My grandmama hate it, but my lil’ mama love it…

So, it’s been about two weeks since the semester that never happened ended, and I have all of one grade back. One. This circumstance speaks less to the zen-like efficiency of Asian TAs (RIP Mr. Miyagi), than to the shoddiness that is everyone else. I mean, I realize that people have lives. I mean, I’ve heard when TAs take breaks from writing papers no one is going to read, and the collective energy of their interaction produces the semblance of a life (in the most eukaryotic sense). That being said, these maggot farmers (word to the FCC) need to get their minds right with regard to getting back to people on the mark front.

Now, I know I’m the Black Fonzarelli and, along with being a certified G, do not put Morgan Stanley-like stake in grades. However, since I to fold pants for eight hours every day even less, I figure going and getting stressed out about shit that doesn’t actually matter is a fair trade. Still, there needs to be some courtesy on the part of graders. We both don’t wanna be in the situation. I wanna be pokin’ something, and you probably want to continue writing about shit that doesn’t matter. Let’s try to find out how to coexist. It’s kinda like when you get you’re waiting for someone to get ready so you can go to a party you don’t really want to go to in the first place. The least the other person can do is get ready in a timely fashion. It is not the time for the VO5 hot oil treatment and seaweed wrap. Nullus.

Seriously though, why can’t TAs get these back in some sort of timely fashion? I can’t just not show up for the 50 minute mind handjob that is section (though, when I do decide to take a personal day, I always tell TAs I got the runs. They generally leave that situation alone). In fact, if I didn’t show up, I get points marked off. Do they give more points the more deliniquent they are with these grades? We need to start treatin’ these summumabastards like the pizza man. 2 weeks or the grades are free. Or something.

Again, this is not a big deal, but a mufucka wanna know. I mean, checking your grades is not a joyful event. You log into the site, scroll down and click on the single term grade thing. Then as the page reloads, you briefly ponder whether you’ll die via mellow barbiturates or a quick strike to the jugular vis a vis the handy letter opener by that ‘world’s best dad’ mug on the living room desk. And, in my case, it’s either “no grades posted” or the one grade submitted by an Asian who probably wants to retain her green card. If you’ve ever played roulette with a .38 while waiting for the pregnancy test results of a girl named Destinasia on the Maury Povich show, you are familiar with this feeling when you click on ‘submit’ for the fall term grades. TAs: Please get on your kodiak. Peace to Sony.

Penultimate Thought: I like fronts. I could lie about that, but I’m not going to.

Final Thought: The triple option is a wonderful offense to watch when run properly.

All I see is niggas pokin’ niggas back and forth…

So, while I was getting my life together this morning (read: waiting for people to come online so I can tell them I’m not doing anything), I had the pleasure of being disturbed by the people who live above us, namely, an African, who’s married to a poor White women and their multi-culti seed. Now allegedly, this kid has some sort of respiratory ailment and is in a perpetual state of fragility. Somehow though, he, Othello and Desdemona have the courage to do various floor exercises a la Dominique Moceanu in the Atlanta games (which by the way, were almost ten years ago). Now, if I had tuberculosis or whatever the fuck, I would not try to be the last of the Wallendas, somersaulting about, shaking the bookcases of the people the lived below me. To be honest, I’d be with Antonio Banderas at St. Jude’s hospital trying to work out my affliction. But that’s me.

I do feel sorry for the kid though. I mean, back hand springs or not, his is not the best quality of life. Feeling sorry is such a funny thing. Because it’s a fairly natural human reaction to sorrowful things, it almost becomes mundane. Feeling sorry for someone can be pressure son. Like, if someone’s loved one dies, you can’t really say shit, so you rack your brain for something original. I’m surprised the bereaved don’t shake it up more for macabre amusement. “You’re sorry? That’s funny, cuz Carl never really liked you. Thanks for the bundt cake though.” I know in those times, I try to find something revolutionary to say, something that will assuage the woe on their heart but usually I resort to being an All-World hugger. And as someone who prides themselves on giving the world’s best advice about everything ever, it can be a blow to the old ego. But then I remember my hugs make Reggie Bush look like Cuba Gooding in ‘Radio’, and I cool out. Hopefully, I won’t die for some time, thus giving me enough time to come up with the perfect response in such situations. In the meantime, I will ponder the most overrated holiday ever.

Seriously, New Year’s Eve is generally wack. I mean, they should make New Year’s Eve like December 10th, when everyone is still in school. That way you can do utterly regrettable things and have the buffer of not only a calendar flip, but also reading period and the break that follows it. With that kind of time, you could publicly shit your own pants, I’m talkin’ that runny doo-doo, and I’m pretty sure all would be forgotten by the next shopping period. I mean, unless you’re paid enough to be somewhere interesting, there’s usually much ado about nothing.

