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."

Why we argue anyway? Oh I forgot it's Summertime...

Spring is in the air. The birds are chirping, the Cherry Blossoms are in full bloom, the weather is breaking, and with that, all across this great land, once fortified relationships are now being annihilated. From dust they came, and to dust they shall return.

I recently got wind of two different breakups... Two sets of lovers once happily joined at the hip had suddenly parted ways. Upon hearing the news I was somewhat saddened, but not overwhelmingly surprised.  

After all, “Bunning Season”, “Cuffin Season”, “Boo Lovin Season”. Whatever you choose to call it; is a wrap.

Saran Wrap, Big Tigger Wrap City the Basement, Aretha Franklin Wrap on your door, tap on your windowpane…You choose the poorly designed metaphor. Either way, Cuffin Season is all but done.

In Washington DC, Howard Homecoming/Halloween weekend represents final cuts. Time to make a final decision. Men have spent virtually every day of the offseason vigorously scouting, drafting, conducting “two-a-days”, calling up prospects from the D-league, & signing them to tenuous 10- day contracts. Basically doing whatever it takes to find All-Star caliber talent.

The Monday after Howard Homecoming i.e. November 1st, is Opening day! It is the moment of truth.  It is the official start of “Cuffin Season”. It spans from November 1^st, till quite frankly, Right. About. Now.

Cuffin season, like most everything in life, can be appropriately compartmentalized into 3 main phases; the beginning, middle, & end. Kindly allow me to explain in more detail.

Phase One – November 1^st till New Year’s Eve

Now everything is hunky-dory for about 6 weeks. You & your beau are doing dinner and a movie once-a-week, enjoying regular sleepovers, and his weekends belong to you.  Just 2 little peas in a pod… Heavy doses of dopamine constantly rushing to your brain as you vigorously exchange subliminal tweets and Facebook messages, each not so cleverly ending with a ;)

Things are going so well that the two of you often times find yourselves simultaneously engaging in 3 separate conversations; one on Twitter, another via text message, and the 3^rd, frenetically IMing one another back and forth on Gchat during the workday, never once overlapping conversational topics from one medium to another… Heck, you even passed on payday lunch at Chipotle with the coworkers last week as to not interrupt your precious online quality-time. You’re on cloud nine. It’s only been a month, but you start thinking maybe just maybe he’s “the one”!

But just as Christmas time rolls around you begin to observe a change in his behavior.  Suddenly he becomes moody and aloof. You don’t know why. All you know is that he’s acting different. His erratic behavior is out of character. You’re somewhat taken aback. Your girlfriend warns you not to get overly-excited as you’ve only known him for 6 weeks. You become indignant and promptly put her in her place, as surely she’s never experienced a love like yours. After all, 6 weeks is equivalent to like 6 years in soul-mate math.

Now you may not know it, but his temperamental, disagreeable or standoffish behavior can be directly attributed to the fact that he’s firmly entrenched in a crucial decision-making process. He knows that keeping you around through the holiday season has its consequences, both financially and emotionally.

He knows you’ve been eying a new IPod. But what he doesn’t know is if he is willing to come out his pocket to purchase said IPod for you as a Christmas gift. But far more important than the money, he knows what that IPOD represents. Seeing as he’s a sous-chef at The Olive Garden, he’s clearly not going to come out of his pocket for multiple IPods for numerous women. This purchase will surely set him back a couple of weeks, if not months. Thus, such a selfless sacrifice overtly acknowledges that you are that special person in his life. And such an acknowledgement can lead down only one path; a serious relationship.

But as the Winter Solstice (December 22^nd) passes, he gets slapped squarely in face; first, by an errant snowball, as he inadvertently stumbles into the crossfire of two white people, both inexplicably donning cargo shorts & flip flops in bitterly cold temperatures, as they joyously frolic in the season’s first snow; and second, by the realization that the harsh winter has only just begun. The warm days of offseason are equidistantly in front of & behind him.

With this revelation, he runs out in frenzy on Christmas Eve in hopes of procuring a last minute token of his affection, only to find that the shelves at the mall are as hopelessly barren as Oprah’s womb. So he calls you to declare that he thinks it best that the two of you wait until each of you return from your respective holiday destinations to exchange gifts. This common stalling tactic will effectively buy him at least a week to figure out what to get you, since clearly a $300 IPod out totally out of the question... The day after Christmas, while perusing Best Buy in hopes of finding a deal on a PlayStation for himself, he picks up a $15 ITunes gift card for you, all the while muttering to himself “if she wanted a G-d damn IPod so G-d damn badly she shoulda bought it her G-d damn self.”

