 9 - 11

A lack of Institutional (or rather, Cultural) Control

Today, if you'd be so kind as to allow me to; I’d like to take a brief foray from the typical context, content, & nature of my blog, to share with you a story. A story that began on September 21^st, 1996; the day that marked the beginning of my collegiate education… I was eating dinner with my roommate at Kennedy Commons, the South Campus dining hall at The Ohio State University, in Columbus, Ohio, when I spotted an attractive young coed across the room... I decided to make my way across the dining hall in hopes of making her acquaintance.

Me: “Hello, my name is BlackDonDraper”

Coed: (Immediately reaching in her bag/swiftly producing a team roster/scanning said roster in an attempt to locate my name.) “Do you play football? What position do you play?”

Long-story-short, my approach bore no fruit. As it turns out, I never even had a chance; having later learned that girl was one of the university’s premier football groupies. In fact, her nickname was “Paper Gold”... “

Paper Gold” was the campus flyer that housed the money-saving coupons to the local eateries and businesses that catered to the University's students… Apparently, the reason she was dubbed “Paper Gold”, was because after she finished “servicing” the football players, prior to making her departure, she continued to demonstrate her magnanimous generosity by ordering for them whatever late-night, post-debauchery, meal they desired from the Paper Gold flyer...

In 1996, I enrolled at The Ohio State University, having no idea of the experiences that lay ahead. In my sophomore year, of '97, a friend I had made during my freshman year, tried-out, and made, the Buckeye football team as a “walk on”. And although he was not the "typical jock", as he spent most of his time hitting the books in preparation for medical school, I began to meet other football players through him; and thus, by association, I was suddenly thrust into a spectacular realm of decadence & privilege I was previously unaware existed. The world of a  laissez-faire football culture. One that may not have promoted, but certainly did not discourage provacative sexual escapades, sweetheart car deals & questionable classroom grading criteria.

This past week, those of us who follow sports were informed of the resignation of Ohio State University football coach, Jim Tressel.

For those of you who are unfamiliar, The Ohio State University (OSU hereafter) has one of the most prolific football pedigrees in the history of collegiate football. OSU’s tradition is one rich with All-American talent, National Championship rings, Heisman Trophy winners, and scores of players who later went on to star in the NFL.

For the past 10 seasons, the mighty Buckeyes were coached by the venerable Jim Tressel. In an era when major collegiate athletic programs are falling into scandal faster than the 5 seconds flat it took for “Paper Gold” to dismiss me once she realized I didn’t play football, Tressel was thought to be the anomaly… After all, he was a man of high character. The mere mention of his name conjured images of ethos, moral integrity, & righteousness … That is of course until recently, when Tressel himself, as if syntactically extracted  from the pages of a Greek tragedy, descended from the stratospheric pinnacle of glory, plummeting to the most abysmal depths of scorn.

It all began to unfold a couple months back when information leaked that during the 2010-2011 season, Tressel had been tipped off that some of his players, including his star quarterback; Terrelle Pryor, had been trading OSU bowl memorabilia for tattoos. And while such an act may seem harmless enough, it is nothing short of a flagrant violation of NCAA legislation.

Upon hearing the news of such infractions, Tressel’s first actions were supposed to include contacting the University’s Athletic Department’s compliance office, in order to report the violations he had now become cognizant of. However, Tressel opted not to do so. Instead, he chose to cover up the violations... And as is often the case, the haphazardly executed cover-up grew far more egregious than the original crime… With that, one thing led to another. A string of accusations began to surface; and this past week, Coach Tressell, in the midst of swirling controversy, resigned his position as head football coach, and all of the accoutrements that come with.

Although Tressell was the martyr, and rightfully so, it appears as if the stars are aligning for Quarterback Terrell Pryor to be forced into the role of “scapegoat”.

For those of you who are unfamiliar, just 4 short years ago, Terelle Pryor was the most sought- after, blue-chip football recruit in America. Pryor was considered to be a freak of nature. A mammoth 6’ 6” 250lbs thoroughbred, who could run a 4.4 second, 40-yard dash seemingly in his sleep… He was a legend in the making; a man-amongst-boys; a standout two- sport performer at his Pennsylvania high school, leading his team to state championships in both football and basketball.

