And my tears might make the fire go away…

So, while taking a stroll down memory lane the other day, I happened upon the causeway where Cupid first hobbled me with his sledgehammer. Of all the crapola I’ve written about, the relationships in which I do more than skeet are generally off-limits. I’m declassifying information because the Freedom of Information Act forces demigods to disemminate personal narratives to the mere mortals of their respective metropoles. It may seem a little wack to do, but if you’re reading this, you clearly have nothing better to do at your job/ apartment/ parent’s den. 

Anyway, ’twas in the post-Camp Yale epoch of my freshman year and He Hate Me and I were boppin’ up the street, most likely in pursuit of (white) girls, when we met a young honey dip by the name of JB. Now, I’ve been know to be niggerish in my day (a point of personal pride really) but this was the first time I stopped a girl in the street. She looked that good. You may think this is nothing, but a guy of my ilk stopping white-looking girls in the street  even in broad daylight, can be a dicey proposition. Luckily, rather than cry Kobe, she obliged He Hate Me and I with pleasant converse while I tried to devise ways to get her in one of my t-shirts. Finalmente (word to my Catalunian duns), she informed us that outside of being a dime piece, she wore spandex butthuggers in her spare time and in fact, there was a Spandex Butthugger round robin taking place in a few days and we should come (I’ll not dignify this with a pun).

As it would turn out, He Hate Me and I had time after our usual Friday morning squash embroglio to take in a bit of Mizuno butthuggery courtesy of The School Elihu Founded When He Wasn’t Busy Slaving (Sidebar 1: I’ve never had a Friday class in my college career outside of the “Monday class on Friday” or whatever the fuck that happens on MLK Day, cuz you know they can’t let a brother have a day for free. Some people like to make the point that I have Friday class due to summer session, but I argue that in the summer between 9-1, I wouldn’t really be doing anything productive anyway). Well, when we get to The Second Largest College Gym In The World, we found ourselves among more spandex and leather balls than a fruit would know what to do with (and I should know).

 As we settled into our seats, I spotted JB looking three kinds of delicious (which three I can’t recall), making people look silly with her assist game. All was right with the world. Then I saw this ref, looking all kinds of pissed, I mean “I’m an assistant coach and they made me help with this meaningless tournament because I majored in golf course management” pissed, just standing there with her flag. Since seeing people in workplace misery is hilarious, I kind of found myself  abandoning my JB pursuits and watching her, awaiting the moment she impaled one of the badonkadonked broads from Baylor.

While this was taking place, He Hate Me was chatting up some white girl (surprise, surprise) who was apparently the girlfriend of one of He Hate Me’s teammates. She had apparently come from sweating at something (too easy) and since I had nothing to bring to the table in the way of discourse, I sat there quietly observing this ref. When their little bit of banter was finished, He Hate Me and I decided to head back to the room and get cleaned up for the night. In those days, we didn’t know that getting ready to go out was completely unnecessary, so away we went.

That night we went to Zeta Psi to stand outside and watch white people drink, and while doing so, some white girl comes up on me (again, I’ll not dignify) and says, “Why haven’t you called me?” Your boy was stuck. Now, it’s true that my career had gotten off to a torrid start that fall (a start that would not so secretly have its comeuppance years later), but I had no idea what this bird was talking about. My memory was pretty good at the time, especially with the white cake, so I kind of sat there hoping she didn’t start saying nutty things the American public would believe. Finally, she revealed she was not some pipe-struck groupie (kind of like love-struck, but with my man-man), but indeed the girl He Hate Me had been speaking to earlier (her workout to go out clean-up was remarkable). After causing me to consult my mental rolodex of legal consultation, she said she wanted to introduce me to her homegirl. It was the ref.