Phase Two – New Year’s Day to Valentine’s Day

So you made it through the holidays and the two of you are cruising through January. It may be cold outside, but it’s steaming hot in the bedroom.

You’ve met his friends, and have a standing appointment to watch NFL Redzone network together each & every Sunday afternoon. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow can come between the two of you; as was harshly evidenced by the fact that y’all came to the mutual decision to stay together even after that ugly domestic incident.

You know the one I’m talking about; when the National Weather Service predicted you’d be buried under 10 feet of snow, so you spent your full 8 hour shift at work meticulously configuring the perfect menu for your upcoming day off, all the while rationalizing your spotty work ethic by convincing yourself that they’re not paying you enough anyway.  

The moment you clocked out you immediately made a bee-line to Harris Teeter to blow a month’s worth of grocery money on snow day essentials like wine, potato chips, Redbox movie rentals & condoms.  The two of you planned to spend your snow day preparing meals together and watching movies. It was going to be so romantic, snuggled up in his arms, cozied up by the fire. But something went terribly awry.

You spent all afternoon in the kitchen slaving over a hot stove, while he assumed the fetal position, drifting in and out of consciousness, leisurely catnapping and curiously catching up on “Watch What Happens Live” on DVR.

 Still it wasn’t until he asked you to pour him another glass of wine after you had just served him his dinner on the couch, that sh*t hit the fan. Your well-veiled disguise of submissiveness was suddenly cast to the wayside in favor of a more aggressive persona. A persona that until this point, although he suspected existed, he had yet to witness.

Feelings were hurt, dishes were broken, and needless to say he ended up pouring the glass of wine for himself…  But eventually things settled down. After “the incident”, you both agreed “What’s Love Got to Do with It” probably wasn’t going to be the best movie to watch before bed... Still, after talking to your girlfriends the next day and hearing their similar horror stories, you chalked the whole thing up to Cabin Fever.

He figured if he could get through “the incident” then he could get through anything. So when another apocalyptic snowstorm was forecast for Valentine’s Day, he decided to chalk it up, buy you a $49 charm bracelet from Jared’s Galleria of Jewelry, a $5 bouquet of wilted carnations from Giant, and ride this thing out for another couple of months till the weather broke.

Phase Three: March 22^nd till May 5^th.

Yes, May 5^th, Cinco de Mayo. The day that has overtaken St Patty’s day as the fakest holiday in America.

Men absolutely lose their minds on May 5th.

Do you remember in the Bible, at the beginning of the Book of Job when God asked the Devil, “Where have you come from?” And the devil replied “I’ve come from roaming the earth back and forth seeking whom I may devour.”

That conversation most likely took place on the morning on May 6^th.

So just hang on tight ladies. Only a couple more weeks to go. If you make it through Cinco De Mayo then consider yourself firmly on solid ground. At that point you will have successfully navigated through the Holidays, Valentine ’s Day, the first day of Spring, Lent and Easter Sunday. Your reward, a romantic summer of wine tastings, picnics in the park, and longs walks on the beach with your boo. I call it "Summer League".

But if you didn’t make it through, don’t fret. Your summer offseason will be as awesome as you choose to make it. There will be plenty of Happy Hours, rooftop parties, and cookouts for you to find a solid Blue- Chip recruit for the upcoming Cuffin Season. And even if you don’t, fear not, for the love you lost will return. He’ll come crawling back to you on hands and knees… On November 1st. 

                                         "To everything there is a season..." - Ecclesiates 3:1                           

                                 Blackdondraper@facebook.com

A blueprint to getting out the game...

So it’s come to my attention that the two most prolific male gigolos of my collegiate era are currently in serious relationships. One has been with his girlfriend for going on a full year, and the other is recently engaged.

I went to college with both of these guys. Their living legend status with the ladies has led me to secretly hold each as a barometer. Their exit from the game would effectively serve as an alarm to signal to me if I’ve stayed too long.  I have to admit that upon hearing the news of the engagement, I turned to a friend for guidance & wisdom on Gchat.

Me: I think the game is passing me by.  I think I’ve stayed too long.

J: Stayed too long? Nah, not yet. But you’re definitely wearing out your welcome.

