Posts Tagged With: men

A Cookout, A Mouse, and the Art of Noise – A “College Week” Post

In honor of students returning to school, I decided deem this week “College Week” and  write blogs about my time as an undergrad at Georgia Southern U. (Go Eagles). Given my recollection, these little numbers should be equal parts humorous and embarrassing (for me anyway). Hope you enjoy! -Skrap

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Spring semester on our campus in Statesboro was the best ever. In south Georgia winter is about 27 days long which meant that Spring seemed to start sooner and when it warmed up the girls started to put away the winter wardrobes and wear less…always a good thing. My roommates and I decided that we were going to celebrate the warm weather with a cookout. It wasn’t going to be a huge party because our apartment couldn’t accommodate anything larger than a get-together; it was just going to be the four of us and our respective girlfriends (or the girl we did girlfriend stuff with) and a couple of our buddies. It was great, we had meat cooking on the grill, we had fruit infused with alcohol chilling in the fridge, we had baked beans going on the stove, and we had beers in the cooler and girls with long legs in short shorts on the way. Outstanding. Continue reading

Categories: College Years, Humor | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Wobble and the Black Man

I hate to write blogs that are more than 80% race specific. I think that it cuts down the complete comprehension level of my potential reading audience if I get too “problem specific” in my subject matter; but sometimes it can’t be helped, sometimes it’s unavoidable, sometimes I have to launch out into the deep to help my fellow man and sharers of the Black race. That time is now…and it’s because of line dancing. We’ve all been guilty of having done one or two in our day: The Electric Slide, The Cha Cha Slide, The Cupid Shuffle –they’re easy to pick up, they’re a tad addictive, and they’re not gender specific…except The Wobble.

The Wobble (a.k.a. the “Big Girl Anthem”) is a line dance – wait, check that – The Wobble is like the Godzilla of line dances. You can be at a small house party consisting of 6 people and a cat, having drinks and a generally good time, but then someone will make the mistake of turning on The Wobble and upon the first “OOOH!!” women will be kicking down your doors, sliding down your fireplace, and breaking out your windows and before you know it you have 53 people you don’t even know in your house doing The Wobble. Fact. It’s documented. Continue reading

Categories: Atlanta, So Incredibly Random, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

My Hall of Fame Speech (if I had a chance…)

The NFL Hall of Fame induction ceremony last Saturday night was a lot of things. Emotional. Heartful. Inspiring. It was also a bit of a blow to fatherhood. In the 6 hours worth of speeches from the inductees – okay, the speeches weren’t quite that long – Mama and Grandmama got the lion’s share of the praise from a good number of the players, Richard Dent and Marshall Faulk being the exceptions, and furthering the cause for women who wish themselves Happy Father’s Day every June. While it’s not the first time that any of us have heard an athlete say that his main goal in being successful was to buy Mama a house/a car/some jewelry/a rocket ship, it did solidify the fact that Mama trumps Daddy in the battle at home almost always. Like Chris Rock said, all the good songs are written about Mama – Tupac’s “Dear Mama”, Boyz II Men’s “A Song for Mama”, and “Sadie” by the Spinners (to their credit there was a Daddy reference in there) – while all Dad gets from the songwriters is “Papa Was a Rolling Stone”. It’s an all too real reminder of the state of fatherhood in “The Community” and illustrates why some people say that there are no more real fathers out there.

I offer this as an antithesis to that argument.

I am a thirtysomething year old man pushing perilously close to that dreaded “F” word that comes after thirty-nine though my boyish good looks would lead you to believe otherwise (shameless self love). Most men my age go through life at this stage without much fanfare; I have a few friends with sons, daughters, wives or girlfriends that think they hung the moon but for the most part guys have grown accustomed to going without much credit or pats on the back or even attention. It’s just the way with guys that aren’t singers, actors or comedians; you do something cool, and you keep it moving. I was presented with an opportunity to speak in front of my church a couple of weeks back, a simple task really, I was asked to put together a brief memorial tribute on behalf of the music department. I’d be on the microphone for 45 to 60 seconds tops. Outside of a few presentations at work I hadn’t done much public speaking so I figured this a prime opportunity to get up in front of people and justify all that tuition money Mom and Dad spent on me as a Communications major. Get up, speak eloquently, and sit down. It was a simple mission, one of those aforementioned things that guys my age do, don’t expect anything from, and usually forget about within a few months. Not important at all in the grand scheme of things except for the fact that my Dad showed up.