Personally, my best New Year’s Eve was in the 10th grade, when I realized for the first time that, in certain social atmospheres, you can kiss whoever you like. And then, in the beauty of 10th grade, they’ll become your girlfriend. Unfortunately, Destiny’s Child will break your relationship up later that spring. In fact, I can’t think of one friend of mine who has been like “YOOOOOOOOOOOO, New Year’s was ridiculous.” Mostly, it’s that resigned, ‘I knew better than to think this was gonna work out but did it anyway’ battered woman look of shame when explaining the night not turning out quite as planned.

No shit it’s not quite the plan Tina. It’s 10 degrees out and you last had a sip of the hot stuff at like 9:15. It’s now 10:45, and the hypothermia is starting to make you sleepy. That’s if you make it out of the house. For my West coast affiliates: you have no real excuse, but I’ll assume you fear a flash mud slide or something. Maybe you prefer not to come within ten feet of another humanoid (Sidebar 1: Seriously, California doesn’t have a definition of crowded {and no, the Mexicans hiding in glove compartments do not count}. The personal bubble in Cali is like five yards, as compared to the New England ‘close enough to make a kill shot at any moment with a standard ballpoint pen’ distance). When I marry a rich white woman (if you pass for white, that counts too), I’m gonna have helicopters and fan boats transport my friends to my villa and we’ll wear smoking jackets and laugh at the folly that is poor people. Peace to Dick Clark.

Penultimate Thought: Three more semesters.

Final Thought: I need to marry someone like my dad. Nullus.

Some go low to get high…

So, since Santa had to work last night, I figured I’d take the day shift. Sometimes, when I’m just thinking about things, I wonder if it’s pressure for Jesus to have the same birthday as I do. Things were running fairly smoothly until I came along. It’s kinda like Dennis Quaid in ‘Any Given Sunday’. A griizled veteran runs the show until a young scrap comes along to shake things up. Except, instead of Willie Beamon it’s JPDub and except for Dennis Quaid, it’s the I Am.

I feel it’s my duty at this juncture to clear up a fallacious rumor being spread by those of you with days of birth that don’t matter. Christmas is not the worst birthday to have. The only thing that kinda stinks about it is that you don’t get to see a lot of your friends on the day itself. Otherwise, it’s your standard birthday, especially in my house because well, my parents know me better than Jesus, which gives me the right of way in these situations. “But do you get screwed on presents?” Ah, the question of questions. Let me be perfectly honest: I’m pretty and I like things, so I like presents all the time (thus my need to marry a rich White woman). Give me something on April 3rd and I’ll be equally flattered. The Christmas present issue, as far as reception, died for me about the time I realized money, in fact, did not grow on trees.

Now, if I get inundated with gifts, will I give them to orphans? Fuck no, they need to get in where they fit in; however, I’m not really trippin’ if it’s a lean year in the present department. You wanna know a bad birthday? January 10th. I mean, the holiday fervor has worn off, no one has ANY money left, and if you go to the school Eli founded when he wasn’t slaving, you’re in your first or second day of classes. I’m gonna go ahead and say me and Jesus won that one. And besides, I have Jesus on my squad, and with Jesus being Jesus, I’m pretty sure I win eleven times out of ten. And after the game, he can turn our Gatorade into a nice cabernet, which is pleasant.

You wanna know the best thing about Christmas at this point in my life? Freddy Jackson. I mean, this is not 93 West Allenton Road anymore; I no longer watch my brother truck people on the grid iron and I have long ago stopped being the captain of my Saturday morning rec league hoop team (Sidebar 1: That season, all the captains were given number 0, and seeing as I was neither Eric Montross nor Olden Polynice, I added a strip of black duct tape to make me number 10. That’s just my pimpin’ baby). We no longer have 10 foot Christmas trees nor do we have New Year’s Day hat parties (I’m telling you. I get all my party abilities from the Last Real Niggas Alive). Life happened. Duke happened. Portsmouth Abbey happened, Stony Lane happened and so did Cypress Street. Throw ya diamonds in the sky if you understand my vibe right now. Things change, but as they did, Freddy Jackson came off the bench and carried the franchise.

I’ve lived in three different houses in five years (five different ones if you count high school and college). Every time, I got farther and farther away from my former stomping grounds. Every time feeling a little more dispossessed than the last time. And in whatever house I lived, we were always busy during the holidays, mostly helping out with my dad’s plays, and though I had a love/ hate relationship with said help, I tried to keep in my mind that my parents were the Lasties, so I tried to be cool about it. And in all that play- helping, people visiting, holiday crap, I think we sometimes forgot that the holidays weren’t about other people. They’re about us and Freddy Jackson.

