He puts his life on the line, for the thrill sweeter than honey…

So, today I had a nice little brunch conference with Young McGreevey, and as we discussed the topics of the day (and by topics, I mean girls being utterly complicit in their own sexual droughts. As a group, neither one of us looks good enough to sexually dismiss the other out of hand. I digress.), we somehow came to the phenomenon of nutritional yeast, something of the beverage ilk which is apparently all the rage in NorCal (word to my Birkenstock duns). A land know for its progressive fruitery, apparently nutritional yeast supposed to be good for you, meaning it probably tastes like used rectal jelly.

Anyway, the whole nutritional yeast/ weird NorCalian thing got us to talking about Greeve’s girlfriend, The Answer, and her quest to fly all the way to the Golden State to run 26.3 miles for no good reason. This got me to thinking about the day I was in Boston during the Boston Marathon. Me and The Michelle were walking about the people-filled streets, vaguely trying to remember whether we were on orange or indigo alert (I can never quite keep up) while returning some library books. At one point, we passed the finish line area, and in that area, that safe haven after surviving Heartbreak Hill and the like, we’re Dannon fruit smoothies. Who the fuck wants a smoothie after running to tell the Athenians of their army’s stunning victory? That’s probably why Phidippides died. He ran all that way in sandals and some toga’d jerk handed him some mushed up pomegranate for his trouble. I’da fell out too.

I mean honestly, smoothies? What happened to water or Gatorade or domestic light beer? All perfectly good for hydration. At that point in the conversation, because I’m so clever and smart and handsome, I made a reference to those smoothies having to be at like zero degrees Kelvin to be refreshing in anyway. This pithy reference got me to pondering people who have stuff like that named after them. I mean, if you discover something, it’s already pretty self-serving to name it after yourself, so what’s the protocol on using the name you’ve given it? Did Avagadro call it “his” number? I feel like you should be very old or dead before making reference to something you discovered. Granted, if I ever discovered something, I’d be a real jerk and say shit like, “It’s like 12 degrees me, outside. See, when I say me, I’m really making reference to the measurement of heat I discovered. Get it?” However, I also give myself nicknames, so there you have it.

Frankly, I only think one person can really use the name of their discovery/ invention/ whatever the fuck has their name on it in their lifetime and that’s the guy that named the Fallopian tubes. It may not seem sweet to be named after a part of the female machinery, but I think it has many advantages. Think about it: your name is inside every woman walking the earth, and since things that have your name on it are generally your property, you own a piece of every woman on earth. What pick-up lines this guy must have had:

(A bar, sexy singles bandying about as the drown their week’s sorrows under a cascade of liquor. A mustachioed Ital lies in wait at the bar)

Gabriel Fallopio: Can I buy you a drink?
Buxom Female: Sure. (looking around for more interesting people)
Fallopio: Come here often? (coolly sipping a glass of Rose)
Female: Usually to meet up with friends.
Fallopio: I see. Well I couldn’t help but notice you noticing me over there.
Female: I was actually looking to see if my friends had arrived.
Fallopio: (Ignoring previous comment) I’m gonna be up front with you, miss. I’ve put my name all over every woman in this bar, but you’re the only one I want to put it on. Again.

I knew I shoulda worked harder in bio. Peace to the scientists.

Penultimate Thought: ‘Fern Gully’ is the most underrated animated film of all time.

Final Thought: I don’t think any Yale sports moment will top the North Dakota hockey brawl freshman year.

I seperate the fakes, paralyzed from the waist down from the real stand up guys of the A-town…

So, I was at rehearsal the other day, and the scene for which we were rehearsing had to do with tomfoolery of the cock and boob persuasion. Firstly, let me tell you that it is oddly uncomfortable giving directions like, “Yeah listen, just put your hand on his upper thigh and give it a good squeeze,” or “just think common room hook-up.” Granted, I shouldn’t assume that people, especially freshmen, have skanked themselves out, but at this point in the school year, you should have been skankish at least once.

I mean, the young lady in question was just not getting the fluidity of the encounter and it forced me to have to show her how to situate herself on the couch (no To Wong Fu) and be trollop-like. Watching her go through the motions was…tragic. it was like watching a new-born deer try to run around, but with more leg spreading. As I was sitting there getting frustrated, a thought gave me cause to pause: just about everyone is awkward on the first encounter (and most people don’t have to re-enact said encounter in the Davenport Theatre April 6-8th).

Granted, I can’t speak for everyone, but I can speak for me and my junk and let me tell ya, those first go-rounds can get dicey. Was the kiss good? How’s my breath? Too hard? Speed up? Slow down? Is a hair-pull out of the question? I can truthfully say that on that first audition (and believe you me, it IS an audition), I still don’t like taking my pants off. And no ladies, it’s not the same as “Well, I don’t like taking my shirt off when being intimate,” because you could have a bubble vest on for all a guy cares, we can still get something done. For a guy, you kinda gotta take your trousers off. Now am I worried? Yes and no. ‘No’ because I think I’m perfect; ‘yes’ because she may beg to differ. I mean, things generally work out nicely, but sometimes you’re so worried about putting in a good showing that you fumble bad, except Big Ben ain’t there to clean that mess up (what?).