I didn’t know he was there, didn’t see him from the podium as I stood to speak and looked out over 2500 or so people, perhaps if I would have if I didn’t get a bit of the jitters and look down at my script a little more than look out at the people I was addressing. I was up there a little longer than I thought that I would be, about 90 seconds, but I made it through okay. Ol’ Dr. Fulmer back on the campus of Georgia Southern (Go Eagles!) would have been a little peeved at my lack of eye contact but I think a “B+” would have been in order. After Church, I reached in my pocket and turned my cell phone back on and there was a voicemail message from my Dad in his usual baritone.

“Hey, Man! This is Dad. Came to see you speak at church today. You did great. Tried to wait for you to come out but I didn’t see you. Maybe I’ll see you at the house a little later on. Talk to you later.”

The tiny speech was nothing to me. A little over a minute addressing the congregation, half of which were probably flipping through or doodling in their programs, a chance for me to utilize some public speaking skills in front of a decent sized gathering. But to Dad, it was more than that. It was just like every soccer or football game that I played in that he attended, just like every little thing in college that he drove 3 hours at the drop of a hat for to see me in, it was just Dad supporting his kid, his thirtysomething almost “F-word” kid doing something that wasn’t a big deal to me but was obviously big enough for him to get up, skip his own church to come to mine to see me speak for 90 measly seconds…just because I’m his kid. That’s it.

I’d like to be a Dad, I really want to be a Dad actually, but I think sometimes I’m afraid to because there’s no way I can be the father that my Dad is. To be so selfless and have the ability to think that every moment, no matter how immaterial I might think it is, is important. There’s something regal in that, something that is insanely incredible about how much love it takes to think that everything is significant…and while I can’t really fathom it, I’m glad that I have a Dad that can.

It’s unlikely that I’ll ever make the Hall of Fame in anything, maybe a bestseller list one day, but I don’t know that I’ll ever have the opportunity to openly buck the trend and thank my Pop openly in front of millions on TV, but I’ll take solace that the 100 or so that may trip over this page will know that there’s one Dad in our Community who is a great man. If you’ve got one too, call him and tell him so, he may have turned off the radio in disgust because “Papa Was a Rolling Stone” was on. 🙂

~thanks for reading

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Categories: Decatur Stories, Family, Relationships, Sports | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

“N-Word” Logic in Relationships

Yes, the word is uncomfortable for just about everyone save rappers, wannabe rappers, Klan members, and wannabe Klan members. I apologize in advance for my usage of the word as I do not find myself in any of the aforementioned sects listed previously. That word, nigga, is an ugly word. In any connotation, spelling, or circumstance it is a word that grates on the nerves of those that are intelligent and of higher thought. In short it is a word that paints its target as ignorant, slow or idiotic…

…so despite how ugly the word is, unfortunately it fits for today’s theme.

Nigger, Nigga, Niggah or any other of its spinoff spellings is not a person or a group of people, rather, the N-word is a mindset. It’s a state of mind that is so incredibly inane that you can’t help but think to yourself, “Man, that’s some Nigga type stuff right there!” Worse still is when you have groups of people that are ingrained into off-center ways of thinking so much so that what to regular people think is ridiculous is considered normal to them. This, ladies and gentlemen, we will deem nigga logic.

Buying pants big enough to sag and show your draws only to then stand around and hold them up with your free hand all day is dumb. If you bought them to sag around your knees why hold them up? Isn’t that defeating the purpose? Nigga Logic.

Complaining vehemently that you didn’t get the gig at company you interviewed with when you have 4 neck tattoos and you were fired from the last 3 jobs you had? Nigga Logic.

Saying that Nigga is an acronym for “Never Ignorant, Getting Goals Accomplished”? Nigga logic.

And then there’s this…

I was sitting around in a group of random people a few weeks back having drinks, talking loud about nothing in particular and partaking in overall general foolishness. As often in mixed gender company the conversation turned to relationships, specifically what people consider an ideal mate. Somewhere in that conversation I mentioned my age, thirtysomething, along with the fact that I have never been married and I don’t have any kids and not currently dating anyone. After that statement, the looks I got from the women there gathered were those reserved for someone that just admitted that he was an ax murderer and cuddles at night with the remains of his victims. Just for kicks I decided to inquire about the looks that now adorned the faces of the women there to see why I was getting the extra strength gas face from them. Here was the exchange…

Me: What’s that look for?

Girl #1: You don’t have ANY kids?

Me: Ummm, no.

Girl #2: And you’ve never been married? Along with no kids and you’re how old?

Me: [thirtysomething]

Girl #1: Something has to be wrong with you? Are you gay?

Me: I’m gay if I’m over thirty and never been married? You know that’s flawed thinking, right?

Girl #1: You don’t have any kids, dude. That’s suspect, something’s wrong with you.

It was at this point that I simply smiled, took a swig from my beverage and turned my attention to another conversation going on behind me simply because…

Nigga logic cannot be reasoned with.