Confused, it was soon reported to my sources, namely me, that this young lady was no one’s assistant coach but rather, a grizzled veteran of the ’03 persuasion. So we sat outside in the summer balm and talked. I found it odd that our conversation had exceeded the standard senior-freshman interaction length, but she was a tall, light drink of water, so I kept talking. A little while later, her saucy friend said she was leaving and before the ref had a chance to respond, I did what any freshman chevalier would do and offered to escort her home. I mean, how else was I supposed to poke her? Eventually, the music got terrible and it was time for the decisive walk home. Everyone knows the walk home is crucial because it’s that time that you really have to plead your case. Note: make sure that the walk home takes more than 58 seconds, or you’ll find yourself like this young scrap did, mentally clawing at straws in front of 367 Elm.

What was a boy to do? I didn’t at that time possess the G stripes to compress and synthesize my rap, so it looked like it was curtains for sure. But then she hugged me goodnight, which gave me the confidence to at least go for it. I mean, it was a 3-2 count, bottom of the ninth, I had to swing. I had to get into the apartment because, again, the key here is time to plead your case and apartment entry is one more case-pleading opportunity. I needed to say something smooth. I needed to say something that let her know that December of 1984 was further away from that very moment than a calendar would have you think. So I mustered all my swag and all my gulliver; conjured the spirits of Ronny, Bobby, Ricky and Mike to say, “Do you have any water?” 

When it left my mouth, even my own man-man was like, “I wouldn’t even let you rub me out tonight, and we’re friends.” It was the best thing I could think of at the time. Womp womp. For some reason, the ref said something to the effective of “yeah”, though I’m sure it was done with a pity known only to the mentally handicapped, or retarded as your grandparents say. So we went up and talked, and vibed, while ‘Coming To America’ (Single greatest icebreaking/hookup/date movie of all-time) watched us. The next morning when I left, I noticed my shirt still smelled like my cologne, which, considering the weather and my body’s tendency to sweat like it’s enslaved, had never, ever happened before. When I got back to the room, He Hate Me inquired about my night’s end. “So you remember that ref?…” Peace to The Michelle.

Penultimate Thought: I would do it all over again.

Final Thought: Good and bad included.

Newlyweds just a year ago…

So, since The Kahuna likes to revel in any opportunity to place me in the clutches of public transport, I found myself in this very predicament as I rode up to be a witness to my buddy’s wedding. Now rather than go into my litany on public transportation, I’ll just say that I’d rather have a colonoscopy twice a week (nullus).

Anyway, as I sat hating the dregs of society and my association therewith (I’m not sure ‘therewith’ is a word, but I’m going with it), I had the good fortune to be seated in front of a fat cougher whilst a quiet singer was at my 2 o’clock (Sidebar 1: People consistently get their clocks wrong when you tell them stuff like “boobs, 4 o’clock.” They spend the ogle time trying to get situated and by the time they are, boobs have invariably been replaced by varicose veins. Rule: Whichever direction you are facing, as in the directions your eyes are looking in, is your 12). The corpulent fellow behind me (semper nullus) wasn’t all that bad, save the fact that every cough sounded akin to the death knell gurgle thing that happens when you successfully poison someone. I’m not Mr. Manners; I mean, I wear a dirty Miller High Life (The Champagne of Beers) hat about 200 days a year, but there is a way to courteously rearrange mucus about one’s innards when in the presence of others.

The person that really chapped my foreskin was the quiet singer. You know the Quiet Singer; that person who sings not loud to be almost conversational and not low enough to make you not want to commit seppuku on a marginally crowded bus. I would have appreciated it if it was some diamond in the rough, Joan Osborne-type with a raspy Folk & B edge; however, this was of course not the case unless the genre has been taken over by Christianized Africans without my knowing it.

And you know what the best part is? While trying to read my magazine and quietly lamenting my inability to sate my consumer hungers, I said ne’er a word. Why? Because people nowadays are so impolite but non-confrontational that saying, “Hey, Sweet Honey In The Rock, shut that hole in the middle of your fuckin’ face,” would be fulfilling the impolite and confrontational quota which just isn’t done. Instead, I sat there and maybe attempted an unsuccessful throat clear which of course means “Hey, zip it” in ancient Wimp.