I recall viewing a video of Pryor’s recruiting visit to OSU on YouTube. A teenage man-child, literally ushered into town with a parade. Looking back, I consider there to be a certain irony in the ballyhooed manner in which he arrived on campus; as his departure will most assuredly be antithetical, lacking boisterous enthusiasm and regalia.

The University’s athletic department is now being accused of nurturing a lackadaisically monitored atmosphere; one which ultimately produced a “Lack of institutional control”.

Do I agree there was a  glaring “lack of institutional control”? Absolutely I do... In my day, Columbus was a free-for-all. Carte-Blanche reigned supreme... Institutional control at OSU was as noticeably absent as many of it's  most beloved football stars were in classes where they remarkably received satisfactory test scores...  However, I also consider this perceived lack of institutional control to be the “Micro”. It is merely a product of the “Macro”; that being, a lack of cultural control.

You see, in Columbus, Ohio, OSU football is divinity. And OSU football players are the deified subjects, who the residents of the nation’s 15^th largest city, willfully bow down to worship... The football players are the regular guests on the radio and television stations. They are the faces printed on the flyers handed out by club promoters when marketing their clubs... How could it ever be considered a surprise when these young men develop an insatiable sense of entitlement? When you present an 18-year-old-kid with the keys to the kingdom, in all likelihood, severe abuses of power will follow.

I vividly recall a story told by a star player at OSU, “Travis Easton” who later went on to play in the NFL…

It was 7am on a Saturday in the spring of ’98. Travis Easton was in an unconscious state of deep, blissful slumber, when suddenly he was awakened by the boisterous chime of the doorbell. Easton, groggy, from a long night of carousing, realized that next to him in bed lay his girlfriend. Oblivious to the doorbell, she continued to lay asleep…Easton slowly arose from his bed and begrudgingly headed down the steps to see just who could possess the audacity to come calling at such an ungodly hour. He opened the door... There, perched on his doorstep was a striking female figure; 5’ 10” sandy-blond hair, piercing blue eyes… Easton recognized this woman as his neighbor. He gathered she was in her early 30’s, as he had seen her on a number of occasions with her husband, and toddler son. “The MILF” as he referred to her, was scantily clad in a form-fitting tank top, a pair of dangerously revealing cut-off denim shorts, and had a mini-football in tow. She apologized for the early call, and then asked Easton if he would be so kind as to sign the pint-sized football for her young son… He obliged… He excused himself for a moment as to give himself the opportunity to rummage around his home for a writing utensil. Upon locating a marker, he turned back around to see that his neighbor had taken the liberty to invite herself in. In fact, she had crept up right behind him… She pushed him on the couch, got on her knees, and proceeded to deliver oral sex. When she finished, or rather, he finished; he signed the football. She rose to her feet & proceeded out the door without uttering a single word. As he closed the door behind her, Easton waved hello to the woman’s husband, none-the-wiser, washing their family minivan in his own driveway, as his wife held up the football, as if to motion to her husband, “I got it”.

Perhaps this a story sounds somewhat scandalous to you. But really, transactions such as these were simply par for the course. These were precisely the sort of fringe “benefits” that came along with OSU football glory...

On the very same Saturday that Travis Easton received his early morning surprise, I too, as I am not above reproach, received a share of residual benefits.

