Archive for the 'race' Category


Let that (Twitter) boi cook….

One year ago, Linesister suggested I join Twitter.

I was reluctant, because I thought the premise was stupid.

I didn’t know why anyone would give a damn about up-to-the-minute shit I was doing with my life.

I certainly didn’t expect to give two cusses about what anyone else was doing with theirs.

But, as is oft the case, Linesister was right, and one year later I am, of course, firmly entrenched in the Twitter beast.

I prefer it to Facebook.

As a matter of fact, it is my refuge from Facebook. It is my refuge from many things that have the taint of real life upon them.

Twitter is where I go to talk to people I don’t know. There’s a quiet solace in the company of strangers that I underestimated when first I began.

And I’ve come to love it, and treasure it.

Which is precisely why I can’t understand why so many of you fuckers are mucking it up.

6 Things I need all Twitter participants to do or know:

1. Get your titties off Twitter.


Look. I don’t have a problem with titties. I can certainly appreciate that titties are a crucial staple in the lives of a significant Twitter contingent.

I’m not trying to take titties away from anyone.

You wanna show your cleavage in your avi, all the while beguiling the world with excerpts from your doctoral thesis to evidence how you are both sexy and profound— more power to you.

You wanna twitpic yourself in your I-make-bitches-hate-me dress— fine, do the damn thing.

But honestly. This is getting ridiculous. Yesterday, I saw THREE broads whose backgrounds were nothing more than pictures of them posing in bikinis.

What.the.FUCK kind of latch-key, thatch-roofed, mother-less, Southeast Asian bordello were you raised in that makes you think this is okay?

Bitch, you are naked on the internet.

And like, for free.

No one’s giving you a dime to see those free titties.

It’s not sexy.

And even it if is, the desperation of it all far outweighs any aesthetic.

Have you no one in your three-dimensional world to tell you that you look alright?

You gotta arm yourself with a swath of lycra and an iphone to achieve some tiny measure of validation in your life?

PLEASE get thee to a grandmother’s loving embrace, and entirely the fuck off my timeline before I wretch in my mouth.

2. If English is your first language, speaking it well should be a priority.

Stop getting mad when people hashtag your illiteracy.

Someone correcting your abject retardation shouldn’t upset you.

Being 35 and unable to read, while utilizing a program that specializes in communication via 140 characters or less should upset you.

I bet Twitter is frustrating as FUCK for some of you.

Maybe, instead of making my soul weep each day with your fucked up grammar (which I’ll interpret as dispositive proof of the American educational system’s failures), try developing a simpleton-friendly web program—perhaps one that makes liberal use of shapes and pictures as opposed to actual words—

Or, you know….


3. Tyrese is NOT your life coach. If he is, you deserve whatever bullshit life you’ve got.

I’m not gonna lie.

Once upon a time, before I knew Tyrese could neither read nor write, or properly effectuate any semblance of deductive reasoning, I was rather keen on letting him “make me feel good on the inside.” *

But that was pre-twitter lust.

Today, Tyrese tweeted, “Atl if you’re hear…I’m on the air on V103…”

He told the world REPEATEDLY about his presence at “Barnes and NobleS.”

The man is on a BOOK TOUR and he doesn’t know a homophone from a xylophone.

He has made several appearances at the nation’s premier book retailer, and doesn’t know its name.

And he cautions us all: “As you move to the next chapter in your life remember.. You will never shine Tryna sit on somebody else SUN!!”

Someone on my timeline retweeted that. Beside it, she wrote, “Preach!”

Are you fuckin’ kidding me?

Look. I’m not gonna shit on Tyrese (anymore).

He’s rich, and successful, and I am a nobody with law school debt; he bests me in any capacity that is of value to the world in which we live.

But if you have bills like me, and retweet this man as though he’s some fount of new, Black intellectualism, you’re a low-functioning, generic battery-operated dildo.

I mean it.

If Jody motherfuckin’ Jo opens your eyes to some shit you ain’t never seen before, close them.


4. I wish I had an interactive glass of ice cold water…maybe it could quench your palpable THIRST.

Listen. I love a Twitter crush as much as the next one.

Twitter is a place where people showcase their wit in concise, delicious snippets (and show their titties), therefore making it a veritable breeding ground for crush prosperity.

So, I get it. Crush on.

That said, these outwardly expressions of wanna-fuck-you-so-bad make me uncomfortable.

And you know why they’re outwardly, don’t you?

Cause she doesn’

The innovators of Twitter, in their infinite wisdom, made it impossible to direct message a person not following you; a decision—I noted a few weeks ago—for which many unsuspecting people ought to be grateful (seriously, you don’t want to know how many people I’d internet woo with slam whore antics should this function become disabled).

This is my point.

She won’t follow you¸ so you can’t direct message your tom fuckery for her eyes only. Your only remaining option one of public courtship, you smear the evidence of your XY chromosomal fail across my timeline, and the tragedy of your romantic, dehydrated desperation is clear for all to see.

I’m fairly certain that if a woman won’t follow you back on Twitter, she won’t reward your Arthurian Twitter gestures of chivalry with ass.

It’s not gonna happen.

@-ing her constantly, telling her how fine she is daily, preceding your retweets of her with overly enthusiastic declarations of her awesomeness won’t make tender her heart, or otherwise incline her to do it to you.

It will, however, encourage her to make note of your IP address in the event that a bitch comes up missing.

5. ATTENTION all persons with the following words in their bios—“sexy,” “pretty,” “model,” “mogul,” “rapper”:


6. If a stranger incites within you extreme rage, compelling a series of angry tweets——Stop everything you’re doing and Dougie.

You are obviously carefree and winning at life, and as such, have elected to lose on Twitter.

For my money, a person who allows a complete stranger to get him/her Twitter-enraged is tantamount to the man who gets in a fight at the club after someone nudges him or steps on his shoes.

The shit might be annoying—hell, it might be infuriating—but odds are, it’s something that can be let go.

What the fuck do I look like letting a complete stranger—someone who doesn’t even know my real name—who is, no doubt, sitting in some darkened corner, thousands of miles away, thumb-typing ignorance on his phone at lightning speed, get me all tight in the chest over the fucking internet?

How the hell am I gonna get fiery mad over some shit this dude typed with this thumbs?

It’s not that serious.

And if it is, it sure the fuck shouldn’t be resolved over a medium whose logo is a big, periwinkle bird.


I just want us all to let Twitter be great.

*Monster’s Ball shudder-inducing Halle Berry quote.


let’s call a spade a spade and a post a post, or, “a deluge of f-bombs & (non)sex talk….”

“Do you have a jumpoff?” I asked Kate over bbm.