I’m gonna be real for a minute. My family isn’t the kind that has time to put on terrible sweaters and chuckle about sweet nothings. I sometimes wish we did, but we always find something to do, and we usually find a way to do it at the last possible moment. But this is where Freddy comes in. Because when we’re decorating the tree we bought the day before on Christmas Eve, or when my dad’s in the kitchen making Christmas dinner, or my mom disappears into her room to wrap the gifts she put herself into arrears to purchase, Freddy Jackson and his Christmas cd pipes through the house and we remember we’re part of the coolest family ever. We remember cold nights on the grid iron, and rec league hoops and the Boy Wonder going to bed in his first pair of Air Jordans. Yes, Freddy Jackson has averaged a triple double the last few Christmases reminding us of the tie that binds during the holidays.

I suppose during this time of year, I should give thanks Mary for birthing Jesus and then, by extension, thank Jesus for dying on the cross for our sins. If I did, it might make the holidays seem more spiritually prevalent. But I can’t do that yet. I can however, thank a Black R&B singer with the 80s R&B mustache for singing about homie for being a G and getting me and my family to remember one another. Peace to Freddy Jackson.

Penulitmate Thought: Don’t let phones and the internet fool you. The world is still a big place.

Final Thought: I used to love show and tell in elementary school.

Can I talk my shit again?

So, I was talking to one of my young 09 thugs the other day and we were discussing one of her Now and Later buddies. And by Now and Later, I mean fruity. And by fruity I mean likes Bette Midler and pastels (though oddly enough, I too like Bette Midler and have been know to Easter egg it every now and again. Nullus). I mean, I kind of admire homie for being who he is, but I sometimes get worried that other people are cracking on him for getting his Toucan Sam on (Froot Loops, ya dig?). I mean, fuck what you heard, it’s not that ok to keep the strength outta your wrist, even if this is the Elm City and even if you’re one of these scholar types.

I mean, Elton John I ain’t, but I do feel the need to set the record straight. Or gay. Whatever the case, some people need to understand a secret I found on one of the Dead Sea scrolls I perused on my last book tour. This is the kind of conspiracy that could shake the traditions of homophobia everywhere, so before I do that, allow me to extend a warm blanket of personal nullus on this entry. I can very honestly say I do not understand why another man would want to bufu another man, but that also stems from my proclivity for putting my genitalia in the ‘homo sapiens with vaginas’ basket. That’s just how I get down. However, if muff don’t convince ya, it don’t convince ya, and that’s that. Frankly, I say more for me and thanks for looking all clean shaven and groomed for the attentions of people with dicks.

Still friends, I’ve notice a lot of anxiety due to the fear that dudes with mustaches and frosted tips are checking you out all the time, especially if they’re talking to you about the chemistry homework or the lunch menu in Valhalla. Fear not my clam-slaying brethren. You can rest assured that it is very, very, very likely the hardness of the chem homework, rather than that of your Alabama Black snake is their primary concern. Yes, it is the New England and not your clam chowder that they most probably wish to wipe away from their mouths to sate their appetites. I have been empowered by the secret of the scrolls. What was that secret? Gay dudes are some of the world’s most vicious haters.

Seriously, you can breath easier because it is more than likely that, IF they are giving you the once over, it’s to comment on your lack of a lineup, ill fitting shirt, poor trouser selection and your shoes, which, more often that not, are not the proper selection (Sidebar 1: Again, recall my nullus on this whole thing, but these fruits are absolutely correct on the shoe front. You can say you don’t care, it’s just school, blah, blah, blah. But if it’s going to be part of your outer appearance, do yourself and anyone with eyes that function beyond the detection of light a favor and lace up. If you wanna slack off, wear tacky draws. Yeah. I said it). You know how Black women have that biting wit and sarcasm that always manages to strike you to the quick? Well, they like guys too, so the carry-over seems relevant here.

Say what you want, but when a gay dude wants to dress you down (what?), he can get down right mean. And admit it, it’s effective. If you’ve been the recipient, you feel insulted. Why? Because they’re probably not far off from the truth. Do they do fruitcake embellishment? Sure, but if you’re shoe game is horrific, you know it and worse, they know it. And since they’ve been harrassed all their lives, they haven’t had time to read the insult code of ethics handbook, particularly missing the section on crossing the line. These mufuckas don’t even know the line is there. They just go there. And its burns. It’s like getting beat up by a girl: though there is a mountain of evidence to support the probability of you giving her the Tina Turner treatment, there’s reason enough to believe a girl could possibly tune you up. So when the probability does not work in your favor, the result is especially crushing. That’s a gay man’s insult: like getting served by a girl.

Maybe I’m just trapped in the closet here, but I don’t understand why so many straight dudes get bent out of shape in the presence of some ancient Greeks. It’s such funny logic to me. Just think: If gay men are like girls (in that they like guys), it would stand to reason that they have the brain stem enough to discriminate between that which pleases and displeases them. Why would you think they are into you? I mean, most guys outside of He Hate Me don’t think every girl is checking them out in an approving fashion, but when it comes to our left-handed colleagues, we’re suddenly all a bunch of Tom Sellecks. Don’t flatter yourselves. You’ll be much more comfy that way.