I mean, I’ve been to a few rodeos in my day and I’ve even gotten the first place buckle from time to time, but the incident that shaped the sexual creature you see walking the streets today was cast in the dyes of infamy. Well, it wasn’t really infamous because like 10 people know about it, but upon much pondering, it can still strike fear into the Boy Wonder’s heart. Allow me to set the scene: Senior spring, my boy Crazy Nick’s house, Saturday night.

Ok, so at the party are various characters from school, including a young lady who I had messed around with/ been talking to (Sidebar 1: I love the term “talking to.” Just a funny way of dancing around saying ‘someone that makes my nipples perk’) earlier in the year. Let this first be known: this was a freaky broad says…everyone who had working knowledge of her situation. So, for someone that did not have working knowledge of it (moi), this is kind of a good thing, no? Well, as I was gettin’ set to put the ‘Gator v. 2.0′ charms on her, Crazy Nick’s girl/jump-off/ good friend of Le Freak, informed me that Le Freak was not interested in making a bad decision with me. Being the cool nigga (read: punk) that I was, I let the situation rest.

Since we don’t believe in driving drunk unless you’re gonna get your allowance taken away by mom and dad, everyone stayed at the house (a nice three-story number on the East Side of Providence). Now, Crazy Nick was in his room on the third floor con jump-off (word to my Rican duns) and I was supposed to sleep across the hall. Le Freak (who was good friends with Crazy Nick’s sister, Sinsemilla), was on the second floor, and the rest of the rabblerousers were scattered about the premises.

So, as everyone is going to bed, I walk Le Freak to her room and say goodnight. As I turn to leave, she keeps a hold of my paw. JUMP-OFF ALERTTTTTT!! So I did my best Billy Dee and was like, “So you want me to stay?” and she was like “Word.” I told her I’d be right back and ran to Crazy Nick’s room to get a prophylactic. My heart was pounding as I went back to Le Freak’s room. Now, I was no virgin, but by ‘no virgin’ I mean I’d had sex five times (but four of those times was with a girl I’d had a crush on since first grade. Ah, the sweet wine of redemption). Anyway, we get all the preliminary stuff out of the way and finally it was time to get down to business. I had been waiting for this moment pretty much all of high school. Let’s just say the time it took me to procure said prophylactic was probably longer than the time I got to actually use it. Clearly, I went to bed only slightly less dejected than Sasha Cohen did last night (zing!). Still, there was redemption to be had that morning. And by redemption I mean a repeat performance. Womp womp.

Thankfully, Le Freak was a friend of mine and only told like four girls, which, by simple extrapolation is probably like 25 people, but I didn’t get my sex license taken, so I guess I should be thankful for the opportunity to make right that wrong by skeeting it forward (like ‘pay it forward’ but with ejaculant). Kinda like Batman did after his parents got killed, but with regard to my pipe and ego. I think first sexual encounters are the reality tv God laughs at with the angels. Peace to the rookies.

Penultimate Thought: This is a good semester for meeting cool people before you never see them again.

Final Thought: There are few things more uncomfortable than watching a sex scene in a movie with your parents.

You become a slave to money then you die…

So, today I went over to DUH for a follow-up appointment and to also see if I had any venereal diseases, because, like Kanye’s weed carrier says, knowing is beautiful. Now I was fairly confident that I didn’t have any vagina cooties, but that confidence gets shaken when they bring you into the exam room and let you sweat it out a bit before the doctor gets in. Why do they do that? If this is a matter of my wang disintegrating and you tell me the doctor’s gonna be right in, then I better intercept Doogie Howser in the hallway as I’m going to the room. Well, lucky for me, my body’s in working order and the plunger is good to go. Like any good American, I asked for my results so that I could look at them when I’m down in the dumps. Nothing boosts your ego like knowing you don’t have VD.

After leaving the premises, I met up with Legs (you may remember her as the ill-fated Cody’s older wingman) so she could tell me about her date with a male model she was having a wicked cool internet courtship with. To be fair she met him in person and then began the e-wooing, but still. First of all, a good rule of thumb is to never date someone with two first names (ex. Peter Martin), which this clown of course had. Ol’ Zoolander was a disaster from the start. Just hearing this tale of public lip glossing, passion tea ordering, and awkward innuendo regarding laying the meat shellack to Legs, was enough for me to conclude that a) everything ever said about male models was true, or b) he was stunt double in ‘Brokeback Mountain’. Or both. Legs’ friends did the girl whisper-shitting-on/text messaging while they watched ‘The OC’ (I imagine the waves emitted from the TV only fueled his fruitery, kinda like the gamma rays that made Bruce Banner the Hulk, except with smedium shirts and tight jeans, which I guess also doesn’t work because the Hulk always ended up having smediums and tight pants on. But he’s the Hulk and this guy was a 160 pounder who was wearing a wife beater {which I prefer to call ‘I-talian guys’} and a scarf). Needless to say, Legs decided that if she wanted to spend Valentine’s Day with a gey, she’d take her chances with standing on cross campus blind-folded and choosing from one of the first four guys she hit with a rock.