I was doing that thing straight girls do when they’re trying to play it cool with gay girls they think are kinda cute.
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but…I just thought I’d ask,” I anxiously typed in an attempt to preserve my awesome.
Kate gave me what I was beginning to recognize as her standard, initial “WTF…lol…” response, but followed it up with “No, I don’t have a jumpoff. I do have a cuddle buddy, though.”
So, here’s the thing.
I have this sort of disability where I ask a quick succession of questions, that, to a casual observer, might make me appear rude, or insensitive, or abrasive. I’ve been trying to work on it, and decided, immediately, that I would seize upon this opportunity to be diplomatic in my information-gathering. I would be respectful, and endeavor not to overburden Kate with queries that might make her feel uncomfortable, or stupid, or regretful that she’d shared.
“The fuck you mean you have a ‘cuddle buddy’? What the fuck is a ‘cuddle buddy’?”
(These techniques take time.)
Another “LOL” from Kate.
She began again. “You know, a friend who comes through every now and then to kick it. Nothing really happens. We mainly just chill and, you know, cuddle.”
Me, again. “Look. I’m doing the best I can not to throw up, here. Just walk me slowly through this. Am I to understand that this is a no-fucking arrangement?”
“Nope. No fucking,” answered Kate.
“Just *chokes back vomit* cuddling?” I asked
“Occasional kissing, but, yeah…generally…just cuddling.”
“But why?” I pressed. “Why would you do this?”
“It’s more for her, really,” Kate replied. “Her girl’s away, and she just needs a warm body. I like to think of myself as just being a good friend.”
“Riiighhht….even though you stand to benefit nothing from this arrangement?”
“Yep,” came her matter-of-fact reply.
“Have you never done this before?” she asked. “Never had a cuddle buddy?”
I didn’t even have to deliberate.
“No. I pay a mortgage in my house so that I can fuck here. You’re talking nonsense.”
My mind was reeling.
I could feel sweat beading at my temples.
My heart was practically skipping out of my chest, and these hot rushes of blood kept surging to my cheeks.
“What about this is so crazy to you?” asked Kate.
I ignored her question, momentarily, and made two frenzied phone calls, both confirming Kate’s dreadful account, and my worst fears.
This can’t be…This.just.can’
…. I thought to myself.
I feverishly looked at my bbm, and saw Kate’s emboldened name staring back at me.
I consulted my contacts, and made one, final go at it.
I sighed with brutal resignation. This was going to be painful.
My thumbs flew across the qwerty keyboard.
Me: “Elodie, you’re soft. Lemme ask you a question. You ever heard of a ‘cuddle buddy’?”
Elodie: “Yes! Of course! It’s SO fun!”
*insert gnashing of teeth on my end*
Elodie: “It’s so much affection by definition. Essentially, it’s someone you spend quality time with. Holding and touching. Doesn’t involve sex. Maybe kissing. A lot of close proximity and time together.”
Me: “Oh. My.God.”
Elodie: “I love it. I personally enjoy the cuddle buddy who knows how to run his nose ever so lightly across my skin…”
(Look. I know y’all think I’m making this up, right now, but I swear, I’m not. This is all verbatim. This is so real.)
Elodie: “…massage my earlobes…”
Me: “Are you joking? Are you shitting me, right now?”
Elodie: “…intertwine my fingers with his….”
Me: “This is serious, Elodie.”
Elodie: “No,  I’m dead serious. Serious as a heart attack. It’s very special QT. It’s nice and really makes you feel special.”
Me: “I’ve heard enough.”
Elodie: “Oh! Don’t forget spooning. Are you about to get one?”
The fuck?
Me: “Have you ever met me? Like, ever? Ever talked to me at all? Had a conversation with me?”

Elodie: “I mean. You asked.”
I had. I had, indeed.
I returned my attentions to Kate.
“Sorry. This is so much. It’s just that…no man on eeeeeeeeeaaaaaaarrrrrpppppphhh would EVER agree to such a
thing…unless he was like….the loneliest, ugliest man ever,” said I.
There was a brief pause before I saw that she was typing, once more.
“I’m not a man, hon.”
No. No, she was not.
And she sure the shit wasn’t ugly.


Women of America—
In the
Is the matter with you?
I wanna know.
Is the matter with you?
I KNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW y’all are behind this shit.
I got two lesbians, one linesister, and one powerfully JuliaRoberts/CameronDiaz/JenniferAniston/AshtonKutcher straight bitch confirming the existence of what HAS to be THE most HERETOFORE INCREDULOUS nonromantic romantic institution known to man.
Overly-sentimental though she may be, my friend, Elodie, is the best. Really. She’s tops.
And I’m sure whatever lucky broad Kate idly passes time bunning up with is worth more than her weight in giggles and tickles.
But, notwithstanding these two…
And not to sound like some two-pence slut, but…
Who in the SHIT do y’all think y’all are?
That’s a serious question.
I mean it.
Who in THE SHIT do y’all think y’all are?
I’m gonna say something controversial.
Wait for it.
I get sooooooooooooooooooo tiiiiiiiiiiiiired of hearing about the fact that there are no good black men in this world.
Sooooooooooooo tired.
I don’t hear a lot of lesbians saying “Black bitches ain’t shit,” but….I’m certain, if black women, in any way, are able to corner the market and have the franchise on lesbianism, we’ll be sure to complain about a lack of appropriate girl on girlers as well.
Somebody, somewhere
has sold y’all broads a bill of goods.
Some lying, deceiving, misguided, trying/to/get/the/ass/quick/soul has convinced you all that your drawes are gilded in gold and your elbows can’t be ashy.
Every day, I see motherfuckers on Facebook giving themselves these empowered middle names; regarding themselves as the lost imperial Nubian queens of the Motherland, and can’t fry a damned fish.
Whoooooooooo are y’all?
AND nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooow…..
To marry INSULT with INJURY in the UNHOLIEST of matrimony, I hear tell of women taking showers, doing their hair, and rolling up in cribs smelling good, titties riding high, jeans cut tight, to snnnnnnuuuuuuuuuuuuuugggggggggggggle up in a dude’s arms  (or chick’s….whatever your pleasure)………………………..
And cuddle.
I don’t have the time or space to address the simpin’ ass mentality that permits such an EGREGIOUS violation of interpersonal relations.
So, let me just say my piece/peace, and be on about my own way….because this is a blog about me.
(friends, family, spouses of friends and family, colleagues, spouses of colleagues—please disregard)
With annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnny expectations of preserving your chastity, your moral strongholds, your righteous high-ground………hell…..your fucking dignity……
If you come in THIS house….smelling good, showered, finely adorned under the cover of night, or at the occasional noonday hour, I’MA ASSUME……I’MA take it as GOSPEL TRUTH….
That you’re ready to rock.
Ain’t noooooooooooooooooooo cuddling going on in this house.
This shit right here…
Does everyone understand that.
I pay real bills.
I want real sex.
This shit right here….
This “cuddle buddy” shit right here…
This is why we can’t have nothin’.