My roommate’s friend, “Terry Northside”, who also played football, suggested we go to the mall. I agreed. Terry and & I hopped in his truck and headed to Northland mall. As we drove to the mall, he began to tell me about a “hookup”. I wasn’t surprised. Terry had a hookup on darn near everything... Whether it was scoring a “sweetheart” deal on his new truck, getting a free carpet for his dorm room, or some coed trying to get in good with him by unsolicited feeding his parking meter, then knocking on his door to inform him that she had done so; Terry had a knack for getting over...  Terry spoke of a storeowner at the mall. His name was “Mike”. Mike owned an athletic shoe store. Sort of like a mom-and-pop Footlocker. We arrived at the mall and made a bee-line to Mike’s establishment. Terry introduced me to Mike. Mike asked if I played football too. I told him I did not. He looked slightly disappointed, but was still excited to see Terry. We shot the breeze with Mike for about 45 minutes. Terry talked about practice, teammates, coaches, and the prospects of the upcoming season. Mike listened with fawning attentiveness, and offered Terry the most lavish adulation & praise... The duo then went off into the back of the store. 10 minutes later, Terry resurfaced with no less than 5 bags full of inventory… I expressed to Mike that I was interested in the new Jordan’s, but the $150 price tag attached to them was too steep for me this week. And that I’d be receiving some money the next week, and asked if he could place a pair of size 13’s on hold for me… Mike, perhaps looking to make a quick sale, asked me how much money I had. I replied “80 bucks”. Mike pointed me to a nice pair of Nike cross trainers. They were $74.99. I said “they’re nice, but I think I’m going to hold off for the Jordan’s”… Terry, perhaps seeking to demonstrate the length and breadth of his pull, said “Come on Mike, hook my guy up.” Mike was putty in Terry hands. After 5 minutes of negotiation, I walked out of the store with the $80 Nikes, a pair of $120 Jumpman’s, and the $150 Jordan’s I had been coveting, all for the discounted price of the very same $80 I come with.

Upon returning to campus the next fall, while hanging out with Terry and his OSU teammate, “Dayne Maryland”, we learned that Mike the store owner had spent the previous month sleeping on Dayne’s couch. Apparently Mike had offered up so many “hookups” to football players that he eventually gave away his store, literally. After the store went under, Mike’s wife was so upset with her husband’s foolishness that she kicked him out of the house and filed for a divorce. Mike had nowhere to turn, so Dayne mercifully allowed Mike to squat on his living room couch until things blew over.

But that’s just how things were. Seemingly every "lay" person desired a piece of the football team.  The price of the interaction was immaterial. Some folks sacrificed their livelihood, others, their dignity…

We returned home. I told my friend Jonathan, who was training for the next year’s tryout about what happened. I showed him my new shoes… Jonathan, like me, was from New York. Everyone from New York was friendly with one another. Jonathan however had always dreamed of playing football at OSU. His plan was to “walk on” to the OSU football team…  The next weekend Jonathan was travelling home to New York. He departed on Friday, and I thought I wouldn’t see him until Monday. But on Friday evening he unexpectedly appeared in my dorm room. He looked as if he had seen a ghost. I inquired as to the reason for his dismay.

He explained to me that he had found over $10,000 in counterfeit money the day before. And that instead of disposing of the money, he had made the poor decision to hold onto it. While on his way home, he was pulled over for speeding by state troopers about 100 miles outside of Columbus. He explained that the troopers were doing random drug searches. They brought in a drug sniffing dog. Apparently the dog began to scratch at his rear driver-side door. A police search ensued. As Jonathan was never involved in drugs, the police found none. But what they did uncover was the $10,000 in counterfeit. Jonathan was immediately handcuffed and pushed into the back of the squad car. They held him by the side of the road and questioned him. Jonathan explained that he had found the money the night before, and had not disposed of it because he was “intrigued”.  One of the cops asked him what prompted a kid from New York to attend OSU. Jonathan said “to play football”. Suddenly the officer’s eyes lit up… “You play football?” .. Jonathan, sensing an out, decided to go with it. The officer delved into the glove compartment of his squad car and pulled out a team roster. Jonathan, obviously not on the roster, concocted a story about how he had just walked onto the team, and would begin to play in the upcoming season… A couple more cops arrived onto the scene. Now 4 cops stood huddled around the squad car. Jonathan heard them talking about football. Then, the original cop removed Jonathan from the squad car and un-cuffed him. The other officers took the opportunity to shake Jonathan’s hand, and congratulate him on his accomplishment of making the OSU football team.  One remarked, “Look, you’re a young kid. You found this counterfeit money, and you were intrigued. Don’t do it again. Don’t throw away your future. Now get out there on that field this fall and make us proud! .O-H” The other officers shouted “I-O”. Suddenly a mini pep rally had broken out. 4 state troopers and Jonathan exuberantly chanting O-H-I-O on the side of the interstate, 100 miles east of Columbus. Jonathan decided to cancel his trip from there. He turned around and headed straight back to Columbus.

many more storied lay dormant in my minds eye. Numerous instances such as these. However,  I chose to utilize the previous four, because each instance progressively demonstrates how the culture of Columbus aids and abets the sort of unethical behavior that has led the Buckeyes into the mire where they currently wallow.