Here’s the thing, things have become so twisted and thinking so absurd until anyone doing the right thing: finding a like-minded woman, asking her to be your bride, living together happily, and THEN having children after age thirty is deemed wrong or “gay”.  Apparently, the best way NOT to be considered gay in the city of Atlanta is to be married at least once but preferably a minimum of 2 times at this point in life OR along the way in my [thirtysomething] years of life have found 3-4 random women to impregnate. Then and only then will a man be considered regular or normal in this day in age.

Umm hmm.

And I’d consider that just an isolated incident of a couple of misguided chicks that have watched too much BET in their lifetime but I can’t because when I went to New Orleans for work a few weeks back and had a very similar conversation with some people that I met there I got the same “something must be wrong with you” statement that I got here in Atlanta from a young lady that I met there. Seems as though that line of logic extends beyond the Georgia state border; here I was thinking that I was being responsible by not having any kids and it turns out that I’m an outcast because of it. And it was here that I started to worry because if up is now down and down is now up I need to know. I mean, I can go out and just start going all NBA All Star and put a baby into any ol’ spare uterus if that means that makes me normal. If the way of nigga logic is now the rule rather than the far reaching exception then I can very well come to work tomorrow with the Atlanta skyline on my neck with a pair of jeans happily sagging away because God forbid I get left behind in the sweeping trends that make a person viable in society. But whatever I do I certainly don’t want to miss out on the woman of my dreams because I didn’t meet the previous marriage minimum that is now apparently the mandate.

But just when I open myself to this rapid reformation I remember where I come from and that belief won’t let me succumb to that thinking. As much as I have come to the realization that stupid thinking is running rampant I also know that there are other people like me that know what life is really about and that relationships don’t come with a minimum baby mama prerequisite. So I guess I’ll just hang in there and remain the responsible dude that I am, being safe at all turns and waiting on, not the perfect chick, but just the chick that’s just as screwed up as I am and then clubbing her over the head caveman style and taking her home.

In the meantime we’ve gotta keep these flawed thinkers from breeding.

~thanks for reading

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Categories: Atlanta, Humor, Relationships, So Incredibly Random | Tags: , , , , , , | 12 Comments

The Reality of Responsibility

*disclaimer – Skrap is not a father though he is open to the idea of having a rugrat of his own one day. Perhaps because of this fact he is not the best possible author for this subject but, as you see, it didn’t stop him from writing on it anyway. Go ahead, start reading.

-Management

Hey all, first of all I want to apologize for the extended delay between blogs here. Between the last blog and this one I was lucky enough to get a contract gig in the field that I love (marketing) and I’ve been busy trying to impress so that this short term contract turns into something a little more permanent. Hopefully you’ll accept my apology, if not, then just blah to you and yours.

Obviously, last weekend was Father’s Day. For me, and many others, Father’s Day allows the opportunity to show love and appreciation to the patriarchs in our lives, those that have made a positive impact on not only their children, but also to the entire family unit. Families across the nation gather and shower the man of the house with ties, socks, cologne and of course the two largest pieces of chicken all in a show of love to that man that has unselfishly given so much of himself to make sure that his family doesn’t have to go without.

Obviously and regrettably in our society, however, not everyone was as lucky to have a loving and worry filled father like I and many others have. There are many men that have chosen to walk away from the children that they had a hand in making. Perhaps they think themselves above having to deal with a child and the demands they would make on their lives. Maybe they felt that their plans were too important to give up for something unforeseen like an unplanned child. Some men just choose to bounce leaving a large amount of women high and dry with a child to raise armed with barbs about “deadbeat dads” and “no good brothas”. A number of these women spent a good amount of time on Father’s Day shouting themselves out, saying that most men didn’t deserve any respect or “props” on Father’s Day because they have left a large number of single mothers doing the job themselves; and saying that men within “The Community” have little to no sense of responsibility.

Hmmm…speaking of responsibility.

Whenever I hear of an absentee father my first emotion is sadness. Fathers offer so much in the lives of their children that they miss out on when there is a strong male figure in the house on a daily basis. It’s not the fault of the child that the father decided not to stay, but I’ll tell you something else, that mother – that  woman that you’re listening to that goes on and on about everything that is wrong with the father of that child – has more than her fair share of fault on her hands too.