Nope, just sat there like a smoldering pot of vag. When did this non-confrontational pussydom come into vogue? It appears people only yell at those that serve them, which is fairly counterintuitive considering these same people could key your car/ lose your mail and/or massage their nuts with your filet without you really being the wiser. Impolite bravery exists in the friendly confines of post offices and chain restaurants. And before you say, “Well Jon, maybe you’re just a big pile of roast beef (let it sink in a minute. Got it?),” know that I clearly considered that. Then I also considered the fact that I can’t be the only one that feels this way, especially given the fact that I’m better and taller than most people. Peace to making dough.

Penultimate Thought: Picking which shoes to take to Spain is going to be worse than picking which one of my kids I’m going to refuse collegiate financial support to.

Final Thought: Butt sweat sucks.

Why do you wish on me when I fall, fall down?..

So, today I was in mi clase de espanol (word to my Galician duns) and pondered the fact that my buddy is getting married tomorrow. As my loyal minions will be able to tell you heathens of the casual patron ilk, he did not get this girl knocked up previous to their engagement and is, in fact, living my dream of marrying a rich white girl. Now, though I would generally think it a disaster for people that have been able to legally drink only one calendar year to be wed in holy matrimony, my buddy is an exception. He’s that guy in the group who would be married.

As I sat contemplating the many things that would change once my buddy starts getting tax breaks, two really stuck out in my mind. First of all, I’ll now be introducing them to other people as, “Buddy and his wife.” What? We can’t even rent cars yet and now, instead of introducing her as the girl buddy boy is talking to/sleeps with/ farts in front of comfortably, she’s his wife. Not wifey, but “woman he is legally bound to and future mother of his children.”

Now, before anyone tries to tell me I’m getting bent out of shape, just remember that, until tomorrow, I could sleep over this kid’s house and his mom would cook us breakfast and we’d watch Ivan Drago knock Apollo Creed’s block off (Sidebar 1: I really thought he’d be the one Black guy to make it through a movie/ series of movies still breathing. And just in case you were wondering, Black people have to die in unrealistic ways in scary movies because in reality, Black people would never die in those situations {which I do recognize as unrealistic in and of themselves, smart guy} because we don’t feel the need to investigate run down houses/mysterious deaths/ and/or creepy woods with Craig and big-bosomed Emily).

The sleepovers thing is what really got me. I mean, it’s not like we’ve done a sleepover since about ’01, but now the possibility is out of the question. Upon imparting this information to the resident cajun in the room, he said he thought it might be possible. I countered that it’s possible, but weird since his wife would be around. I mean, think about it, if you can’t fart in front of a girl you like but will probably lose touch with in the coming years, you definitely can’t fart in front of your buddy’s wife. That’s no one’s idea of a sleepover, that’s “My husband’s buddy is sleeping on our couch (because he doesn’t have a job).” Granted, I won’t have too much opportunity to sleepover seeing as he’s moving into a house with his wife in Florida (at that point the sleepover would indeed be termed a “visit”), but if he was staying in the only part of the country that actually matters, it’d be a weird situation. Hearing this, Jambalaya said, “Well, the thing that really can’t happen is him sleeping over your house.”

That realization, my friends, was earth-shattering. Whereas any number of my other buddies can still freely sleep on my couch, my buddy can no longer do so (Author’s Note: At this stage of the game, sleepovers are no longer planned so much as they are an understanding between comrades. Their occurrence can, in fact, be attributed to the danger of traveling vast distances after hours spent quaffing many drams of grog, drowsily recounting the days of yore. Cuz niggas be drinkin’ and shit. In fact, if a buddy called me up for the purpose of an overnight, I’d probably be a little creeped out). As Shareef Abdul-Rahim noted, it’s less about sleepovers and more about the fact that the “Just Because” Clause in my buddy’s life contract will be viciously eradicated tomorrow at 6pm. Sure, he’ll have secured a sense of spiritual stability that some people spend their entire lives seeking and is most likely putting himself onto the road of blissful companionship with a woman he not only loves but also admires, but he’s (hopefully) not ever gonna get his “JB” card (not to be confused with Just Black, for my buddy is indeed, not) back.