(White) brothers in arms…damnit, Barack.

It was with carefree abandon that I greeted my two law school friends, Matt and Patrick, for a night of debauchery when Matt arrived in town for business last weekend.

Let me begin by telling you how overjoyed I was to hang out with them. I had not seen Matt for years and years and years, and watching him so easily interact with Patrick took me back to our first year of law school.

It had all the makings of a perfect night. We were in the company of Matt’s best friend/brother-in-law, Derek, Derek’s girlfriend, Jill, and were ultimately joined by Jill’s friends, Mike and Marie.

And a perfect night it was.

We happily threaded in and out of various Old Town bars, drinking, eating, laughing—each of us attempting to best the others in jibes and candor.

Now, as is the custom with most blacks my age, educated in predominately white settings, there have been many occasions throughout my life when I’ve been the lone person of color in a particular environs.

Naturally, the passage of time, and a change of geography has tempered both the frequency of this occurrence, and my perspective when it arises.

At 29, confident in who I am, and frankly, accustomed to the practice, I barely give any such situation a second thought. Generally, when I’m around people I don’t know well, or people who I suspect have had limited intimate interaction with minorities, I brace myself for the eventual, “Can I touch your hair?” or “My father marched with MLK on Washington,” I’m-not-a-racist awkward conversational subtext.

However, I felt no need to armor myself against such racial weirdness on this special night. These were my boys. We were well aware of the non-existence of any singular issue of socio/political/economic importance on which we could all agree. I celebrated them because they were so radically different from me. Our friendship was a clean space. A safe space. Entirely free from the bullshit that complicated my everyday life.

So I let my guard down.


I let my guard down.

And by night’s end, I would pay for it with a piece of my soul.

Everyone’s bloodstreams were ripe with spirits by the time we entered 219, a cigar bar closer to the water.

Already euphoric from the company, the smell of cigar smoke tickling at my nose and the rich timbre of Delta Blues coming from the live band nearly sent me over the edge.

We all assembled closest to the musicians, the guys pushing together a table and a booth that we might gather more comfortably. Marie and Patrick sat across from each other, with Matt next to Marie, Mike next to Matt, Me next to Mike, and Jill wedged between me and Patrick.

I hope you paid attention to the seating chart.

It’s important.

Mike and I were taking turns attempting to talk over the music, we were all drinking various bourbon concoctions, and I was trying desperately to appreciate the merits of a cigar I was not supposed to inhale.

After thirty minutes or so had passed, I went upstairs to find the bathroom, locking myself inside a stall to check my messages.


That’s a lie.

I went upstairs to fuck around with Twitter, okay.

I left my party, briefly, to go upstairs and tweet, okay?

Endeavor not to judge me, there’s a story to be had.

So, right—

I was leaning against the wall of the stall, tweeting my little tipsy heart out when a fearsome knock interrupted my thoughts.

Realizing that I was hogging the space, and unable to properly assess how long I’d been inside, on account of my near drunkenness, I opened the door, and quickly prepared to offer the offended knocker a stream of apologies.

Before me stood a middle aged white woman, slight of frame, with long, brunette hair. Her brow was furrowed, and a concerned look adorned her face.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Do you need to use the stall? I’m just using my phone. I’m so sorry.”

She rushed to answer. “No, I don’t have to use it. I just wanted to make sure that you were okay. I followed you up here.”

I paused, momentarily, not entirely certain of what she meant, or why she would have had cause to follow me anywhere, but, I disregarded. “Oh, no. I’m fine. I just wanted to check my messages.”

She began again, appearing to struggle with her words. “I mean….it’s just…I mean….are you sure? Are you sure you’re okay? I’ve been watching you all night, and I’ve been so worried. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Her choice of words struck me as odd. Had I stumbled? Was my speech coherent? I wasn’t certain, but I wanted to assure her of my okayness, and be the hell about my business. “Really, I’m fine. Truly.”

I attempted to move past her but she was unwavering, resolute in her stance, not moving at all. “My boyfriend told me not to come up here, but I’ve just been so worried. I see you with those guys and it just takes me back to college and I’m just so worried about you. I need to make sure you’re okay.”

Okay bitch. What.The.Fuck.

I looked at her quizzically. “Um, I promise that everything is okay. Really. I was just—“

“Because I see you with them, and I see them giving you drinks, and I just need to know that you’re okay. I keep having these flashbacks to college,” she interrupted.

This woman is crazy.

I tried to begin again, “I don’t really know what that means, but those are my friends, down there, and everything is okay. I promise. Really, I’m fine. I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine.”

She waved away my assurances. “I see you with them, and I just worry, you know? I worry because I see you, and I see them, and you know…you’re…you know…and they’re…..and you’re…..and I get these flashbacks to college….and you’re….you know…”

And that’s when it hit me.

I couldn’t believe it.

I relaxed my stance (I had been considering the chest-bump-shoulder-push-hood-maneuver).

“Because I’m…….black?” I asked, gently as I could.

She lowered her eyes. “Yes. Oh my God. This is so awkward. My boyfriend told me not to come up here, but I was so worried. And those guys were giving you drinks and I didn’t know if you were safe, and I kept thinking that they were going to hurt you…and I didn’t know…” she rambled.

I tried to remove as much condescension from my voice as possible. “I’m fine. I went to law school with those men. They’re old friends. They’re not going to hurt me. Everything is fine. I promise you.”

Her face scrunched up. “Law school?” she asked.

“Law school,” I repeated.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Thirty,” I answered.

She began to sniffle. “Oh, God! I’m so embarrassed. You all look so young.”

“Those guys are older than me, actually,” I said. “They’re both married, and are actually amazing people. So, everything is okay. I promise.”

I could see her face flush as she came to realize  how much of her ass she’d shown. “I just….oh! I just saw you, and I saw them, and I thought….oh! My boyfriend said not to! Ohmygodpleasedon’ttellthemwhatIsaid! Please, please!!!”

I just looked at her, not knowing whether to pity her or to laugh. “I won’t tell them. But I should go. They’re probably wondering where I am.”

“Okay,” she said, finally moving aside, and relenting. “You’re sure you’re okay, though?”


Nevermind the fact that there were two other women in our party.

Nevermind the fact that I was jovially laughing, having a grand ole time.

Nevermind the fact that I was a grown ass woman who assured her, repeatedly, that I was okay.