I consider it to be one thing to cross paths with a groupie like “Paper Gold”. It’s easy to write her behavior off as merely a case of youthful indiscretion… But the sort of degenerative behavior demonstrated by a married-mother, so utterly consumed by her fan-ship that she was willing to risk her family’s well-being, presumably for the sake of  fulfilling her deviant fantasy; a young up-and- coming businessman so wholly obsessed, that he recklessly threw away his livelihood, & eventually his marriage for almost nothing in exchange; and a quartet of middle-aged men, who were supposed to be upholding the law, choosing to turn a flippantly blind-eye to a potential federal felony offense, because they so desperately wanted to believe that they had just come into contact with an OSU football player, and perhaps in some twisted way, were doing the program a favor by not taking Jonathan into custody, speak to something deeper and more widespread than simply a lack of institutional control. It speaks to a space & time that had long surpassed a “lack of institutional control”. It speaks to a permeation of moral deficiency and idol worship, that has perhaps unintentionally, yet effectively, bred a spectacular lack of cultural control.

Still, this did not begin with Terrelle Pryor... It didn’t start with Jim Tressel.  I’d be a fool to think it's inception took place upon my arrival on campus in 1996. And we’d all be foolish to think that such corruption is exclusive to Columbus, Ohio. This is a national epidemic.

But fear not my fellow Buckeyes. for we shall  rise again. Be it purposefully or unintentionally; willfully or begrudgingly; inherently, or by way of adoption; we all bleed Scarlet & Gray... As we say in Columbus...

“Hang on Sloopy. Sloopy hang on. O-H-I-O"!

         “If you’d broken every rule & vow, and hard times came to bring you down; would you change?”

The Black Conundrum

My favorite movie scene of all time is from the 1991 cinematic masterpiece, “Lean on Me”. A film starring Morgan Freeman as once outcast principal “Joe Clark”, hired by School District Superintendent "Dr. Frank Napier", played by Robert Guillaume, to save New Jersey Public School, Eastside High, from a state-mandated takeover.  

During the scene, Napier, as he is upset with Clark’s mistreatment of the Eastside High faculty & staff, eccentric antics, & general performance as incumbent Principal, reprimands Clark... Clark demonstratively fires back:

“We are being crucified by a process that is turning blacks into a permanent underclass! Yeah that’s right Frank, a permanent underclass! Yeah, nobody wants to talk about that! What good is Mrs. Elliott’s missionary zeal about Mozart gonna do a bunch of kids that can’t go out and get a job!!!”

Bravo!

Like many native New Yorkers, I am fairly resistant to offer lavish praise & adulation to any city outside of my indigenous land… So while it’s true that blacks have made enormous individual & collective strides across the nation, after nearly 6 years of residing in the District of Columbia, even I must concede that outside NYC, DC is decidedly the city where the Nation’s best & the brightest overachievers most voluminously converge to live, work & play.

But I also must remind myself that this working professional’s Land of Milk & Honey serves more accurately as the exception than it does the rule...

This reality begs the question; Are blacks really a “permanent underclass”?

Well that’s a difficult question to answer. What we do know is that historically, our people have been bombarded with an unparralled onslaught of complex socio-economic & geo-political inequality.

Inequalities such as Slavery & Jim Crow ... Inequalities that can be inextricably linked to widespread epidemics such as generational poverty, crime, gun violence, drug abuse, incarceration, unemployment, lack of education, disproportionate ratio of fatherless households, Waka Flocka...  The list goes on and on. You name a social inequality, and black people have been forced to bravely overcome it.

Perhaps even some of the blame should be shouldered by the extraordinary popularity of 1980’s television sitcoms Different Strokes and Webster...

Let’s face it, the wildly farfetched notion being expressed to our community suggested the likelihood that not ONE, but TWO impoverished, inner-city youths, afflicted with severe hormonal-growth deficiencies, could suddenly be swept away from a near- certain lifetime of destitution & squalor, and thrust into an abundant lifestyle of co-habiting with affluent Caucasian families, in swanky Park Ave penthouses & posh suburban confines, could not actually have aided our community’s grasp on reality. It could only have bred false hope.