Now, this is not at all an effort to excuse men that skip out on their responsibility to the child they make as there are no excuses for that. What it is, however, is me flashing the “C’mon Son” sign at these women that conveniently forget that the baby didn’t get there without a little input (pun intended) of their own. With some of the carrying on my only visual is that in that bedroom, or hotel room, or park bench, or wherever they were that day/evening/night there were two lawyers, one for the young lady and another for the young man. Before anyone in this scenario got naked or the least bit horizontal there were negotiations and stipulations and detailed information shared between the two parties explaining what could happen as a result of the bumping and grinding that was about to take place. After the information was shared, both parties signed off on a 3 page contract stating they understood said risks and promised to handle any situation that arose as a result of said sexual activity. After that, one of the lawyers lit some candles, the other one hit play on the Ipod playlist entitled “My ‘Get Some’ Music” and they left the room where you were then free to sex to your heart’s content knowing that everything would be okay should any surprises pop up.

But that’s not the way it happens is it?

No one has a lawyer on retainer. No one talked you through the risks. No one gave you any papers to sign, right? It was just sex…and since there aren’t any Lifetime movies written and directed in your honor I’m gonna go ahead and guess that it was sex that you consented to, perhaps more than once. Sex you probably liked a lot with a dude that you thought was fine, or cute, or who had – ugh! – swagger. In short, you are where you are because you contributed to it.

I commented on this fact on my Facebook page and I was equal parts applauded and skewered because of it. While the proper response to this situation is not to point fingers back at the accusers and say, “You did it too!” like a 5-year-old, it is important to remind those that like to sit back and talk about how their “baby daddy ain’t shit” that the baby daddy in question got permission from you to engage in the process that created that life. So while you cry about a “Deadbeat Dad” it could be equally said that a woman is engaging in Irresponsible Vaginal Ownership. It’s unlikely that one of these exists without the other.

I refuse to make an excuse for a man that bolts on his responsibilities to his child; likewise, I choose not to listen to the rants and outbursts from a woman that forgets that she was open (pun completely intended) to the idea that created the life that binds both of you knuckleheads now. But if you have a female friend that just has to complain, if she simply can’t see that she had a role, can you at least tell her to clam up about it on Father’s Day because that’s not the day to fume about those fathers that won’t or didn’t…it about those that will and do.

~thanks for reading, say ouch if you have to.

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Categories: Attempts at Seriousness, Family, Relationships, So Incredibly Random | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

No Sympathy For Your Drought, Ladies…

Hey all! While perusing the internet thingamajig as I typically do on a daily basis I happened upon a message board that I like to read every now and again to pass the time. It’s quite the social place; I wonder how any of these people are able to keep their jobs what with the amount of posting that they do on this website. Anyway, I was cruising through thread after thread of conversations when I saw a group of women standing around the virtual water cooler discussing, no, lamenting the fact that they hadn’t had any, ummm, horizontal mambo time in some time. One young lady admitted to a 3 month stint, another whined about a 8 month stretch and yet another said that she had just crossed over a year, the poor thing. So obviously I stretched out my typing fingers and typed two words to the lot of them – “Your Fault!” I don’t want to hear it, ladies, and I’ll tell you why.

I typed here in this very blog a few months ago about how women, through the power of the still undefeated, untied, and undisputed Champion of the universe located just south of the female waist, hold every last one of the keys to just about anything but especially sex. Especially sex! Because of this fact, I find it hard to feel sorry for a young lady’s dry spell (oh Lawd, please pardon that pun) because truthfully it’s a self inflicted wound. I’m not advising any woman to just go out and do this willy nilly but should a woman get a wild hair all she has to do is say to herself, “Self, I do believe we are gonna go get us some today!” and then go about making up, dressing up, then either finding a victim or going through her stable of stand-bys (because everyone has one) and cashing in a favor. Women have that ability to just decide to ‘service the vehicle” on demand because they can, they have the keys. Additionally save me the spiel about “We might be able to get some but it ain’t guaranteed to be the good stuff.” That’s true, but at this stage of life there’s a chance that you have developed a back and forth with at least one dude or two dudes that you know can get down sufficiently, right? And we’re men, we’re EASY, especially when you do that thing you do when you make us think that we’re getting over on you, right? I’m a dude. I’ve been had once or twice.

And on the man side of things, of course we may have a stable or a gaggle of go-to girls or perhaps even an old faithful that answers on the first ring but even then you hold the keys. We’re at your mercy until you give the go ahead. We have to bypass all the conversational gatekeepers – asking how your day was, whatever happened to that silly disagreement at work, is your car still making that noise, how’s your mother doing, et al – we listen to all the answers and rants that come with each of those inquiries in hopes of softening you enough that we can get to the “We haven’t hung out in a while, what are you doing tonight?’ inquiry because, of course, we have to mask our intentions in the guise of something else altogether in hopes of getting you to share space. All of this we have to do and, sure, sometimes we can just luck up sometimes and say, “Look, you with it or not?” and get a positive response but you can’t always play that card because that can get you blacklisted, especially if you’re dealing with the non-hoodrat variety. All of this has to be taken into consideration, every word, every move, every action, because if there’s even a hair out of place we’re done and our drought continues because women, all of you, hold the keys to just about everything.