I was just a black girl in the company of white men.

And everyone knows that can only be a formula for one thing—

AWWWWW cheea….

Raping and pillaging like a mu-fuckkka!!!!

Listen up, Caucasians.

I’m from the Commonwealth of Virginia.

Home of the Stonewall Jackson Shrine.

Home of the why-don’t-we-have-Confederate-History-Month?-stream of logic.

I don’t need your help on the I’m-not-sure-if-we-can-entirely-trust-Whitey bandwagon.

I’ve got this.

“Post-racial America” has y’all turning on each other, and I’m not ready for it.

Please have a meeting, and address this as soon as possible.

And to my mystery would-be-good-Samaritan:

I don’t know what in the holy fuck Klan-sponsored college you went to, but DEMAND financial reimbursement.



there comes a time in every woman’s life when you have to take stock of yourself and your friends, and determine: “we ain’t shit.”

My weekend in four parts—my adventures with the new housekeeper, the part where I almost unceremoniously murdered six children at the movie theater, my hairdresser’s engagement, and my wildly controversial and bad language-infused dinner with an old law school friend notwithstanding.

(sat) “Clara’s” and “Jenny’s” crib: Me and Michael arrive at Clara’s house.  Clara and Jenny have never been to Lux, and Michael (who hates Lux) is reluctantly accompanying us.  Clara pours herself another glass of wine and asks if we mind her playing Lenny Kravitz to set the mood before we leave. Michael and I laugh at her for two and a half minutes. This bitch wants to set the pre-Lux mood with Lenny Kravitz. She hasn’t ever heard a word I’ve ever said.

(sat) New York Avenue: Me, Michael, Clara, and Jenny are walking to the club. Me, Clara, and Jenny are in various states of undress. A man in a “big body Benz” rolls his window down and attempts to holler at one or all of us. He inquires as to our destination. Clara (for reasons which will continue to elude me) tells him “Lux.” Our suitor then desires to know why we’re “going to that raggely[sic] ass ghetto ass hot ass ignant[sic] ass club.” He was clearly a cut above the traditional Lux-goer; as evidenced by his common ass hood-holla that called to mind Sir Lancelot, and the many romantic variants of the Chivalric Code.

(sat) Lux: My beer choices are Heineken and Miller. I opt for the Heineken. I consider that the beverage’s secret ingredient might be warm Nazi piss compote.

(sat) Lux: A man who looks like Rick Ross tries to effectuate the waist-grab-pull-close maneuver. I spurn his advances. The only man who looks like Rick Ross that is allowed to touch me is Rick Ross.

(sat) Lux:  My linesister and I venture to the 3rd floor. My linesister motions to the VIP section which, in an unexpected twist, has a disproportionate amount of white women within. I consider first, that the women are birds; second, that there must be an NFL player hosting a party inside. I determine to refer to the women as pelicans. You know. On account of them being white birds.

(sat) Lux: My linesister and I are both dancing, one goon, a piece, when suddenly, she cries out, “OhmyGod!!! He’s hard!” I keep dancing with my goon. It’s not like I don’t hear her. I’m just, you know, dancing. She cries out, again, the same refrain, “OhmyGod!!! He’s hard!” I continue dancing with aforementioned goonificence. She then effectuates the super-secret Delta distress signal. Soror down! Soror down!!!! I immediately shove off the hobgoblin trying to impregnate me through my dress, rescue my linesister, forcefully separate her from wildanegrobeast, and push her through the crush of people to freedom. All of my love, peace, and happiness, girl. All of my love, peace and happiness.

(sat) Lux: Michael and I try to determine the thought process that inclined a fellow patron to don a large, wide, floppy brimmed white hat to the club. I suggest that the headpiece once belonged to Shug Avery. Michael disagrees, as the “suicide doors” of the hat’s brim are clearly an indicator of a more modern era.

(sat) somewhere on 6th St:  Me, Jenny, and a very drunk Clara are looking for my car. Clara, who has a beautiful voice, keeps singing, “I’m more than just a numberrrrrr, hey hey heyyyyy.” That’s it. Like, no more of the song at all. Just, “I’m more than just a numberrrrr, hey hey heyyyy.” Jenny and I don’t ask where the remainder of Drake’s song went. Four blocks later, Clara mercifully switches up—to some Marvin Sapp song. Which she sings—in its entirety. Clara then looks at me and says, happily, “God is good!” I wordlessly continue to walk arm in arm with her. She looks at me, meaningfully. “Fooler, I said, ‘God is good!’”  “I’m not going to do this with you,” I say. She stops walking. “Come onnnn, you know the rest. God is good!” I try to inch her forward. “I refuse to do this with you,” I say. Clara is unrelenting. “Fooler—come onnnnnn. God is good!” I sigh, dejectedly. My voice drops two whole disgusted octaves. “All the time.” My participation gives her life. “And all the time?!?!” I sigh, once more, and look out into the street. “God is good.” Clara walk/jigs/church steps the next half of a block. “Hallelujah!” she exclaims. I’d be wrong if I kick this broad in her knees right now.

(sun) Northeast: I tell Michael that I think that I want to have a baby. Michael looks out of his passenger window. We continue ten of the twelve minute ride in complete silence. This silence is interrupted when I inadvertently drive my car into oncoming traffic.

(sun) church, Northeast: The church is really hot. Michael doesn’t want to take off his jacket because he is wearing a short sleeved button down that he’d accidentally purchased thinking it was a long sleeved button down. When it gets too hot for Michael to bear, he whispers to me “If I take my jacket off do you think I’ll look crazy?” I look around at our fellow congregants. The woman directly in front of me has a courtesy-of-my-auntie’s-basement tattoo covering the whole of her chubby forearm. She has brought with her a “purse” that can best be described as a white, pleather piece of carry-on luggage. Three rows in front of us, I watch as the bald head of another parishioner catches a stream of light from a stained glass window. Her entire head is bald. Save her natural, Ed Grimley-style bang… that is blonde. Directly beside Michael is the most beautiful transsexual I have ever seen. She also has the biggest, loud-clapping man hands I’ve ever seen. I wonder why Michael deems it appropriate to disrupt my salvation with his ridiculous questions.

(sun) church, Northeast: The pastor talks to us about taking Christianity into worldly places. He tries to identify with the “young people” and inform us that it is all right to go into Busboys and Poems[sic] if it is for the purposes of evangelism. He tells us that it doesn’t matter if people are in Busboys and Poems[sic] drinking alcohol and looking cute and picking up people, because we shouldn’t be afraid to go into the streets to spread The Word. I spend much of this portion of his sermon considering that I’ve apparently been away from Busboys and Poets too long. My friends go there to eat mac ‘n cheese, attend Alice Walker book signings, and hear spoken word poetry. I woulda been in there way more if I’da known it was the Devil’s hideout for drankin and ho-in’. This absence is easily remedied. Good lookin’ out, Rev.