See, this is the problem with Valentine’s Day. You might get male model flambe or some girl who was exceedingly more interesting when she decided to leave you alone at the table while she went to the bathroom to freshen up. Or you might sit inside and hate the ugly people that have dates. Personally, I think Valentine’s Day peaked in elementary school when everyone gave the little wallet-sized cards to everyone else (no Eyes Wide Shut) and you got those little candies that said “You’re hot stuff”. Didn’t matter if you were the kid picked last in dodgeball or the girl that had a special dietetic lunch, grades 1-5, you were hot stuff on February 14th. Nothing complicated about it. One day though, the whole day loses its intramural vibe. That’s when your first girlfriend Amber gets froggy in Mrs. Sullivan’s class on Valentine’s Day over something or other and you’re forced to break the hymen of your pimp hand, taking back your wondrous gift bag replete with gift paper, chocolates and full-sized card. It be that way sometimes. Peace to slow jams.

Penultimate Thought: Africa is going to be the first continent to go extinct.

Final Thought: There is no such thing as an ‘untimely death’.

Well I turn my back on my faith…

So, having sufficiently not gone the way of the Ethiopes, I felt it necessary to bless the world wide web with my insightful brand of high-brow humor (Sidebar 1: At what point would I be a ‘humorist’? Exactly how witty or thoughtful would I have to be?) and a possible doo doo story. Since a lot has happened since my last entry (I mean, the rest of the Civil Rights Movement died) I think I’ll just touch on something that’s been floating about the old bean the last fortnight (word to my Globe Theatre duns).

While I was sick and going through Chris Rock in New Jack City-type withdrawal, I managed to have some pretty nutty dreams, and when I awoke from one, the only thing I could ponder besides the fact that I needed to get the crackhead mouth spackle off my face was: what if seperate had been equal? I’m talking White people play fair with the resources type equal, as Plessy v. Ferguson was supposed to be. It’s pretty wild shit when you think about it for a minute. I mean, I’d prolly know just about no white people in the capacity that I know them now. I also imagine that I’d be less a Great Black Hope, which would be sort of interesting.

Now was integration a bad idea? No, but it wasn’t a great one. In fact, it wasn’t thought through at all. Kinda like when the imperial powers just left Africa after doing the ole continental Brokeback for four centuries. Minus the AIDS (kind of). I’m not gonna sit here and tell you that Blacks and Whites (you other races do matter, but in the context of the conversation, you don’t) could never get along ever. My party locales refute that position entirely, but I do think it could have perhaps been more organic had integration not been conceived in a drunken stupor by people it wouldn’t affect in the least. Forcing people into each other’s environs (and by ‘Forcing people into each other’s environs’ I mean making Black people be around White people, because the reverse didn’t happen as evidenced by the phenomenon known as ‘suburbia’) is not always helpful. Take a gnader at the table demographics in Valhalla on any given day, and you’ll find that people often find solace in their clan. You know what? That’s natural. Forcing the issue often creates resentment on both sides. It leads people to start race riots (read: Irishmen, et. al going fucking crazy) over their kids being schooled with “others.” In Boston. In 1974.

Before you bleeding heart liberals start telling me about the melting pot and the Rainbow Coalition and Benetton or whatever, let me interrupt you with this: Shut the fuck up and, while doing so, talk to someone who has been bussed. And before the Rethuglicans start crowing about state’s rights not being about slavery, and capitalism, and JC Watts, remember that you generally don’t like Black people as a group (think about it) and would not bat an eye if you never saw another of the Negroid persuasion again. Also, don’t sit there and say “well I like you, Pitts,” because I know part of it has to do with the fact that you think I’m an aberration from the Black people you know. And by “know” I mean see on tv. And by “tv” I mean the news. And by “the news” I mean ‘Cops’. Admit it: You are more than mildly fascinated by my personage (I mean there can’t be Black people in Rhode Island, right? Do yourself a favor and google “triangle trade”). I am something 5/8ths amazing, but in a lot of ways, I’m not, and it tickles me that you have failed to recognize this after 21 seasons.

I say egg on your face for not playing ball back in 1896. There might be more white pro athletes in sports that matter and less byrd g’s roaming the streets. Then again, you do have the prison industrial complex and the governing forces in civilization, so perhaps the egg is on my face (no Bird Cage). I can say with a degree of certainty that integration was a right fine weeding-out process. Life became less about ability and more about circumstance for some. I mean, if it wasn’t for the Last Real Niggas Alive, I might be a byrd g myself. You think a byrd g couldn’t tune you up around the Harkness table with the right circumstances? This isn’t about guilt or blame because, at the end of lunch, we know who that falls on to a large degree. And if you don’t know, it’s probably you. No this isn’t about guilt or blame. This is about responsibility and facts. Peace to the beneficiaries of misfortune.

Penultimate Thought: John Goodman on ‘Roseanne’ was the greatest White tv dad of all time.

Final Thought: I find it particularly offensive when girls smell funny.