This is nuts people. I mean, unless you’re rich and white, you don’t get your JB card until at least age 18. After 18 years of benevolent tyranny, you are (slightly) free to do whatever the eff you want. If I want to eat cheese fries, stay up til 3am, and only go to one class before Wednesday night martini specials at Hot Tomatoes, I can do that. My buddy’s like a kid again, he can’t really go doing anything otuside of his house unannounced. Hell, in his own house he can’t do anything unannounced (and if you don’t believe it fellas, try to relocate that bookshelf in the living room without her say-so). Checking in, being home on time, socially acceptable living spaces; these are things that only usually occur if we make the mistake of going home for the summer to work at Bennigan’s (we’ll not even discuss the trauma that is re-introduction into a dwelling you share with your progenitors). As a guy, my buddy is about to willingly not be the boss of pretty much anything because of a woman. Lucky bastard. Peace to TD.

Penultimate Thought: Mesh shorts are terribly to wear without underwear if it’s hot out.

Final Thought: I’m less fat than I was a few weeks ago.

Pretty brown brown, driving me wild…

So, because I’m almost as close to weighing 300 pounds as I am to weighing 200 pounds, I figured now would be as good a time as any to prevent death by cheese fry. In doing so, I’ve not only taken to consuming enough vegetables to make a hippie shit, but I’ve also decided to physically exert myself in a vertical fashion at the nearby Second Largest College Gym In The World after my class on the language Franco knew best (Sidebar 1: This class is replete with not only a teacher I would bump stomachs with but also a “that guy” and “that girl” tandem the college ranks have ne’er before seen. The guy is brutal to the point of being inspiring and the girl is proof that stupid questions abound and the little kids afraid to put their hands up in class are most likely right in doing so. General rule: Only ask a question if you are certain that your brain, in its capacity as an organ that processes thought, will not bring you closer to the answer).

Upon finishing my pool workout (to say “swim” would be to imply that I could which is not the case. It’s probably indeed more accurate to say “I would not drown quickly if surrounded by water that is deeper than I am tall”) I went to the locker room to sit in the Hot Rusky Box (or sauna as the tsarists call it). For the six of you that read this, remember when I said elevators were some of the most awkward places on planet Earth? Well, they were incontrovertibly overtaken by saunas. Saunas are like hot elevators, except that guy you don’t talk to from accounts managable has his balls out. For real, I didn’t see the guy from the outside, so I walked into the thing and found myself across from the Venus De Milo, and by Venus I mean Balding White Guy With His Balls On A Bench. 

I swear, saunas are some of the undercover worst places ever. I mean, unless you know the person you’re in there with (nullus), you cannot strike up a conversation. Since you can’t do that, you’re pretty much sitting in a a room with hot rocks acting as if the guy three feet behind has more than sandals on (Sidebar 2: Guy Code Rule 36– If you’re, for whatever reason, in the company of dudes and don’t have drawers on {meaning you’re in a towel, robe, top sheet}, remember that no one, fruit cake and dudely dude alike, wants to see your nut sac. Guy Code Amendment 36 dash 1– Though we understand that adult libations impairs such things as balance bed buddy judgement, there is still not one person, duck or Joshua tree that wants to see your kid holder, and the effort to prevent that flower from blossoming is appreciated). Today though, I thought about being a young Denmark Vecsey, revolting against the shackles of sauna etiquette by striking up conversation with this pasty fellow. I decided against it because, worse than not talking to someone while acting like their balls aren’t out is talking to someone while acting you and their nut sac aren’t sharing the same air.

When I imparted this tale to Shareef Abdul-Rahim, she immediately asked the age of the bloke and I guessed that he was around 40. Upon receiving this information, she promptly reminded that at least he didn’t pre-date the Korean War, which I agreed with. If saunas are awkward, all-ages locker rooms are like perpetually walking in on your parents doing the grown-up. On one hand, I’m of the belief that if you’re lucky enough to reach a certain age, you have the right to strut about wearing your nuts like a tie on the outside of your trousers much less parade about a hall of lockers in your birthday suit. You’ve earned the frequent lifer miles at that point. 