(sun) Michael’s b-day dinner, Dupont: On more than one occasion, I’ve forbidden our friend, “Monty,” to tell stories, as they are always ludicrous, and, as far as I’m concerned, complete fiction. As Monty’s stories tend to fold into other outrageous fables, I admonish fellow listeners not to make direct eye contact with him, so as not to encourage him, or enable his tomfuckery. Despite my warnings, my linesister disregards my instructions. Monty proceeds: “Did I tell y’all about the lady who went to go get a mammogram and then went missing? She did. My daddy called and asked me, ‘Did you hear about Ms. Mable? She went to go get a mammogram and then up and went missing.’ I think doctors should do better than that. If they can find you when they want you to pay your bills, they can find you when you got cancer. She been missing 6 weeks.” He then folds this story into: “Did I tell you about the woman who never loved her daughter? She never loved her. My mama told me once to take her a plate but to be careful of the chain when walking up the front porch cause she had a whole chain that wrapped around her house. But she never loved her daughter. She stayed in bed all day, never wearing anything but a robe and some baby powder. Yes she did. She never loved her daughter. Never loved her.  And she had cancer, too.  She died.  But not because of the cancer. Because she never left the bed. She sat there  all day eating Tostitos. That’s what killed her.”

(sun) Michael’s b-day dinner, Dupont: My linesister and our friend “Anna” get into a heated debate about Anna’s boss, who is up for re-election. I watch as Anna and my linesister give meaningful arguments, but note that Anna obviously isn’t aware that my linesister is just baiting her. I shake my head, as at the height of their dispute, my linesister, having exhausted all of her educated responses, concludes: “I don’t care. I hate him. I hope he doesn’t win,” like the child that she is. Anna is temporarily stunned. I want to laugh, but I can’t, cause what she said is fucked up. Man, it’s funny, though.

(sun) 14th and K: Me and Michael go to meet up with my friend, “Maya” and her visiting best friend, “Kara.” Maya and Kara are wearing the same dress. On purpose. Maya is fairer skinned and has curly baby hair. Kara is darker than Maya, but has similarly curly baby hair. Having made fast friends with the patrons, they are the toast of the all-white bar where they are seated. Maya tells me that people have asked them if they are twins all night. You know, cause they’re black with curly hair, and are dressed alike. Not that they’re two grown assed women acting like asses. Maya informs me that they’ve told all of the patrons at the bar that they are “fraternal cousins.” All of the patrons at the bar have accepted this explanation. I immediately cast-aside any previously-held reservations about home-schooling one’s children.

(sun) 14th and K: Maya introduces me to Jamie, whose wife has left him for a woman, and Cristina, a haggard looking drunk woman who looks exactly how Sheryl Crow will look when she’s 80…and strung out on heroin. Cristina says to me, “Tell Jamie about how it’s better that his wife left him for a woman, cause it’s not like he’s competing with a man.” I look at a visibly intoxicated Jamie, and begin, “Well, actually, I read last week that it’s actually worse when your spouse leaves you for a woman. Because it’s like she’s completely emasculating you. Like, there’s nothing you can do .” Cristina signals violently to me, and starts mouthing that I’m going in the opposite direction of what she’d hoped. I hurry to fix the situation. “Actually, Jamie, what it means is, that your dick was probably too big for her. She took one look at your huge dick and just couldn’t do it anymore. You ruined her for all men. “ Jamie, happier with my newer answer, lazily smiles, and appears placated.  I briefly consider giving him a little piece on account of his troubles. I quickly reconsider, given his scruffy demeanor and overall drunkyness. I still congratulate myself for contemplating letting him bury his sorrows in my little mocha mons. I’m constantly thinking about how I can be of service to others. I’m a giver like that.


The return of fooler fridays, part I.: the post men will hate me for…


I have a request. This is not about single women, this is about women in relationships. Can you address two things: 1. the imaginary man and 2. the apparent need for some women to be taken care of and in charge at the same time?

The imaginary man is the ‘idea’ a particular woman has in her head that she compares to the man she is with instead of taking stock of the reality of the men in existence and seeing where he falls into that realistic scale. There are standards, and then there are fantasies. There is a difference.

The second one, wanting to be spoiled and pampered but be in charge of everything too, is fascinating to me because while it may work out for some women by and large this appears to be an unreasonable if not damn near impossibility of personality deconfliction. Progressive cooperation; sure. Responsible leader; that sounds reasonable. Traditional roles (by choice) while exercising influence within that structure; seems to me that has worked for a lot of people. But pampered and babied princess that calls _all_ the shots, sets the tone and has to approve of everything (at the extreme end even taking issue with a man’s thoughts and feelings); not so much. Like not at all.

I am fully aware that you may agree, disagree or even laugh out loud at the thought that these things even exist, and that I may be ‘wrongheaded’ in my thinking about what the real issues are. Either way, I would really love to hear your views on these two things as I am in dire need of some insight about such things, and I appreciate your keen insight and frankness.

My views on these two things….


Well, frankly, I think I disagree with both of your premises.

I’ll start with “the imaginary man.”

I take issue with your suggestion that a woman “tak[e] stock of the reality of the men in existence…”

I take issue because it is an impossible thing for any woman to do. Or any person to do, for that matter.  No woman knows all of the men in existence.  You wouldn’t wife her if she did. She’d be a complete ho-bucket.

She is only capable of establishing a basis of comparison (if one takes the position that she should be acknowledging any such comparison in the first place) between you and the men she knows or has known; the men who constitute her reality.

I read the most brave and honest thing in a blog a few weeks back that said (and I’m paraphrasing, here): my reality is the only reality that is important to me ( ).  

For instance, I happen to have three or four friendship circles that consist of unbelievably awesome men. I am enamored of my father, impressed by my employer, on good terms with all of my exes; even my preferred brand of ignorant reality television specializes in largely female villains.

So my reality is consists of “upwardly mobile” men who all have multiple degrees, are white collar in occupation,  who are quick of wit and easy of temperament, and generally speaking, of above-average height.

So, were I to “take stock of” my “reality,” which I’ve already determined is the only logical one for which I am responsible, I shouldn’t date men who are short, or who didn’t go to college, or who work on cars for a living. That would be my “reality.” Don’t expect me to congratulate a man I’m dating for not taking his socialization cues from “The Wire.” That shit’s not my reality. (Now is a good time to note that I don’t co-sign on the assignation of “realities” or any such rigid comporting to them.)