Especially sex.

Because you hold those keys, ladies, I don’t feel for you and your 8 month droughts; that’s like owning a Ferrari and leaving it in the garage because you don’t feel like hearing the engine rev. If you’re a woman that actually wants to get down with the sideways salsa like these women were and you haven’t done so in a stretch of time then quite frankly you’ve got no one to blame but yourself, it’s sloth at its best. Of course, I guess it’s a good thing that the “keys” were handed to the gender with the most restraint because Lord knows if we had them the universe would implode upon itself out of sheer hedonistic overload. There’s something to be thankful for.

All of this to say, ladies, cry me a river. You’re making it hard on yourself instead of hard for yourself by simply not starting the ignition on your little pink corvettes. You’ve got the keys, you’ve always had them, go ahead, take it for a spin, but don’t expect sympathy, least of all from me, because unlike you there’s hard work involved in ending our droughts…hard, laborious, conversation filled work. 🙂

~thanks for reading and have a great weekend!!!

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Categories: Humor, Relationships, So Incredibly Random | Tags: , , , , | 5 Comments

On Spanx and Security…

Hey all. There’s nothing that I enjoy more than spending time with my family. Our conversations, our kindred spirits and our general silliness always seems to make Mom’s house a special place whenever we gather for an impromptu nuclear family reunion. For some reason though, Dad always leaves the room, either to take one of his oh-so-familiar naps in front of the TV or to watch CNN to find some new thing in the world to worry about leaving me there with a room full of women where I’m privy to conversations that are not altogether manly. Had my parents given me a little brother like I asked for all those years ago I would have some backup but, this here is the hand I was dealt and because I don’t want to listen to my Dad snore or go on and on about Mexican gangs running rampant, I stick it out with my Mother and sisters where the conversation on Mother’s Day was about, wait for it, Spanx. Now, it was bad enough that I was being subjected to a conversation about Spanx, girdles and all manner of body camouflage despite my efforts to change the subject, but then the conversation spun on its axis and all eyes focused on me, the only male in the room, and then this blast, “You see all that we go through for YOU MEN?! Y’all don’t have to do any of this stuff!”

There is truth to that. We men don’t go to nearly the lengths that women do in order to be looked at favorably. We don’t have to. I get a haircut, shower, dress up a little, spray on some of the good cologne, and then I’m done in 90 minutes tops. However, even doing that is in vain because unlike women, for us dudes, the look isn’t the thing when it comes to garnering the attention and affection of a lady. You know where I’m going with this right? A story for you…

I was on a business trip some years ago and killing some time in a restaurant until it was time for me to head to the airport for my flight home. I see this stunning woman walk in, face perfectly made up, her hair was immaculate, the dress she had on fit like someone poured it on her, her perfectly manicured toes were in a beautiful pair of heeled sandals that had straps tied nearly the entire length of her calf (drool). Her accessories were on point, her clutch matched the dress almost exactly and she had the walk of a woman that knew she demanded the eye of every man in the building. Then in walked her date. Jeans (sagging of course), tee shirt with a basketball jersey on top of that, the hair under the baseball cap turned backwards on his head looked about a week past time for a cut, his sneaker game was tight (of course) but I have a small island in Montana to sell you if you think that his ultra blinged out watch or chain was even platinum plated. Me and my co worker watched them both as they were escorted to their booth and couldn’t help but shake our heads at the odd couple now sitting across the way. As if scripted, we look at each other and said simultaneously, “He got money.”

Unfair? Probably; she might have just been into ‘hood dudes. But the matter here is that we don’t “have to do all of this stuff” like my sister reminded me during our family time last weekend because, well, we don’t have to do all of this stuff. We don’t have to go all out with the looks and the outward appearance in most cases because that doesn’t appear to be what’s important to women. What’s important to women, and I could very well be wrong here and that’s likely because I don’t have a woman pointing to the fact that I haven’t a strong clue in the first place, is security. Want to know why a slob of a dude can score the baddest chick in the room? Security. The ability to do for her; and yeah, money might have something to do with it but overall, security. Ladies want to know that everything is gonna be okay, that the roof is there, that the lights will obey when the switch is flipped, that there isn’t an echo in the refrigerator. Security. Ladies seem to need that above all else so talk all that Idris Elba talk if you want to because if dude is a 6’2, 215 pound rock of a man that looks like he was carved out of a block of onyx (or pearl if you roll that way) it means nothing if he can’t provide you with some sense of security and “stuff fulfillment”.