On the other hand, I have as much interest in seeing old man balls as I do in shitting out my mouth (Sidebar 3: In actuality, I like seeing my own balls only, but in the context of the conversation, I ‘d like to keep my foreign ball sightings on the younger side of things). Walking the rows of lockers can be like running the gaunlet; for every row you pass safely, there’s one with an old white man, low locker and all, squatting in wait. If you ask me, gyms need to stop wasting money on aquacize for mom and baby and invest in mirrors that see around corners, thus allowing you to prepare yourself for what lurks in the row lest you turn headlong into an eyeful of testicle (semper nullus). And if you’re a pervert/social climber that likes balls that could have made your parents, the mirrors are like a movie trailer. Everybody wins. Peace to bath sheets.

Penultimate Thought: Anyone who says they like Grapenuts is a liar who can’t shit.

Final Thought: I will have little compunction about flinging a Spainard to the cobblestone on July 7th (USA! USA!).

I am that mask you wear…

So, the other day while getting my fix of Law and Order: SVU and CI (the former probably being better than Law and Order), I decided I’d attempt to heat up some chili con carne (word to my Spanish 132 duns) before the show resumed and some white man was inevitably coerced into admitting in four minutes what he had denied for about the last hour (Sidebar 1: I mean, I know cops are good at persuading people to do stuff but when Vincent D’Onofrio is in your ear saying shit that is clearly gonna keep you from ever being able to safely drop soap again, I think people should take a few moments to think about their butthole before opening their mouth.) Anyway, I got the chili all ready, bowl and all, and as I’m ready to cancerize it in the microwave, which is situated nicely on top of the fridge, I realized the microwave was nowhere to be found.

Now it’d be one thing if I had just gotten back from the Yale or something, but I had been home a solid week. In fact, I had put the ice trays ma dukes never puts back in the freezer on top of said fridge with little regard to the fact that the brave little microwave was gone. Because I’m smarter than everyone ever, upon making this discovery, I decided to double-take then stare briefly at the top of the fridge in the hopes that my noble microwave would maybe peak out from behind the fridge while the lamp and vacuum snickered at its mischief. Oh appliances. However, this was not so. Double you tee eff. It was in this moment that I realized the 7+ years of living at school had thrown me into the babylon of the domestically dispossessed.

I mean, I’m no Palestinian, but this was fairly traumatic. I have been aware for quite some time that my house is a place where my parents live, but good grief. I didn’t notice that the microwave was gone. Though I haven’t really lived at home for awhile (the dropout period did not occur in the generally accepted realms of time and space) I like to think I notice minor adjustments like missing appliances or change of address. ‘Twas certainly the final nail in the ‘you don’t really live here anymore’ coffin.

Even worse, while driving around town, I kept being like “Oh, Rhode Island license plaaaaate. Buk, buk, buk” as if I was in the Dakotas. You know how  that goes. You’ll be driving along a foreign territory when, from the asphalt wilderness, comes a beacon of light and civilization. Your state license plate. You go, “Hey, mine look like that too (unless you’re one of those ass clowns who paid extra for the alternative state plates. In Rhode Island, the people who get the sail boat ones are generally from Newport. The same place they brought slaves too. Thought it deserved mention).” For a split second, you feel comfortable at the sight of something you recognize as if, in the moment of highway truth, you could call out “OCEAN STAAAAAATE” (or whatever state your tuition bills get sent to) and this motorist would come to your aide. So yeah, I was doing that driving in my town. I don’t know what made me feel like more of an ass: the fact that I did it, or the fact that I did it more than once.

Not recognizing my microwave was gone? Plate-spotting in my home state? Friends, Romans, countrymen, I have officially been institutionalized. I’m like Brooks from Shawshank except I’m tall and won’t hang myself when I get my degree. But for real, it has gotten to the point that, if I’m not throwing chicks out of sidedoors or kickin’ it with some combination of less than five people in RI, I pretty much have to be in some proximity to the New Haven byrd g’s. Yikes. Outside of the Last Real Niggas Alive et al, I have no real reason to be there. Even worse, I feel more comfortable walking by Ashley’s Ice Cream everyday than I do bopping over to the Cumberland Farms in the biggest little state in the Union (get it twisted not journal denizens; when I get that papyrus, I will leave but a vapor trail).