Now, this is not to say you should let someone get all Tom Cruise on you and give you a reach around. I stand by my general rule of thumb when in gay company: it’s all gravy til you touch me. And I’m not talkin’ about daps or whatever. I’m saying, you get a hold of rump real estate, I will assume the role of a girl in a heterosexual situation (nullus), ergo delivering a savage backhand that would make McEnroe viciously throw his racket and scream at an official in joy. And this would be no hate crime (Sidebar 2: If you beat someone up who’s gay up because they owed you 20 dollars or said something mean to your girl, is that a hate crime? I can’t help but think that angle has been used. And, I would be mad, but I use my race card daily. So I guess it’s true. White, heterosexual males have nowhere to turn. Except government. And the private sector. And everything). No, no. This would be JPW stompin’ a nigga out on GP (general principle for my new school duns). You really shouldn’t touch people if they don’t want you to unless you throw a party and serve them drinks for free. I didn’t make the rules.

I mean, my father’s an actor (a very manly Detroit-type nigga), so I guess I had been exposed so long to fruitiness that I think little to nothing of it. In fact, my gaydar can be terrible at times. However, that only happens with people I’ve known a long time. If I don’t know you well and you are in fact gay, I either know it, or very strongly suspect. To my friends still hung up on whether Big Gay Al is is going to tag team you with Johnny Gill just because Johnny or Al says hi or strikes up a conversation with you at dinner, remember a few things. First, a good gay friend can get you the inside info on poonie. They can go do recon that broads don’t expect. Straight women look at gay men as girl-like (and they are often times). They will spill their guts while that gay dude tells them how fabulous they are, all the while doing recon for you (mwahahahahahahahaha). Best part, the girls rarely if ever see the dirt-digging occur. They expect it from Toni, but not from Tony. Secondly, if Rivers Homo is talking to you, they’re not talking Ms. Fat Booty, which is good. BUT BEWARE: Many a man’s wangs have not supped on the juices of the vaginal fruit due to the reprisals of a vengeful homosexual. Many a ball have known the fury of a gay friend scorned. Tread lightly. Lastly, but most importantly, you probably don’t look good to them and dress badly. Peace to the niggas who help keep me in business.

Penultimate Thought: Girls in Southern California, barring athletic purposes, do not wear socks.

Final Thought: My boy is flying into Lagos (Nigeria) Airport. Here’s to hoping he does not get assaulted. Africans are still gully and Americans are still not.

Attempt to see clear so our lives can be directed…

So, before I get into the foolishness that is finals, I just want to say a few words on Stan Tookie Williams. For a few days, I’ve been wrestling with the value of human life. How does one weigh the lives of four people a man might have killed against the countless lives he might have saved by devoting his life to anti-gang literature? Williams was in jail longer than I’ve been alive, so I can’t say I am familiar with the trial that brought him to death row. Even if I was, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be familiar with the ins and outs of the case. I do know that no one is certain he committed these crimes. There are people that say he did, but there are people that say he did not. Where does one derive certainty from such a circumstance?

In a justice system that claims to be rehabilitative rather than strictly punitive, Tookie Williams’ evolution was a victory. In a justice system that claims retribution for the guilty will be severe, Tookie Williams’ death is a victory. I’ve tried to step outside my Black box and ask myself if I would feel merciful toward a single Klan member who had been convicted of the murder of four little girls getting ready for Sunday school (a crime he never admitted to committing but devoted his life to anti-Klan literature. George Wallace may have never killed someone, but the hate we spewed from the platform certainly killed several people. Yet, after being paralyzed himself, he changed his ways and the history, Black and White, embraced him. What of that?

Human beings are mammals with a thirst for blood that gives us little seperation from beasts. That’s why we can eat grapes casually as we turn our thumbs down at gladiators we do not approve of. Every day, something or someone gives us death, and we love them for it. By judging the one, we elevate the conscience of the many, because judgement is for “other” people. So we opine on those that have strayed from the path of righteousness, whether they return or not, and when the microphone crackles off and the lights fade away, we embezzle millions, bankrupt thousands and fuck our interns on a ‘late day at the office.’ We perhaps know better, but we care little. As long as we can turn on the 10 o’clock news and point a finger at the sinful we can sate our appetite for death, and we will love them for it.

Governor Schwarzenegger said that the evidence seemed to overwhelmingly go against Williams, and noted that, his lack of remorse for his crimes doomed him in the eyes of the only person that could have spared his life. Is that to say Williams would have been spared had he repented? Or would the cocktail that took his life have been mixed with particular zeal? Others, in fact, believe he never admitted to the crimes because he knew it would seal his fate. Moreover, there was annoyance that Williams would not turn over valuable information about the Crips, whom he helped to found. I guess a justice system that sees people turn state’s evidence for lighter sentences and mercy has been a glutton of the many who have a price.