So since we know this we might not always have manicured toes or fingers, the hair might not always be cut EVERY Tuesday, the outfit might not always fit the situation, and we might even have on a team jersey when we take you to dinner even if that’s not nearly socially acceptable because in the grand scheme we’ve got it figured in our heads that is a secondary item for women. Conversely, it’s not a primary thing for women to provide security in the traditional relationship sense so more focus is on the exterior look more so than for us. So, no, I won’t be asking for a “Man Spanx” for my birthday as much as I could stand to hide some of this sexy goodness in my midsection because that’s not my primary area of concern; that is attaining a good enough job and means to make sure that I can make a woman feel secure in me as a dude.

So is there truth to this? Are women content to have a man that might not look the part but can give you what you need? And what is the real reason that women go to the lengths that they do? I’m very much like Drake when he says in the song “Fancy” that “You don’t do it for the men, men never notice, you just do it for yourself…” so while you might say that you’re doing it for men, is that really your bottom line reason? As women seem to be in a constant competition with the next chick I think they do it more to outdo another woman than it is to catch our eye. Tell me what you think, but in the meantime, for all you ladies out there, keep doing what you do because whether you do it for us or not, you look great doing it, especially when you do it in a sundress and strappy sandals. (drool)

~thanks for reading.

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Categories: Family, Relationships, So Incredibly Random | Tags: , , , , , , , | 27 Comments

Real Relationship Advice: Vol. 1

As always I’mma try and keep it light in here for a Friday. We all got stuff planned for the weekend and we don’t need to clutter our thoughts of fun with a blog about the government shutting down, or the fight for abortion rights, or the dwindling value of the dollar; it’s likely I wouldn’t write about any of that stuff anyway but you see the point I’m making here.

In the blogosphere there are three main categories that get the most run: Gossip, Fashion, and Relationships. If you want to be noticed you’re going to have to write and write well in one of those categories or else you’re basically taking up valuable server space, sort of like I am with this random stream of consciousness blog that you’re reading now. Because everyone out there doesn’t like hearing stories about a dude and his friends nearly burning down his apartment or about Black folks’ penchant for naming their children some real bullsh*t, I have to dabble into the relationship arena in an effort to keep my little corner of the internet viable; little things like how the vowels in someone’s name determines if I’ll date them or about how a mighty vagina goes a long way in society. So today I’ll offer some relationship advice of my own; like most relationship advice that is offered out there it is a good chance that you already know what I’m about to tell you, but since that doesn’t stop you from reading Steve Harvey’s books, go ahead and keep reading.

Most men are messy by nature. Unless you’re dealing with an anomaly or one of these new millennium metrosexual types that are borderline chick, the man you know and love takes pride in his ability to keep everything where he likes it – what you like to call junky or messy. The average man’s house has to reach critical status before reaching the point that he says, “you know what, I can’t trip over that pile of clothes on the floor in the kitchen one more day; I have to clean up.” The only other thing that makes us want to clean up is when our women come through because women’s desire to cuddle and show affection seems to be directly tied to your surroundings and as much as we think that those dishes can stay in the sink one more day, we’d better wash them before you get there if we want you to be halfway amorous. So when our women get to the house they see a sparkling domicile, the clothes, both dirty and clean, are no longer on the floor or the couch, the golf clubs are no longer taking up residence in the foyer or the living room, and the 13 empty water bottles are no longer on the nightstand…

…because all that ish was thrown in the closet 2 minutes before you rang the doorbell.

That’s why it’s very important that a woman never look in a man’s closet. Assuming that you’re not buried under the avalanche of dirty clothes and porn upon opening the closet door, what you see there will forever change the way you see your man. It will both shock and horrify you and make you reconsider if you really want to spend another day with us.

How long does a sock have to stay dirty before it gets stiff?

What was that damp rag in the corner used for?

Did I just see that shirt move? WHAT’S UNDER THAT SHIRT?!

Is that moss?

A pizza box? Really? A pizza box in the closet?

If you don’t want to ask any of these questions then it is the advice of this lowly blogger that you never open the closet door in your dude’s bedroom, in the hallway, or anywhere else a contractor would think to put a closet in a home. It is a deep dark place resistant of light and makes you believe again as you did as a child that there is a monster that lives in there. It conjures images of a Scooby Doo mystery, Velma and Daphne appear from behind the suit hanging in the back looking for the keys to the Mystery Machine, bats flutter about and a howl emanates from that dusty pair of shoes in the corner.

They probably shot the Thriller video in here.

So if you get to your man’s house and it’s inexplicably clean, bed is made, and not a shred of anything is out of place don’t ask any questions, just appreciate the cleanliness. Never mind the fact that he is sweating and breathing hard like he’s just been throwing stuff around last minute, just…just appreciate the clean and don’t ask any questions, dammit! And for goodness sake don’t open the closet; you don’t know how hard it was to close that thing after we threw everything in there.