And that was just Gary Coleman and Emmanuel Lewis. I made no mention of Todd Bridges, who demonstrated the most unconsciounable ingratitude by repaying Phillip Drummond's overwhelming kindness & generosity by seducing his pasty-white, freckle-faced, daughter Kimberly, and introducing her to a lifestyle of drugs, alcohol & prostitution...

I swear you cant give give a n*gga sh*t... Or maybe I'm confusing the shows plotline with the real life events. But whatever... Still, you know how we are...


Two steps forward... Two steps back...

Barack Obama is elected President…  Star Jones climbs back from the very brink of obscurity to make a deep run on "Celebrity Apprentice"...

Oprah Winfrey launches her OWN television network…  Gayle King is awarded with yet another talk show...

Keysha Cole's reality show is cancelled, thus we no longer have to tolerate Keysha's mother Frankie... Love & Hip Hop debuts, therefore we are forced to put up with Jim Jones' mother/Frankie's separated-at-birth, siamese twin, Nancy. (Seriously, a DNA test is in order here)

The Yings and Yangs of life I suppose.

For the purpose of today's blog, I will reveal the three foremost issues that plague contemporary Black America, thus creating, The Black Conundrum.

3. The Black Machismo.

Why is it that the black man can be but only so sophisticated & refined?

In a rather ironic twist, Prince (of all people) is the only Black male celebrity whose bravado I've never heard questioned.

I vividly recall how harshly rapper Jay Z was criticized when photographed wearing (gasp) thong sandals on the beach in St. Tropez? Never mind the fact that he was strolling hand in hand with perhaps the world’s then most-sawed-after woman, Beyonce... Can you imagine what would have happened had he been barefoot, as opposed to donning sandals? Wendy Williams would have been leading the charge to have him beheaded.


Black men are categorically the most oppressed human subset inhibiting the earth. Our civil rights & liberties are constantly being attacked, impeded, infringed & eroded. And not just by The Man, but also by the harsh judgment we are constantly subject to from our very own people.

I mean don’t get me wrong. I enjoy enthusiastically shouting violent, misogynistic rap lyrics, and objectifying women just as much, and some might even say more than the next guy... (Hell, I just finished threatening this broad for taking too long when I sent her ass out for Mickey D's... I like my Mcnuggets hot, and my sweet-tea cold. Apparantly she thought it was the other way around.) But there are some things that I, as a black man, just cannot do because they are viewed as “suspect.”

For example, why can’t I don my smedium custom fit Ralph Lauren Polo’s without facing ridicule? So what if you can see my heart beat through my shirt...

I much prefer a chilled glass of Pinot Grigio to a shot of once-distilled Ciroc; and a gentlemen’s match of tennis, to the potential of risking life & limb on some dilapidated basketball court covered in broken beer bottles and blades of grass growing through cracks in the uneven cement; as I argue a bad call with some two-bit, middle-aged, has-been who still introduces himself by his high school nickname, as he desperately attempts to recapture the fleeting glory of his Junior-Varsity yesteryear.

And don’t try to tell me that you don’t prefer the British pronunciations of the words SCHEDULE, (pronounced SHED-ULE) & STATUS, (pronounced STAY-US), because I know you do. Everybody does!

But sadly I’m relegated to the ever restricted role of “Black Male”. Thus when asked, I am obligated to feign enthusiasm over Big K.R.I.T.’s new album… And when watching a game with the fellas, I must inconspicuously sip my Pinot out of a Pilsner mug, as opposed to being free to allow it to properly breathe, thus maximizing the full-potential of it's flavor & aroma, as it would have, had I been free to pour it into a traditional long-stemmed goblet… As for the smedium Polo’s, well they’re non-negotiable.

2. MULTILEVEL MARKETING Companies

If your business card reads; Amway/Quixtar/YTB Travel/Herbalife/ Primerica /Prepaid Legal, please do not ask me to attend your “business" meeting, for I simply am not interested. And kindly save that tired rhetoric about the value of “passive/residual income” and “Entrepreneurship”, as I understand these concepts quite effectively... What I don’t understand is what would possess you to think that I would have even the slightest interest in sitting through a 3-hour pep rally with you tonight at the Holiday Inn, and subsequently soliciting unsuspecting strangers tomorrow at the mall.