Now, if you are okay with her taking stock of her reality, and therefore, by default, going along with this idea that it is okay to compare the one you’re with to the ones you’re not, you necessarily set yourself up for the example I present. Maybe in her reality, men do all the shit you don’t.

For me, the problem isn’t some perceived incongruence between her reality and fiction.  Rather, it is what I’m picking up in your tone (correct me if I’m wrong, here), which suggests an air of, “She should be grateful for this good shit she has.”

This is bothersome because you obviously feel like you are going above and beyond, and she obviously thinks you’re a) doing what you’re supposed to be doing, or b) not doing enough. The problem isn’t with her reality’s incongruence with the world at large. The problem is her reality’s incongruence with your reality.

If this discordance manifests itself in relatively smalltime issues, this is easily rectifiable.

e.g. Where Ole Girl comes from, Dudes pay for 100% of all shared meals. Where you come from, women occasionally pick up the tab, or pick up the tab 50% of the time (As my friend “Ron,” once artfully put it: “So, I’m supposed to pay for every single meal that goes into your mouth for the rest of your life?”) This is a situation that has a solution. This is a situation that can have a reasonable middle ground.

However, if the issues are more substantial…

e.g. Ole Girl thinks it’s okay to fuck your friends as a showing of welcome, and you’d rather she didn’t—

It might be time to move on.

Okay, now to, issue #2: Being spoiled and pampered, yet desiring to run the show.

Again, I disagree with your basic premise, which, I believe, is that these two concepts are diametrically opposed.

I don’t think they are.

I think the woman who makes as large a demand as having her fully functioning adult person taken care of is entirely the type of woman who would demand that she have the final authoritative say in all matters.

I don’t find it surprising at all that a woman who expects a man to foot all of her bills and pay for all of her extravagances is unreachable when it comes to compromise; unwilling to demurrer irrespective of her faulty posture in an argument.

Here’s what I will say about the gold-digging ego-maniacal woman.  That bitch is honest.

And more of us should be like her.

Not gold-digging or ego-maniacal, but, honest about what our realities are; about what our dealbreakers and end-games are.

Because when we’re honest about these things from the gate, our separate “realities” don’t have to become a competing duality. We can both agree that I’m an ain’t-shit-bitch with a tragically over-inflated estimation of self and am deluded in my thinking that I am different from everyone else in the world who has to actually work for a living. We don’t have to fight over me being a harpy shrew intent on emasculating the very heart of you til your friends and the people who knew you when once you were great are entirely incapable of regarding you as anything more than a giant puss.

And then we can move together in cohesive unity.

As an aside—

(And please note, that I don’t subscribe to the “men ain’t shit” school of thought. I have zero complaints in the boy department. At least, no complaints that I can’t work with. Most of the men I deal with meet my standards with relative ease. This may or may not be due to the fact that I have low standards.)

Something I do concede to thinking, while addressing these remarks:

Everywhere women turn, some man is telling us to be more “realistic” in our thinking. Men are telling us to adjust our standards so that they might more easily mirror the manner of man that is truly out there.

Women are expected to modify their standards to accommodate this not-clearly-defined gray area of “what’s truly out there.”

I’ve already addressed our inability to properly assess “what’s truly out there.”

Here’s what I’m thinking, though.

Women constantly make amendments to accommodate what we believe men want. Constantly.

Women nip and tuck their bodies. Get bigger breasts, get bigger asses. We put hair in our heads, we wax it off our vags. We shut the fuck up during the game, we don’t call you a crybabyassbitch when you KNOW you deserve it. We show a willingness to step it up in some attempt to meet man-kind’s exacting  physical standards, and most of us work so we can go half on whatever we intend to build together.

If my law firm expects me to bill 2100 hrs a year, I don’t think to myself, “That’s some ole bullshit. Booboo’s firm only requires 1800 hrs a year. Shit, most firms only require 1800 hrs a year. I’ma talk to the Partners about how this shit they want isn’t realistic. Fuck this.”

I deal. This is where I choose to work. Its high hash-marks are my new reality.

If men live in a world where women have ridiculously high standards, then maybe ridiculouslyhighstandardville is your new reality.

Maybe it’s time for men to start stepping it up, no matter how unattainable the goal. Maybe men should stop focusing on how crazy our standards are, and just start focusing.

Unless she’s a total assbag. Then, treat her as you will.



So, I know it seems like i hate the ADA, but I don’t. The ADA hates me.

A little piece of me died on the Fourth of July.

Once again, I underestimated the power of a motherfucker with no legs to creep into my body, and steal my very soul.

You see, I’d assumed, that if your legs were all fucked and paraplegically janky, you would generally err on the side of shutting the hell up, and not letting any manner of crazy shit come out of your fully-functioning mouth.



As it turns out, a Gumbylegged bitch will roll up on you and ruin your entire evening just as quickly as a bitch with good, working knees.

There I was, clad in my fresh, white dress, shoulders out, hair all black and shiny (by “shiny” I mean, glossy-enough-to-look-fantastically-HalleBerry-in-good-lighting, but just-short-of-greasy-so-any-white-man-or-not-typically-associated-with-black-girls-devoid-of-color-man could run his fingers all through it and escape confusion or awkwardness), sitting solo (ON PURPOSE) by the bar on the first floor of the W.

I was jotting down notes from the previous evening, and my neck was still flushed from the ribald guffaw I’d just delivered to my barkeep’s face when he’d informed me that my glass of chardonnay was seventeen dollars.

All I’d wanted was to pass some time; to avoid the fray of south-bound holiday traffic.

And I was doing so, peacefully, when my thoughts were interrupted by the, “Excuse me, is this seat taken?” coming from down below.

Seated in one of those half wheelchair/half walker contraptions (for the sake of today’s entry, we’ll refer to said machine as a “wheelwalker”), was a Chinese girl, seemingly my age, wearing one thousand rings on her mere ten fingers, and a tiara on her head.

Mellowed out by my first glass of wine for the evening, but, truthfully, probably my fourth for the day, I answered, simply, “Not at all,” and moved my purse from the coveted spot.

Let me use my favorite hood preamble so you can appropriately gage the gravity of the following set of circumstances.

Now,me,myself,personally—I don’t just roll up on other broads while I’m out and strike up conversation with them for no reason. That’s either some Ilovemesomebitches type shit or some I’mwarmandoverlyfriendly type shit. I profess no particular talent for either category.

Which is why I was surprised—and by “surprised” I mean “shocked” and “fucking appalled”—when this broad proceeded to do just that—strike up a random conversation with me.

WheelwalkerBroad: “I love the Fourth of July, don’t you!?”