See, this is relationship advice you can use. Practical, everyday advice that if heeded can keep you and your man happy, not to mention keeping you from blunt force trauma due to flying items knocking your nosy ass in the head!

Have a great weekend, everybody! Have a blast wherever you are!

~thanks for reading 🙂

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Categories: Humor, Relationships, So Incredibly Random | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Not All of You, Just Enough of You

I don’t delve too much into the male/female dynamic too much on this blog because I don’t want to be that dude. Plus, it seems that every blog run by a man is offering his two cents on the matter of the Mars vs. Venus goings on between ladies and gentlemen in and around the world. Typically I leave such matters to those bloggers. However there is one thing. As mentioned in a blog not too long ago I come from a family that has generally had a good experience with love. Though I’m not yet married, the relationships that I have been in have generally been healthy and, though ended, I sit on good terms with a number of women that I once called “girlfriend”, “significant other”, etc. Also in my love lifetime, I’ve been cheated on, dumped, and occasionally felt disrespected. It’s happened to the best of us whether you know of it or care to admit it or not. And in this knowing is the main difference between men and women.

When I was in the 5th grade I took a stab at playing little league baseball for the first time; for the most part I stunk to high heaven, I was a good athlete and a great fielder but for some reason I couldn’t hit that ball to save my soul and no matter how well you catch and throw, if you can’t hit you become a pariah among your fellow 11 year old teammates. About 3 games into the season we’re having batting practice and I’m flailing away with the bat, tears are starting to well up in my eyes because my teammates have been counting strikes and they are now up to “Strike 8!” The head coach, a Jamaican cat named Coach Bennett, shook his head and said, “Ay mon, do dis for me, ok? Settle down; take a deep breath, ‘n jus relax, ok?” I wiped my eyes took a practice swing, forgot about the snickering pre-teens behind the backstop and the next pitch I sent a screamer right over the pitcher’s head into center field. The next pitch I turned on was a shot right down the third base line and the next one after that nearly cleared the fence in left center field. Suddenly the laughs had turned to cheers, my teammates high fived me after my practice session and, no, I wasn’t automatically a little league All Star but things were better simply by simplifying things and just hitting “de damn ball”. Now, what does that story about 11 year old redemption have to do with male/female dealings? Glad you asked.

When mess goes wrong you got two choices, only two. You can dwell on it, let it get in your soul and fester and grow into something that looks like bitterness or you can take a deep breath, settle down and get back after it. I won’t paint in broad strokes here and say that all women do the former but it’s a good number. In fact, the number is so big that you’ve let your disenchantment become marketable; women’s (not all of you, just enough) inability to turn the relationship page has made a small fortune for Steve Harvey and Hill Harper. It has provided fodder and dramatic material for any playwright that titles his work in the form of a question (“Why Did I Get Married?” or “Why Am I Not Married?”) or a direct petition to a higher power (Lord, Send Me A Man! or God, Send Me A Man! or Lawd, Why The Men You Send Keep Beating Me?). Women’s (not all of you, just enough) inability to turn the relationship page sends you to your Facebook page to write that pain driven status message that read something like:

“90% of all my fellow beautiful women are being cheated on right now, just open your eyes and see it, girl!”

And if you’re not the one typing that tripe then you probably have someone on your list that does. Women’s (not all of you, just enough) inability to get back in the batter’s box and swing again drives you headlong into the church of All These Men Ain’t Sh*t. Women’s (not all of you, just enough) need to scream to the high heavens created dontdatehimgirl.com where you, too, can friend them on Facebook and tell your own tale of fear and loathing (hyperbole, much?) to the others hurt or pathetic enough to listen.

Men don’t do that.

Admittedly, we probably don’t wallow because we’re usually the ones that do (read: get caught) the majority of the dirt, that’s my word, not on some ol’ win the female crowd for the sake of staying on your good side BS. I’ve done enough dirt in my day to know how we get down sometimes. That said, women are not without fault in the failings of relationships yet the wailing doesn’t prevail as loudly, if at all, from the men that have been wronged. Yes, a man doing so would move him into “punk” category both with his boys and surrounding ladies but it doesn’t make the desire to vent, lash out, and type a Facebook status quoting, “B*tches ain’t Sh*t”, from that great Negro poet Dr. Dre any less strong. The main factor though, other than the fact of a man losing universal respect for crying over love gone wrong, is that there is no win in that game. I think that’s the thing that men get, and one of the main facets that I’ll never understand about women (not all of you, just enough).