Just recently, I was approached by a Pyramid Schemer while shopping at the grocery store.

Pyramid Schemer: Hey there. I see you’re buying vegetables today.

Me: Look, I know I’m wearing thong sandals, but I don’t swing that way.

Pyramid Schemer: No. You must be mistaken. I just saw you buying vegetables and thought “Now there’s a man that would be interested in a business opportunity”.

Me: You were able to discern all of that from a box of creamed spinach?

He handed me his business card. It read YTB Travel, with a Mississippi PO Box address …

I suppose it to be a good thing that he’s a “travel agent” because that would probably help to circumvent the cost of having to find his way to Mississippi every time he needs to check his PO Box… Okay look, if you’re going to conduct illegitimate business, at least attempt to do so in a legitimate manner... I mean how pertinent are your "business" dealings if you have to travel 800 miles to Mississippi to retrieve your mail?  Do yourself a favor and scrape together the $60 required to purchase a PO Box in the DC metro area; because right now you look about as legitimate a businessperson as my barbershop’s resident hustler, Demetrius. "D-Money" (as he’s called) has Bootleg flicks, Vitamin Water economy-size 36-packs, Edible Arrangement bouquets, fish dinners… You name it and “Big D” (his other overly-obvious nickname) got it for sale in the back of the shop, next to the bathroom.

1. The All – white linen summer outfit

Let me preface this by saying that if we collectively turn on our television sets and see President Obama pictured in an all-white linen short-set, grilling up steaks on the Whitehouse lawn; while Michelle pours a vat of Lawry’s Seasoned Salt on a cluster of crab legs, and Sasha & Malia get it in on a Slip & Slide, then all bets are off. At that point, do you.

But until then, black men over 40, because apparently you were not in receipt of the memo way back in 2008, allow me make this perfectly clear… That all-white linen outfit is DEAD!

And I’m not even suggesting you donate your garments to charity or anything extreme like that. Because quite frankly, you may still be able to garner adaquate usage from your alabaster-colored linen button-down, and your ivory-shaded linen pants. You just can’t wear them in conjunction with one another.

No mas! Not in Summer 2011! 

I mean I know it’s tempting and all, but I promise you that if you log on to Macys.com, what you’ll find are a myriad of less-antiquated options. Options that don’t so effectively give away your age.

I mean I know the Honorable Elijah Mohammed said a woman should be “half a man’s age + 6”, but you’re just over doing it… Whereas I’m 32 and generally awesome, you Sir are pushing 50, donning a dated all-white linen outfit, & a pair of Stacy Adams alligator wingtips (Not Awesome); so why the hell are we even at the same venue anyway? Oh, it must be our mutual adoration of fertile 25-year-old biddies.

Nonetheless, quite honestly, the All-White linen outfit is about the least effective means of achieving what it is you desire to accomplish.  Why? Because when said 25-year-old woman sees you in your dreadful All-White Linen outfit, it acts as a signal to warn her that despite your overly Duke Pomade-d head and Just-for-Men jet-black-dyed mustache/beard, underneath that pendulous linen short-sleeve button down shirt, lays a grossly distended belly. One that has been devastated by 2 to 3 decades of Heineken bottles identical to the one you're currently holding in your hand.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying you have to sit at home and wait for death. You most certainly do not. I’m simply suggesting that there are other activities that are more suited to a man of your “experience”.  Say for example, slipping back on the wedding band you so coyly tucked into your pocket when entering the door, exiting that same door, and returning home to your devoted wife & teenage children.

Okay, so that concludes today's lesson. What did we learn? Well hopefully we learned that if we too closely identify with the characteristics that I have addressed, instead of taking offense to my words, we should take a long look in the mirror so that in the future we may no longer be so susceptible to these pittfalls that constitute "The Black Conundrum".

                                           "And contrary to popular opinion, I'm the head nigga in charge!"

Ridding my Twitter timeline of lies, exxageration, braggadociousness & general tomfoolery.