Tookie was going to die in prison. Once his appeal for re-trial was denied, that fact became abudantly clear, mostly to himself. Would he have stopped thuggin’ it if he had never been incarcerated? Doubtful. I also doubt the good people of Arthur Andersen would have felt enough compassion in their hearts to stop embezzling hundreds of millions if John Law hadn’t gotten hip to their thievery. Considering the circumstance, Williams evolved and used his time to steer people away from the life he led. Still, just because Williams attempted to prevent others from Crippin’ does not mean he is going to completely dismember a life he once knew. Still waters, however murky, run deep.

Finally, the crux of the matter. Tookie Williams never admitted to killing those four people in 1979. Perhaps there was nothing to admit and that’s what has been tickling my brain. All around, people are questioning his motivations and yet no one can say with any certitude that he indeed killed those individuals. We can only say he “probably” did it. Who was on trial then, a man who was accused of killing four people or the founder of the Crips? What if he really didn’t kill those people? What if he just didn’t snitch? You could very easily say he was an idiot, but you also have to recognize a loyalty many boast of but few follow through on.

Stan Tookie Williams “probably” deserved to be in prison for a litany of offenses that made up his former life. However, we collectively turned our thumbs down while we ‘behave badly’ because he “probably” killed four people. What if he did? Are we to say who should die. What if he did not? Is there karmic retribution for us? Many question marks do not a period make, especially in circumstances such as these. However, our thirst is strong and our consciences in constant need of elevation. When we need it to, probability can be most certain. I wonder, what is it like to take the life of a man who “probably” took the lives of four people, but was definitely nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize? Peace to John Coffey.

Penultimate Thought: I cannot go to sleep if my feet are sticking out from under my covers.

Final Thought: I’m something of an antichrist.

And if you tell me you ain’t did it, you ain’t did it…

So, after a random Toads night (they happen every so often, and they’re especially necessary after a crushing defeat at the beer pong table. Yes, I come out of retirement to bless the playing surface every now and again), I came home, poked something and went to sleep, which was not easy (Sidebar 1: I don’t know if this happens to other people, but if I’ve had adult libations, the pipe don’t go away. Yes, it takes a minute to get things in order, but once they are, it takes more than a minute to return to stasis. And that may seem great, but it’s a blade that cuts both ways. But that’s neither here nor there). However when I awoke from slumber, a received a mobile telephone call from Agent Cody Banks concerning the soap opera that is her relations with the opposite sex.

Now if you remember, Cody got stiffed by Blake after a lovely evening out. Or, to be more appropriate, she didn’t get stiffed by Blake (Oh you ain’t go there did you Pitts? I did, I did), which necessitated the Boy Wonder’s counsel. Well, earlier this week, the situation seemed to improve when Blake called her cellular exchange in the hopes of further visitation and interdigitation this weekend. It appeared the only issue was the exact day, for apparently Blake has something of a life outside of not touching boob. So Cody told Blake to call when he was free esta fin de semana (word to my vato duns). All was right with the world and nipples were perked in plucky anticipation.

When Saturday afternoon rolled around and Blake had not called to confirm, Cody interrupted me from my studies (read: bullshitting online) to inform me of this development, or lack thereof. Now, let it be known, the Boy Wonder thinks Blake is a fruitcake ( I mean, his real name smacks of the same fruitcakery that Blake does) and Cody is wasting her time on what number 8 for the University of Pennsylvania Quakers American football team would call “a duck”. The guy probably has a weak handshake, which is just disgraceful (Sidebar 2: Weak handshake are filthy. They always seem all clammy and I have the urge to wipe my hand profusely about my trousers whenever I have the unfortunate opportunity of encountering one. They will make me not like you when I first meet you and frankly, it’s hard to come back from that).

However, I, assuming Blake has testicles, decided to go to bat for him (nullus) and explained to Cody that he might call later in the afternoon, because it lessens your chances of getting stood up, which is only slightly better than slamming you finger in a car door. If you call around 5 for a 8-9 appointment, the chances of it going down without incident is improved (Sidebar 3: I hate making plans. You get you’re game face all ready and then “Sorry, my family cat died” or something you can’t even be pissed about happens {unless you get straight, cold stood up, which is awesome}, so you’re stuck drinking a chocolate milkshake alone at Johnny Rockets on Thayer Street. Hypothetically speaking, of course), while still giving the girl time to get her room and wardrobe together, which thus leaves her enough time to debate whether or not she should wear socks in her dwelling during the banter before pants come off (Sidebar 4: Feet are a touchy issue for people. I think you should err on the side of socks unless you are absolutely positive your foot game is boss tight). As I mentioned earlier, Blake has a life outside of not touching boob, a life that kept him busy on Friday and would consume a decent portion of Saturday because he apparently loves the kids.