Is it just because women, the fairer sex, are the more emotional? Is it because you process your pain differently? What is it that justifies in the task of blanket blaming, that if one does it the other will too, and so will that one, and so will that one over there. I’m sure there’s not one answer or reason why, it’s kinda like that old question about how many licks it takes to get to the center of a blow pop; and even if there is an explanation my male brain probably wouldn’t be able to decipher that area of the Matrix but I figure it is worth a try anyway. But since other men out there are making a fortune trying to help you out I’m gonna offer something for free. Instead of running to your circle, instead of scathing Facebook messages, instead of creating a website, instead of blaming everybody but the right person (in some cases, self) simply settle down, take a deep breath, and relax. That’s for free…you can have it, courtesy of Coach Bennett.

~thanks for reading

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Categories: Attempts at Seriousness, Relationships, So Incredibly Random | Tags: , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

Who Determines What Is Acceptable?

Hey all. I wonder if it’s a coincidence that some of the most thought provoking and deep conversations I have with my friends are beer induced. I should really sue President Obama for this whole “Beer Summit” thing because my crew started it first. What usually starts as an afternoon or evening sitting around listening to music and talking loud over a few Hoegaardens or Sweetwater 420s usually ends up in an in-depth discussion about this, that or the other thing. Take last Sunday…

I’d just descended the stairs at my friend’s home after taking a pain induced nap after a morning of basketball with the guys. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson after this episode, but I digress. My friends were already gathered around the table on the patio when I limped over to join them discussing, what else, this that and the other. Somewhere after the second beer, an import that my beer snob of a best friend had offered me in hopes that it would help me forget how badly my shoulder was hurting, the discussion turned to the mannerisms of young men today in their approaches with the fairer sex. I have some pretty extreme views on this because I was raised with my parents, two older sisters and another adoptive older sister in the house; if word ever got back that I disrespected someone’s daughter I was going to get maimed and I’d probably be forced to go to the bathroom in the backyard for a week. Even with those extreme circumstances surrounding my upbringing most of what you do, how you speak, and how you treat a young lady when she has been kind enough to let you in her space is largely common sense, which we all know nowadays ain’t so common especially with the type of intergender communication I’ve seen around here in the last few years. The crew around the table consisted of three guys and two ladies so the perspectives were relatively balanced but here are a couple of notes on the conversation…

1. Arriving at the house…Swear to all that is holy if I ever have a daughter and some little knucklehead pulls up in front of the house and blows the horn for her to come out he’s going home with a shattered windshield. Same goes for sending an “I’m here” text when he gets to the house. Come to the door and introduce yourself so I’ll know who to kill if my daughter doesn’t come home on time.

2. Hold the damn door…Saw this at the mall the other day, dude was walking with his girl (I’m assuming because they got out of the same car) and he’s talking on his cell phone and he walks in the mall and the door just closes on his lady. Wrong on all levels. As a note, it was the consensus of the table that opening car doors is excusable due to the walking distance around the car. However, opening car doors is required for formal dates and occasions.

3. It’s a small thing but a dude should never let his companion walk on the traffic side of the sidewalk. I mean, it would be unfortunate for either of you to be hit by a MARTA bus while walking up the street to the arena to see a show, but at least be a gentleman and take the majority of the risk should that bus jump the curb.

Common sense, right? I think so, and so did everyone else in the impromptu beer summit discussion. The point of contention came when trying to nail down the issue of whose fault it is that these actions aren’t commonly practiced. It’s a widespread fact that fatherhood in “The Community” has been on the decline for a while so the lessons that I got from my Dad are going untaught to young men today. That was my thought process. Another point from across the table stated that there are several mothers raising sons that know right from wrong in the matters of how and what to do; even if they can’t wholly as a woman teach a man how to be a man they can certainly instruct on right from wrong. Then after placing her glass on the table, the other young lady in our group gave the opinion that the ladies on the bad end of treatment are to blame because they allow that behavior to go unchecked to which I agreed to an extent due to my belief that women hold all the cards when it comes to the coming and goings of relationships. She continued that, across the board, when women stop allowing themselves to be treated and looked at any kind of way then there will be a necessary up tick in chivalry, not because it’s necessary but simply because it’s the right thing to do. And while that was something we could agree on we couldn’t quite get past that chicken/egg conundrum of the reason why the problems exist in the first place.

So the issue is what came first? Is it that young men are simply not taught and therefore unaware of the little things that make them more socially acceptable? Or is it that women have lowered the bar so dramatically until just about anything will pass for decent treatment? I think that there is enough blame to share on both fronts, both young men and young women should have a grasp on what is and isn’t acceptable. Is any one group at fault or are you like me and think that everyone needs to step up a tad? And, are there any rules that you abide by socially when you are out dating that are absolutes for you? Share with the group…

~thanks for reading

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Categories: Attempts at Seriousness, Relationships, So Incredibly Random | Tags: , , , | 1 Comment

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