Please help me in my crusade to save Twitter, for its awesomeness is quickly deteriorating… It’s hard to imagine that just 3 short months ago I felt so overwhelmingly positive about my then Twitter experience that I actually dedicated my inaugural blog post to addressing its superiority to Snoozebook. But lately it seems that Twitter’s once hallowed grounds has increasingly become a breeding ground for gratuitous lies, gross exaggeration, lowbrow braggadocios-ness and general tomfoolery.

Take last night for example; the slaying of Osama Bin laden was a great victory for the US intelligence community. Seemingly the entire Twittersphere took to their phones, PCs, and tablets to discuss the breaking news. Suddenly, without license, everybody was a political pundit for the evening…

So whats the big deal? The big deal is that political commentary isn’t meant for everybody. Now I’m not claiming to know everything about current events, nor you anything at all, but I do know that if 75% of your day is spent online tweeting Phaedra from Real housewives of Atlanta to ask for her advice on what you should do about your husband’s cheating ways, this whole current events/political discourse arena is most likely not for you.  

I dunno, it’s just that over the past year the only news update I’d previously witnessed you administer was a link leading to the specific cities & dates of Beyoncé’s 2010 world tour.

I guess what I’m saying is that I know which topics of conversation are in my wheelhouse and which are not. Don't get me wrong, I am not above reproach. I too am oft-tempted to lend my 2 cents when conversational topics metriculate outside of my realm of expertise. Still, I somehow manage to practice enough self-discipline to abide by my predetermined guidelines of self-regulation. For example, if I’m at a cocktail party and a conversation about Nuclear Physics breaks out, I’m either going to:

A) Sit & listen and see if I can learn something, or B) Politely excuse myself from the conversation to refresh my drink.

Most likely “B”. Nonetheless, what I’m not going to do is start sophomorically interjecting with unsolicited & uninformed opinions. So the next time a highly relevant news story breaks, and the Twittersphere lights up with activity, ask yourself:  

“Self, do I typically get my breaking news from” A) Perez Hilton B) Wendy Williams or C) Steve Harvey

And if you’ve answered yes to any one of these questions, then just do us all a favor and keep quiet because I just honestly cannot comprehend the value of tweeting every word that comes out of Barack Obamas mouth verbatim.

Barack Obama: “Osama Bin Laden is dead.”

You immediately tweet

@IdiotgurlnDC: “Osama Bin Laden is dead” – Barack Obama

Really? I mean the news has only been all over the television & internet for the past hour & a half. During which time the entire country has been anxiously waiting for President Obama to finish reading Sasha and Malia a bedtime story, tuck them into bed, proceed to breaking Michelle off, effectively puttin that ass to sleep, come downstairs, grab the mic, commence to delivering his speech, effortlessly drop the mic on the floor ala Jay Z after his finale at a Madison Square Garden concert, fire up a Newport, pour a glass of Ciroc, and casually strut back to the Oval office as Jeezy's "My President Is Black" crescendos through the P.A. system, serving as background music for his triumphant exit; thus reassuring us that the world is safe, so we too may peaceably join the Obama females in a state of deep, blissful slumber.

Basically, im just suggesting that you stay in your lane.

Okay, now that I got that off my chest, there are just a few more Twitter issues I’d like to address. The first being Black people's affinity to tweeting about Shellfish

New rule I’d like for all of us to try out. Just for this summer. Like a probationary period or something. No tweeting about Shellfish. You can eat it till you regurgitate. Just please dont tweet about it. No Shrimp, no crabs, no lobster, no clams, no mussels. No nothing.

I don’t know what it is with black folk and shellfish. Perhaps we see consuming shellfish as the middle-rung on the ladder signifying our middle-class success; you know, right between landing a job that offers comprehensive health Insurance benefits, and successfully embarking on our annual weekend trip to Miami for the umpteenth year in a row.

Honestly, I really don’t know what it is. And don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a the sweet juices of a Maine lobster as much next as the next guy, but I honestly can’t understand why my timeline has to be innundated with tweets that read “bi-winning” accompanied by a photo attachment of greasy fried shrimp remnant every time you spend $3.99 at Long John Silver’s for a basket of Popcorn Shrimp?

Maybe I’m off. Maybe we have like some sort of genetic predisposition toward shellfish. I mean anything’s possible… I vividly recall one instance at a pot luck office party when a coworker generously provided our department with platter of shrimp cocktail.