Well, in a shock to no one that actually likes boob, Blake didn’t call Cody on Saturday and after drowning herself in a rice cake-induced Desperate Housewives stupor, she lit out into the night with Legs (a big sister sort) and found themselves at the place where grad students hang out when they’re not writing shit no one is interested in reading. Apparently, the night was a hair slow for Legs, but, in selfless form, she was the mighty wingman for Cody when talking to a mediterranean fellow by the name of Balki (word to TGIF). Legs told Balki she was a senior and Cody a grizzled junior; both are utterly fallacious, but who’s counting? Balki, a 24 year old student of angles/ TA whose worth I cannot determine (though it’s probably worth less than a red cent) was intrigued by Cody’s vibe and after a brief caucus under the mistletoe, asked Cody to dinner, and Cody obliged with the number to her mobile telephone. And here is where the Prophet Isaiah comes in.

Cody, an 08er in only her first year of college (don’t even begin to tell me freshman year is representative of college because it would prove you an imbecile,) has not been exposed to the finer points of relationships with the opposite sex. Naive she is not, but experienced she is not either. So while I lay on my jersey knits, I was peppered with questions and scenarios of the ‘What if Blake calls/ should I do dinner tonight with Balki’ ilk. My general feeling is that Blake is a duck, but he might be more her speed. However, since he doesn’t seem to realize that all he needed to do was pick up the phone to touch boob, he can wait. Quack, quack mufucka. And though he may be more her speed, Blake isn’t nearly as promising as the Balki prospect. I feel I can get more vicarious mileage out of Balki {nullus}. And really, at the beginning and end of the day, the important thing is whether I get yuks out of this whole thing.

Still, there is danger with Balki. He’s 24 years old and a grad student so his Socially Awkward/ Bone Infrequently Index could at at least a 172.3. At least. If he isn’t socially ‘I Am Sam’, then he probably likes getting his bishop polished by people who can have babies like any man worth his meat should. As was stated previously, Cody is a bit of a novice. She likes to say it’s because she’s prude, but I know Judy Prudence when I see her and she ain’t it. A slut by no means, but I do think she is terribly intrigued and fond of the pole of Moses; sadly she has been told all her life to be ashamed of her sexuality, which is a real shame. Sexuality is something beautiful and powerful; something to be embraced. True, it can also be dangerous, but so are trans fats and no one is denouncing them in scripture. Frankly, I blame the Catholics (Sidebar 5: I remember I was aghast when in high school {I went to a Catholic boarding school}, my buddy told me a good Catholic girl will take it up the butt. However, having gotten to know some Catholic chicks, he wasn’t completely off-base. Do they all like butt spelunking? No, but there be some freaky broads in the congregation expressly because they’ve been told not to be. Is Cody the same? I’m not absolutely sure, but I think my anecdote warranted mentioning).

Anyway, I told her I personally doubt that Balki is offering a date during finals week to plant a seed for next semester. He might want to plant a seed, but its not that kind. Remember ladies, guys don’t buy you dinner because we think you need a meal. Shit, you don’t eat anything on dates any damn way. We’re paying for the time to put our rap down, and we think it’ll put us in better stead if we make a monetary contribution to our own cause. And before you refute this, stop and consider how the idea of a date with a broke nigga makes you feel. Sucks, don’t it? The prosecution rests. For all of those wondering why real dates don’t happen in college, it’s because they’re terribly unnecessary. I mean letter writing went out of style with the telephone and email. Shit, AIM is about to put face to face interactions out of business period.

I like to think my conversation is decent enough that sitting somewhere for free should give me ample opportunity to plead my case. Because, let’s be real, broads know within 5 minutes if they’d even entertain the idea of sleeping with you. And we don’t go on dates don’t happen so you can get to know a person, so what else is a date for? That’s right. It’s a skin-hitting audition and either you nail it or don’t (get it? nail it? these are pearls here). And let’s be real, most women will not turn down free grub even if the odds for a callback are not good for either you or your johnson. On a three hour date, you could waste 175 minutes of your life and too much money for a ‘wow, you’re a nice guy’ hug at night’s end. Why am I about to drop sneaker money on draws I may or may not get? If you come kick it at the crib and something pops off, great. If not, fine and I haven’t lost phone bill money either. Me, you and Verizon win.

Back to the issue. I had to let Cody know that lames go into dates without a plan. And that really is the key. J P Dub? If you catch his fancy, he’ll sleep with you right then. He can get ahead of himself and limp dick it at first (it happens every now and again) but he always recovers. Trust. Now everyone is not he. Some people won’t do that, which is perfectly fine, but you do have to know what you will or won’t do, especially if you’re dealing with a veteran, as Cody, a novice, may be doing in this situation (Sidebar 6: I generally enjoy the work of other veterans, but I have been known to hand out apprenticeship to those who exhibit the proper amount of work ethic and perversity). You gotta game plan for every scenario, it helps calm you down as well as make you feel empowered in the situation, which is key.