And it’s not like my eggs are drying up or anything like that, but anyone who knows me knows that I only subscribe to 2 fears:

1)   Accidentally impregnating a woman not attractive enough to be seen in public with for the  rest of my life. 

2)   Becoming the old guy in the club

So here I stand. Seemingly all of my friends getting married and a few even having children; and me, in the streets, thinking perhaps having the Jay Z “30 is the new 20” quote tatted on my left bicep in Arabic was maybe taking the movement a bit too far.

With this in mind, and the traditional 1 to 10 looks rating scale falling short, I have devised a foolproof rating system that will enable me to hone in on precisely what it is that I am seeking in a partner, guaranteeing that I choose the right woman to spend my life with.

How can it gaurantee I choose the right partner? Well quite honestly, my system is like a machine. It is not a machine. But it is like a machine. Hence it is not prone to human error. That is ofcourse, unless I make a mistake... Nonetheless The system is simple.  It is based on a 100 point system. It is broken down into 5 categories. Each category holds a maximum worth of 20 points.

·         20% Attraction

·         20% Intelligence/personality

·         20% Intimacy

·         20%Ride-or-die -ness

·         20% Intangibles

I figure if I can latch onto anything 85 or above then I’m good to go.

Attraction is self-explanatory. It’s innate to all of us.  It simply says “what is my measure of animal attraction towards you?”

Obviously, for each of us, what attracts us varies. Whereas I prefer a pretty-faced, thick, black women with shoulder length hair, some of my friends won’t be satisfied until they successfully locate and handcuff a racially ambiguous Rapunzel, with hair so long she’s in constant danger of accidently tripping over her flowing locks with each & every step she takes. In fact, I have a friend who won’t even take approaching a woman into consideration unless he believes she has to check at least 4 boxes in the “race” category when she fills out her Census form.  Well that is if she were to fill out a Census form. Most of the women he prefers do not, as their temporary visas have long since expired, relegating them to a life of residing inconspicuously in the shadows.

But to this I say; “To each his own”. Beauty is definitively in the eye of the beholder.

At this stage in the game I would easily settle for an 8. I figure 8 X 2 = 16, so I’m shooting for a 16 in this category.

Intelligence & Personality  go hand in hand. They are the foundation of the entire relationship. If you can’t stand to be around someone, well, you can’t stand to be around them. (Some things are best left uncomplicated.)

Intelligence is not based on degrees, merits, or credentials. It’s more of a common sense thing.

The most intelligent woman I have ever known possessed 3 degrees from a top university, was a high earning associate at a nationally recognized top 10 firm, was witty, quite the wordsmith, and was generally sharp as a tack in all necessary areas. Ironically, she possessed a shamefully low measure of common sense.

Four months after my beloved mother’s passing, she once preposterously uttered that;  me, losing my mother in her late 50’s,  while I was in my late 20’s, should be less difficult on me than her father losing his mother in her late 80s, while he was in his late 60’s, because her father "knew his mother longer than I knew mine.”

The whole thing was downright absurd. One minute she’s saying that stupid sh*t, & the next, I’m sliding down her fire escape in a torrential downpour trying to evade the Virginia State boys in blue.

But thats another story for another day. (Which reminds me. What exactly is the statute of limitations in the Commonwealth of Virginia?) 

Personality is also major. It can boost a woman’s value, or bring it down expeditiously.

If you’re an average chick, you need not have a bad attitude. You might be able to get away with some bitchiness if you were a bit hotter, but simply put, you’re on the wrong end of the looks spectrum. Act accordingly.

But if you’re hot, you have slightly more wiggle room to act up. Consider for example, Toni Braxton's sister Tamar on Braxton Family Values. Her attitude is deplorable. But her husband tolerates her reproachable unruliness. Why, because shes hot, and he's morbidly obese. He also manages and produces Lady Gaga, hence he is rich as the dickens, which is clearly why she tolerates his dreadful unsightliness.  Still, I don't see this as a mutually beneficial relationship. In fact, I see his investment in her simple ass as perhaps the single greatest misallocation of resources in the history of the world. It's like  my boy says, "You can pour syrup on a Nubian Nuisance, but she's still a Nubian Nuisance"

I’ll settle for a 17 in this department. I don’t think that’s too much to ask

Intimacy is a nice way of saying “sex life”.