One of my Bubba Gump-like, runaway slave coworkers was so overly excited about the prospect of an entire platter of cocktail shrimp that she actually spent the entire afternoon gluttonously devouring cold shrimp on her way to iodine poisoning. By 4pm she was doubled over in such excrutiating pain that an ambulance had to be dispatched to the office. But not before the Resident Office Bible Beater reached into her purse, whipped out a bottle of Anointing oil, laid hands on said shrimp-fiend, and made us all join hands, as she bellowed in tongues; desperately pleading for the 2nd coming of Jesus, the swift recovery of my coworker, and the endangered well-being of the unborn lovechild that was growing in my coworkers poisoned womb.

The integration of Yelp into Twitter is also something that is also causing me agitation. I honestly don’t understand. Once activated, can this “Yelp Check-in” feature not be disabled?  My whole timeline is polluted with your Yelp Check-in updates.

@Doin2muchinMD just checked into the Department of Motor Vehicles.

@Doin2muchinMD just checked in at the Post Office.

@Doin2muchinMD just checked into the Hospital because her silly ass poisoned herself & risked the life of her unborn lovechild by overindulging in a platter of grocery-store-bought cocktail shrimp.

Quite honestly, unless your stalker tendencies lead you to unexpectedly check-in with the security guard at the front gate of my Condominium Compound without having been extended an invitation, I honestly couldn’t give a crap where you are.

Oh, and one more thing as long as we’re on the topic of Yelp... Please do not send me a friend request on Yelp… We’re already friends on Facebook, Twitter, BBM, Foursquare, MySpace, Black Planet, Yahoo Messenger, Bump, Live Profile, Gchat and Gchat BUZZ.  So although we’re friends on 10 different social networking sites, the obvious reality that neither one of us bothers to exchange even the occasional “hello” on any one of these mediums speaks articulately to the fact that we don’t need to add Yelp as yet another networking site that we will almost certainly mutually agree not to interact on.

And the final Twitter violation I'm seeking to put the kibosh on happens a lot less frequently. It is far more prevalent in "real life", but recently I have noticed it beginning to seep into online discourse...   Women who pretend to have boyfriends…  Why are you always tweeting about all the fun stuff you and your phantom boyfriend are getting into? Meanwhile, No one but you has ever made acquaintance with the chap.

You even went so far as to create a bogus Twitter page for him. I know its bogus because he has 3,642 tweets & yet mysteriously:

A)   He only follows one person. That being you.

B)   He only has one follower, which coincidently also happens to be you.

C)  His profile picture is a photo of Morris Chestnut... No self-respecting heterosexual  man is going to have a photo of Morris Chestnut as his profile pic. So what are you trying to tell me, that you're dating Morris Chestnut?

I know that as a result of Edris Elba's meteoric rise, Morris Chestnut could quite possibly be living under a rock in DC, as he hasnt received a callback from his agent for a paying gig since like '02, but I still dont believe you're dating him... Look, the jig is up.

You know you don’t have a boyfriend... I know you don’t have a boyfriend... You know that I know that you don’t have a boyfriend... I know that you know that I know that you don’t have a boyfriend.... So lets just do ourselves a favor and put an end to this whole charade.

I even wasted 10 minutes of my life sorting through your Facebook albums... 15,000 photos of weddings, anniversaries, graduations and club pics of you and your girls provacatively executing booty poses in front of airbrushed backdrops of Cadillac sedans and Giant bottles of Hennessy, and not a single solitary strand of evidence suggesting the existence of your significant other.

No long form birth certificate.  No Social Security number. No annoying Yelp Check-ins. Not a trace.

Ladies, allow me to be crystal clear. I'm not going to sugarcoat this. If you have a man, but no one but you ever sees your man, then you don't really have a man. What you have is a jumpoff.

Okay so that about covers it. I mean it really doesn't. But the rest will have to wait. Next time we'll address how annoying people who constantly tweet about being "Too blessed to be stressed"  & "Blessed & highly favored" are.

But for today, let us use this as a jumping off point...  I believe that by abstaining  from online rhetoric such as the previously documented examples, we have an opportunity to bring Twitter back from the brink of destruction.

               "There should be a throne for us, but for now that's a whole different zone from us."