I mean, this stuff is not easy (shit, I made all the mistakes before I learned what I think I know and it certainly is different as a guy) but you don’t wanna let a guy get the tip in before you remember your game plan, ’cause that’s just inconsiderate. Considering the dynamic (a dirty mediterranean and a Catholic), this could be a porno, which is tight, or it could be a terrible story of woe, which is not tight, or it could be a nice time in which bodily topography is explored at length, which is also awesome. I’m not quite sure what will happen. Hopefully a boob emerges from a black tank top. Maybe some pickle will get tickled. Tis the season. Peace to Charles Dickens.

Penultimate Thought: Apparently, on ‘Burning Heart’ (Rocky IV) it’s, “in the darkest night, rising like a spire” not “rising like a spider”, which was unknown to me until I was riding through the desert in a red Ford Fiesta hatchback with my brother on the way to Vegas two summers ago. Again, made perfect sense to me. Spider are gully and I sort of fear them.

Final Thought: Neosporin is the jump-off.

Let me lick you up and down, til you say stop…

So, I got an urgent mobile telephone call from a co-ed this afternoon desperately in need of some boy (wonder) advice. I told her to put a little Neosporin on it and try to keep her legs propped up for bit, but was promptly cut off when she told this did not concern cuts on the bottom of her feet (where’d you think I was going with that, nasty?). With a hysteria known only to those who own vaginas or run little slips of paper back and forth on the stock exchange floor, she begged for consultation as she recounted her tale of the hook-up that was not.

After an evening that included prompt date arrival (good sign) and interdigitation upon departure from the venue (good sign if you enjoy ‘Steel Magnolias’), there was a sojourn back to her place of residence, which she had hoped would become a den of ill-repute between she and this person of an XY chromosomal persuasion. Might I add this sojourn was not spoken of, it just occurred, which is good. Upon arrival, they perched themselves on the couch and watched the ladies of Wisteria Lane act like rich White women for approximately 22 minutes. There was banter during the episode, but no action to speak of. At the wrap of the show, Blake (I’m calling him Blake), who had mentioned his physical weariness prior to the show’s airing (apparently in such a fashion that did not arouse suspicions of disinterest on the co-ed’s part), announced his departure, and the co-ed, who had done everything but throw up smoke signals (word to my indian duns), walked him to the door. After an embrace, he said he hope it would not be another 60 days before seeing her again and left. That’s it. No kiss, no boob feel, no nothin’. And that is why Cody (I’m calling our co-ed Cody) felt my consultation was necessary.

Ladies and gentlemen, read this and read this very well (please, offer translations in whatever language you see fit): Guys are just as nervous in the ‘are we gonna hook-up or is this just friendly’ arena as a girl would be in the reverse. We don’t drink because we like the taste; we drink because alcohol embiggens courage (and also increases beer muscles which are constantly deflated by repeated smoting to the visage, but I digress). I didn’t make those rules. They just are what they are. Moreover, and this one is for the ladies (or dudes who fuck man-butt), the males species has a force field to the hints of those that are attracted to them (remember that slime over the museum in ‘Ghostbusters II’? It’s like that).

You know how you females outrageously stand in front of the tv before something like Jordan hitting that shot over Ehlo (who I’m pretty sure died before MJ’s sneaks hit the gym floor) to get our attention? You resort to that because your hints at doing something (especially something we wanted to ignore in the first place) are lost on us. We don’t read shoulder shrugs, heads cocked to the side, or eyes bulged and rolled in exasperation (and it’s a mystery to the Boy Wonder as to why such tactics are still employed. We know we’re in trouble once it starts, so we might as well watch Manning throw for 710 yards and 13 touchdowns in one half against the Lions. You might as well tell veteran smokers it’s bad for their health). We’re guys, we don’t do hints (nor do we read minds, which is a whole other can of worms). When we have to doo doo, we do it; when we’re tired, we go to church (zing); and when we wanna eat, you make us sandwiches. I, again, did not make the rules. And this translates to all situations, even ones that would prove beneficial to our penises and their ability to skeet mightily.

Now, having gone through the School of Hard Knocks doctoral program in the wiles of women (a doctorate based on the premise that: 1. females are never to be understood ever and to think otherwise is to bring tragic folly upon your life and 2. you can’t go undefeated with women. You sometimes just lose. Respect the life and it will respect you), I can still say with confidence that hooking up the first time is nerve-wracking. I mean, most people think men and women are on different wavelengths about physicality, and that couldn’t be further from the truth. Now does every guy want to pound, and does ever girl wanted to get pounded? If they’re worth their salt, yes, but even if they aren’t, they wouldn’t mind you enjoying the topography of their body for a little bit. To wit: hooking up is not difficult. We just make it that way.

Fact: I’m a huge stickler for witty banter then getting right to the point or, more appropriately, the tip (oh shit, I went there). But if I had to opine on a post-date scenario that could lead to nudity and the sweating out of hair, I would say it’s important that girls remember that guys don’t take hints and you maybe have to make your intentions more clear (Sidebar 1: Don’t slut yourself out. It’s not cute. Though it will lead to your getting carnal pleasures {I mean we’re guys. We bust nuts}, it is not a good look post-nut, especially if said nut is about your face. You can have respect for yourself and still live a sexual life. Dark and Lovely, class of 2005, was the patron saint of this and many of you youngster need to get your minds right).