Me: “Er—I’m not particularly big on it as far as holidays go, no.”

WWB: “I think a lot of black people feel that way.”

Me: “Uh, I didn’t mean it from a—“

WWB: “Cause like, I know a lot of black people are angry about slavery and racism and stuff, but, like, I’m like, I mean, get over it.”

Now, I want to stop the narrative, at this point, and inform everyone that, when shit like this happens to you, you never respond the way you think you’ll respond. For instance, me,myself,personally, I assume that I’d get all righteously indignant, stand up, and shout out my Angela Davis/Stokely Carmichael-style schpiel detailing 200 years of slavery, three decades of Jim Crow, and present-day continued systemic, institutionalized race-prejudice, followed by an angered pouring of my drink on her non-working, ignorant, babylegs.

But she was handicapped.

And my drink cost seventeen dollars.

So, instead, I just sat there, mouth agape, as she continued, barely ceasing for breath, about black people being angry for good reason, but, you know, beleaguering the point and “not getting over it.”

And she had lots to say. LOTS.

She talked about hating the people she’d gone to college with, because they were all spoiled, rich types; not people like her and “probably [me]” who’d come from hard-working, but poor families.

She talked about how she’d thought that sororities were so stupid, and how her roommate had pledged a sorority and she didn’t know what all they’d done, but she was certain it was stupid. And besides that, even if it wasn’t, they were mean black girls, and probably discouraged her roommate from being her friend. They were Deltas. All Deltas were mean. She hated Deltas. Only after she’d vomited this sea of unwanted information all over my person, did she inquire: “Did you pledge a sorority when you were in college?” Me: “Yes.” WWB: “Oh really? Which one?” Me: “Delta.”

Between her repeated and conspicuous flip-hair-over-shoulder-then-flip-it-forward-to-hang-on-shoulder movements, she told me about her one million careers, one of which had included doing hair and makeup for “lots of designers.” She let me know that I should probably wear a little bit more make up; that while my eyelashes had sufficient length, they could use a bit more volume.

And I wanted to scream. I did. I wanted to tell her to shut up. I truly did.

But the bitch didn’t have any legs.

What do I look like screaming “Shut the fuck up!” to a bitch with no legs in a bar? How am I gonna look, being all, “BITCH, you’re wearing a FUCKING TIARA in a BAR” to a broad with Teddy Pendergrass  quadriceps in the foyer of the W? It’s kind of a classy place. It just isn’t done.

So there I sat, considering the ramifications of simply setting myself on fire, and the likelihood of her continuing her one-woman conversation with my charred, smoky, engulfed in flames black body, when she suggested: “So, I’m on the list for the party upstairs. Wanna come? It’s free top shelf booze til 12.”


I called to mind the countless times throughout my childhood when my mother and grandmother had informed me, “God can do anything but fail.” And I knew that my willingness to bind my tongue, just this once, had paid off. And my reward would not have to wait til Heaven. Oh no. My reward was in a chilled glass on the rooftop of the W.

Once upstairs, a lot of people stared at us.

I had been drinking, so it was hard to say if they were staring because we looked ridiculous together, or because I looked so dope in my white dress with my glossy hair.

But, were I a betting woman, I’d guess that they were staring because my companion was in her wheelwalker JAMMING.

I mean, gettingthefuckdown.

She was doing half-sexy half body rolls in her wheelwalker (Here’s something you don’t often think about: a full body roll with full-sexy is a luxury only able-bodied bitches can afford. You don’t realize how lucky you are til you see a bitch attempt a half body roll in her wheelwalker).

And while she wasn’t doing wheelies or spins in the WW, she was definitely on the floor grooving with her machinery. Like, make-the-crowd-of-people-around-us-hype grooving.

At some point, I became really self-conscious about all of the eyes on us. And then it hit me—the depths to which I’d sink for free alcohol.

I feigned dizziness, and tried to gracefully depart, but WWB followed me to the bathroom. She chatted incessantly about nothing even as I peed.

As I washed my hands and told her I was ready to go home, she suggested we hit up another spot a few blocks up and go for a swim in a rooftop pool. Free entry, of course. More free booze, of course.

And I thought about my life, just then. I thought about the woman I’d become. I thought about how far away I was from home. I thought about the next time I’d get to go skinny dipping in some rooftop pool with a bunch of strangers and free booze, without a care in the world.

Then another scene entered my mind. This one involved me explaining to EMS workers how I’d gotten some pseudo-legless broad wasted and then dumped her little drunken naked ass in a pool, where her efforts to swim like everyone else had resulted in an irrevocable, fatal fail.

The party was over.

“Naw, dawg,” I said. “Thanks, but, I gotta get home.”

She looked crestfallen, but it couldn’t be helped. I wasn’t gonna end my future over this bitch. She hated Deltas and had called me poor.

“All right,” WWB sighed. “By the way, what was your name, again?”


because i’m the kinda girl who takes a straight white man to meet a bunch of black gays…

I took my very heterosexual, very white friend, Rob, to an all-black, all gay barbecue last weekend.

Now, before you conclude that I hung Rob out to dry, please be advised that I did consult one of the two hosts about the okay-ness of him accompanying me. It went like this:

Me: “Mark, will it be okay if I bring my friend, Rob?”

Mark: “Sure. Is he gay?”

Me: “Nope. And he’s white.”

Mark: “Mmm. I think he’ll be okay. I mean, we’ve got a keg. Straight white boys like kegs, don’t they?”

Me: “Every one I’ve ever known.”

So, it was with an excited heart, and a nervous Rob that I trotted out to Loudoun County for the barbecue.  

Now, while I, of course, described the party’s potential happenings in painstaking detail, and absolutely alerted Rob to the overall uber-gayness of the event, I may have neglected to mention that the party would be all black.



“Don’t act funny.”

When we arrived I introduced Rob to everyone that I recognized, and mapped out the lay of the land. Just as I suspected, nothing but immaculately attired, fresh tapered good looking man-loving men everywhere I turned.

Upon entry, Rob’s face definitely bore that look one gets when he’s unaccustomed to being the only minority in a space (Remember that feeling, black people? Remember ages ago when we used to feel self-conscious about being the only black person in a room—you know, before we realized that it was going to happen on and on ad infinitum for the rest of our natural black lives?).

Now, Rob is something of a beer aficionado, and given the generally high alcohol volume of the fancy beer he traditionally drinks, he’s kind of a two beer per night kinda guy.  But, recognizing the expression he wore, I asked, mockingly, “So—what are you thinking? Two-beer kinda night?”

Laughing  softly, he looked around and said, “Um…. I’m pretty much going to drink as much beer as I can handle.”