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate Rhode Island. We’ve got Del’s Lemonade which is singlehandedly better than Connecticut, most of the Middle West (and Middle East for that matter) and, without a doubt, western Pennsylvania. To be accurate, being there for me is kind of like going with a friend to their friend’s party and being left to your own devices when your friend decides to nail the chick from Human Resource in the greenhouse. Yeah, you won’t be their forever, but it certainly feels that way. 

To be fair, I have as much interest in being home as I do in having someone shit on my back, but the condition seems most critical by virtue of the fact that I’ve lost my sense of belonging there. I never thought I would see the day where I would go to North Kingstown and almost encounter no one I knew (of course, I’m not counting the people I acted like I didn’t recognize). It’s gotten to the point that I’ve threatened to go to graduate school, thus availing myself to becoming a grad student, which would place me among the ranks of TAs. TAs. I should have had an apple. Peace to 93 West Allenton Road.

Penultimate Thought: Gel pens are a marvel of modern science.

Final Thought: Seeing people get beat up is kinda gross.

You wouldn’t have stopped, but I came on your wedding gown…

So, I was talking to a buddy from home and apparently a friend of hers, who had previously only hit a bloop single, decided to starting banging the guy she’s been dating for roughly an hour. Now my friend, a veteran of the life was initially happy for her pal who we’ll call HIllary. And why not be happy? Banging and getting banged is one of the freedoms we must cherish in the post-9/11 world. However, what isn’t cherished is people who’ve shtooped less times than they have fingers trying to make broad declarations about coitus and its gullery.

I don’t care what Mr. Rogers used to say, your first couple rides on the carousel do not go that smoothly. If you think it did and you have a penis, she lied. If it was a he, they’re kinda like girls, so a lie was probably perpetrated in that instance as well. Before you ladies get to guffawing, understand that you are not the most able-bodied creatures in the loin forest. It’s kind of like a deer that was just born, but with  less hoof and more KY jelly. Get two deer together and it’s a total freaking disaster. Triceps get all tired, hair gets caught under elbows, rubbers fall off. Disaster friends, disaster. And the answer is yes. Yes, I’m just trying to shatter a young buck’s notion of what great sex is because she can’t have any ideawhat it is because she was on first base about 30 minutes ago. Am I hating? Yes, but I’m also doing basic mathematics:

                        Hillary is a babe in the world. She has played doctor with exactly 1 person, after previously getting only to base number 1. Hillary’s boyfriend, is bordering on creepy older guy status, being roughly 8 years her senior. Said boyfriend has the distinct quality of being annoying (not a prick, annoying. Lots of times, pricks are pricks because they can lay the pipe). Hillary and boyfriend have had sex roughly 7 times. What is the likelihood Hillary is having great sex? Solve for X. Show your work.

If you bang people, think aboutthe first time you had sex. Shit, think about the 20th time you had sex. I feel like I’m just now getting the hang of things and I’m working on my fifth season at the school Elihu built when he wasn’t busy slaving. I just now got to the consistent 20 minute mark and this girl, a non-masturbator, is busting multiple nuts in less than 10 tosses? I don’t think the universe even sanctions that. To be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if the universe made  female orgasms work on a seniority system for the sake of fairness. All the chicks who haven’t busted nuts in the sack (fellas it happens more often than we like to think) have first dibs and rookies get last scraps. That’s what it is. She’s getting the scraps of some housewife’s fling with the air conditioner man (Sidebar 1: I know some women never ever have orgasms. Clearly you did something to make the universe mad. And most guys can’t bang right). Peace to Durex.

Penultimate Thought: Sex and the City’: White women’s Waiting To Exhale.

Final Thought: My jeans are getting an authentic hole in the knee.