However fellas, I’ve been getting a lot of complaints from the women (Sidebar 2: I know you don’t think so, but women do talk about us and they are FAR more brutal in critique than any guys can ever be. I shit you not. Oh, and if you’ve been in the game long enough, someone has gone into theatrics on your behalf. Trust me on this) about you all and frankly, I hear that you are not representing, which makes people like me (certified stripe-earner) a little embarrassed (though it also helps my social agenda). It’d be one thing if they said you guys couldn’t bend ‘em out properly (for plenty of the ladies don’t even know what that means because they don’t know they’re own bodies enough. Muthafuck the wagon,come join the band, and vibrate higher ladies, for all our sakes), but they’re saying moves aren’t even being made, which is patently offensive. Gents, it’s not really that hard to hook-up if you respect the game properly. I promise, girls have sex drives too (and how!). Remember: Though we like vagina, we need not act like one.

Guys, I know that the no man’s land when you get close to a girl’s face and wonder if she’ll oblige you with a kiss is scary (there are few things worse than leaning in to plant one on her and getting the head-turn neck-cock that leaves you kissing temple and feeling only slightly larger than your rapidly- shrinking wang), but you gotta try or at least keep your eyes peeled for hints that she might want to put her boob in your mouth. You are not in her dwelling because she really thought you needed some ‘Desperate Housewives’ to enrich your life, especially at 1:30 in the morning (Sidebar 3: If a dude you are not ‘sho’ nuff, we’ll never hook-up’ friends with invites you over post 12, he prolly (like 90%) wants to get down with the get-down. And the same can be said for ladies post-dates or at an hour when you’d prolly hook-up with a girl if the shoe was on the other foot).

Indeed, she is giving you reasons to stay so that you can take part in witty banter then kiss her like it’s ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ (though I’ve never seen the film, it seemed apropos). Though I think girls should take more charge of a situation, if it’s clear she’s not going to, you need to have some courage; cinching your belt now can lead to its loosening later. There is much more to this issue that deserves delineation, but alas, I have but so much magic for mere mortals. Peace to keeping it real in the (hook-up) field.

Penultimate Thought: I discovered recently that it’s not “stomp on your fingers”, but rather, “stop pointing fingers, the blame is on me” in Boyz II Men’s ‘On Bended Knee’. The former made perfect sense to me. If you can stomp on your own fingers and another person will accept the blame, you do that shit.

Final Thought: When you have sex with someone regularly, the amount you get head plummets.

So I live by two words…

So, I would launch into my usual discussion of the Tudor dynasty and how it propagated its own myth in its own time, but I know you crazy summumabastards have heard that whole thing before. I guess today is a sort of weird day for me. It was two years ago today (I’m pretty sure) that I decided the school Elihu donated books too when he was in the slaving off-season was no longer worth my time. Now, I don’t have the audacity to compare it to the death of a loved one or the last M*A*S*H episode or anything, but this is sort of a big deal. It’s been two years, and frankly, I’m not sure what’s different other than the fact that I no longer fold jeans 8 hours a day. Perhaps that is the change and I shouldn’t press my luck.

Needless to say (though I will anyway), this has been a weird week because I really think my mind/body/soul remembers this as quittin’ time and perhaps one of the Heathen Trinity (my sarcasm knows no bounds and I would feel like a real tough guy if I wasn’t listening to Sisqo right now) is attempting to sabotage. Pavlov had his dogs and I have my desire to create a butt-groove (nullus) in a comfy chair. It’s funny, mad people asked me this week why I been under that CCL Rock (or home as the book thugs call it). I mean, I’ve been legitimately on my kodiak (word to my Audobon duns), but I guess I’m just trying to keep my head above water, like Christopher Wallace noted at the end of Shawn Carter’s final long-play, The Black Album.

It’s funny how routine works. This time two years ago, I didn’t have a routine to speak of other than waking up and not getting out of bed. Then the routine became tucking the hard crotch parts of jeans in when you fold them so they look nice before going to smell like sweat and and cigarettes. And then maybe a meeting with the cousin of death. Then back on the bus with the rest of the people trying to figure it out, some of whom you will sell your store’s water-repellent protective hat spray to. Then your worst cousin. Then a one-act play and Excelsior and security deposits and TYCO packets and your family meeting. Peace to those who hit for the cycle.

Penultimate Thought: Ellen Dabela gets the first memorial random shout-out. Since the beginning of this year, she has sent me all the senior class emails despite my extra year served for bad behavior. Deuce double aut seis till I drop.

Final Thought: An academician I ain’t, but a nigga would feel like a G if he got something published in a scholarly journal, even if only grad students would read it.