 I once heard a tale of a woman with a patented go-to move in her repertoire. While you were visiting the sights downtown, her gumby-like dexterity allowed for her to simultaneously reciprocate by bringing you to climax with her foot. Yeah I dunno? Here’s how it was explained to me (warning: explicit content)

Imagine the mattress was the bottom slice of bread in a sandwich.  The penis was (appropriately) the meat in the middle, and the heel of her foot was the top slice of bread on the sandwich. If the top slice of bread rubbed back & forth on the meat, and the bottom slice effectively kept the meat in place, there would be enough friction to eventually generate mayonnaise for the sandwich.

Yeah, I don’t know. I’m not good with visuals. All I could think is that this girl must have had really long legs.  Still I suspect that if there’s any truth to this tale, such a talent would be a pretty worthwhile incentive to deal with too oft uncomfortable heat & humidity associated with a south of the border adventure. I’d imagine the only drawback being that between her two jobs as a circus freak & a porn star she probably didn’t have much free time to spend practicing her craft on him.

Be it a patented go-to move, a mutual physical or emotional connection, or the fulfillment of some sexually deviant fantasy, a couple's sex life has has to be on point.

Ideally I’d like a 20, but I’d settle for a 17.

Ride-or-die -ness is vital…  I have a cousin (or at least that’s how he was presented to me. He is my great aunts nephew-in-law, so who really knows) who 15 years ago impregnated his then-girlfriend. He did not marry her. In fact, after she had the baby, he abandoned her, married another woman, and subsequently had a baby with his new wife. But kept his original the baby mama on the side. Then he got divorced. Went back to his Original baby mama, impregnated her again, but still refused to marry her. After that child was born he left her agayne for yet another woman, married and impregnated her.

The cycle went on. 3 times he impregnated his baby mama, and 3 times he refused to marry her, left her for another woman with whom he married, and fathered children with. Then the tax man came calling. The IRS brought my pseudo-cousin up on charges on Tax evasion. Of the 4 women, his original baby mama was the only one who showed up in court & supported him during the trial. He was eventually convicted and sentenced to 5 years imprisonment.

After 13 looooong years he finally proposed to Original baby mama two weeks before he was scheduled to begin serving his sentence. They were wed in a dreadful little store-front church (sadly, I was a groomsman) and had the reception in his mother’s basement. … Nonetheless, that was two years ago. And for the past 2 years she has religiously embarked on the arduous 5-hour-journey each way from her home in New York to the Minimum Security Prison where he is serving out his sentence in Pennsylvania, to see him every weekend, without fail; & will undoubtedly continue her weekend voyage for the remainder of his sentence.

I hope you were taking notes ladies, because that sh*t right there (Katt Williams voice) is some Ride-or-die sh*t. She doesn’t just get 20 points in this category, her spectacular foolishness & astonishing naivite has earned her extra credit. She scored a whopping 25!

I’m definitely hoping to land a 20 in this category.

Intangibles can be pretty much anything.  It’s just posing the question, “what extras do you bring to the table?”

A woman who is not only accomplished in the kitchen, but also finds joy in preparing a meal can garner a solid 10 points for her culinary passion alone.

Exceptional personal style and a mean shoe game might boost you another 2 – 4 points.

Does she come from money? Ding! Ding!! Ding!!!

Also, what are her education/ career credentials? Does she possess a top secret government clearance, law degree, MD, or some other highly regarded piece of paper and/or government job that all but guarantees to her a lifetime of income? (PHD’s don’t count because we all know that PHD stands for PHake Doctor, & half those mofos don’t make any money.)

What is her debt-income-ratio?  Is it good debt or bad debt. These are vital questions that must be answered. 

Education and/or mortgage = good debt. 

Single black female addicted to retail = bad news.

 A 15 in this arena is appropriate.

      Attractiveness                  16
      Intelligence/Personality17
      Intimacy                            17
      Ride-or-die-ness              20
      Intangibles                       15
      Total                                  85

So there you have it. A sound blueprint you can hang your hat on. Marinate on these words. Surely my foolproof system will effectively land you a formidable life partner. And never forget the mantra fellas:

If she's an eighty-five to one-hundred, your days of bachelorhood are numbered. But if she’s an 84 or under, your best bet is to dump her.

The hardest thing is to forgive but God does. Even if you murdered or killed, yeah it’s wrong but God loves. Take one step toward Him, He’ll take two toward you. Even when all else fails God supports you... Happy Easter