So, I inquired as to the whereabouts of the keg, and Mark directed us to the patio where Rob’s salvation awaited him.

As he was filling his cup, I noticed a quartet of cute boys assembled around a table, smoking, and talking amongst themselves. I introduced myself and Rob (I should point out, that while I’m generally quite social when I have a mind to be, I was especially social on this particular occasion. Standing around and skulking in a corner is a luxury the bringer-of-the-white-man can ill afford) and we relaxed for a bit, taking in the gay scenery.

“I thought you were hungry,” said I. “You should eat. Looks like there’s plenty of food.”

“Yeah,  I am pretty hungry. I’ll get something,” he responded.

“Well, let’s go in and get a plate.”

Rob tensed a bit. “Maybe I’ll hold off for a sec. I don’t really have to eat.”

From the corner of the patio, the tall man with fantastic eyebrows, who’d introduced himself as Matt, called out, “I thought you said you were hungry.”

Rob, confused and surprised, stuttered a bit, “Well, I mean, I’m not really…I mean, I am, but—“

Matt was not in a state of mind to brook any refusal. “You just said you were hungry. And she said you were hungry. You think there’s something wrong with that food?”

Rob tried to put his words right, “No, I just—“

“Then go get you some food then. What are you trying to say? Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that food. You better go get you some food. Don’t act funny, now. Don’t act funny.”

I looked at Rob, and tried my best not to laugh. He just exhaled, dejectedly.  “Yeah. I can go get a plate. I’ll go get a plate. Let me just get another beer, first.”

It wasn’t until a few hours later that we learned that Matt had catered the event.


“Fooler, I think….I think these might be—greens?”

Back inside, Rob and I talked to fellow party goers. I could see that the beer was loosening him a bit, and I felt less compelled to glue myself to his every movement.  Rob surveyed the generous spread of food lining the countertops, and began to compile a plate. I made the rounds and also relaxed. Bringing him had been a good move. He was an easy, go-with-the-flow kinda guy; even when said flow was black and overwhelmingly gay.

A few minutes later, I found him, full plate in hand,  biting into what looked to be an eggroll.

“How is everything?” I asked.

“Really, really good,” said he. “Hey, I think I found something you can eat. These eggrolls are really good, and they don’t have any meat in them.”

“Oh, yeah?”  I said, inching closer. “What’s in them?”

Rob extended a half eaten eggroll, when my heart stopped dead in my chest. A confused furrow adorned his brow. “I’m not really sure. It’s either spinach or…I mean…”

I could hear my heart, again, only now it was thumping loudly between my ears.  I deliberated about whether it was best to tell the truth or remain mum.  Fuck it. The motherfucker’s here. Welcome to my world, White man.

“Rob, I think, that they are definitely not filled with spin—“

“Fooler, I think….wait…I think these might be….greens?” Rob stood there, examining the half-eaten article, slowly coming to the realization that Matt had masterminded perhaps the most unbelievable—and apparently delicious—fusion of Southern (black) cuisine and Asian cuisine mankind has ever known.

“Yeah, homie. Those are definitely greens,” I said, shaking my head.

“These are really, really good,” he repeated, before downing what remained of the eggroll, and helping himself to another.

Jesus Christ, I thought to myself. Everything anyone has ever said about black people anywhere in the world, at any time, ever, is true.

I watched Rob slowly and almost systematically eat and love every single thing on his Dixie plate.

Everything anyone has ever said about white people anywhere in the world, at any time, ever, is true.


“ ‘I try hard to fight it/no way can I deny it…’ “

Everyone who attends parties or frequents bars or clubs knows that, as the night begins to wind down, the motivation behind music selection shifts. While the beginning of the night is spent trying to get people hyped up, and the middle, focused on maintaining the momentum, the end is generally something of a free for all. The end of the night is where shit gets really good. The dj is under less pressure, and he can be a little more experimental with his choices. He can whip out the classics, the oldies but goodies, and be confident in his belief that the audience will appreciate his moxie, his defiance of the mainstream.

And you know what happens when the dj plays that magic song? Thaaaat’s right. Everyone closes their eyes, extends their arms above their heads, and sings at the top of their drunken lungs. And that’s the sweet spot at a party. The drunken group belt-out.

Now, in my humble experience, a good shut-it-down song at a predominately white venue is some 80s rock gem, like “Livin’ on a Prayer” by Bon Jovi or “Don’t Stop Believin’” a la Journey.

And for the traditional predominately black venue—I think we can all agree that a solid dose of Maze featuring Frankie Beverly  “Before I Let Go” gets the job done.


Hearken back to the part where you recall that I was at an all black, all gay barbecue.

Now, shame on me for letting my guard down.  Prior to this point in the night, I’d drunkenly reflected–as I often do when at all-gay events—what a shame it was that people were so bigoted; that if everyone would stop prosthelytizing or agendizing, or fucking hating for one second in time and just open their eyes, they’d see that who you choose to fuck has nothing to do with who you are as a human being; that this barbecue was like every barbecue I’d ever attended in life (only in a fancier space, with no girls, and men whose freshness-of-edge-up defied all heretofore known bounds of logic). People are people, I’d naively concluded. Gay, straight, in between—it makes little difference in the end. We all do the same shit.

But eight melodic words pouring in over the speakers brought me back from my ideological reverie. Eight little words put black gay smear all over my beautifully sentimental rose-colored lenses.

“Can’t explain why your lovin’ makes me weak…”


Before I knew what was happening, Coco, Taj, and Lee Lee, the most regular-looking trio of broads to ever top the R&B charts, who’d tauntingly provided the soundtrack to my romantically-tortured adolescence, washed over me.

I began to panic. This isn’t party music! This isn’t shut it down music! This is a ballad! This is an early 90s ballad! We’re at a party! This won’t stand!

I looked accusingly at my friend, Michael, who’d been drunkenly manning the ipod-of-steel all night, and who I’d earlier narrowly saved from pushing “play” on a particularly gospel-ly Kim Burrell selection.

But his hands were remote control free. Everyone’s hands were remote control free. I saw this clearly because everyone’s hands were extended—-above their heads.

Everyone’s eyes were closed.

The keyboard lulled into a delicate pianissimo and gave way to Coco’s exasperated, emotionally-tormented alto.

But I only had to endure her arguably not-so-hot voice momentarily.

Because just then,  the clouds parted, the heavens opened, and a lo, a chorus of gays sang along right with her, rhythmically swaying as if their black gay lives depended on it.

I can’t.

Surely someone will turn this off, thought I.


Didn’t happen.

No one even made a move to change that shit.

And then it hit me. Oh, fuck! Rob!

I’d left him on the patio.

I hurriedly opened the glass door, and there he stood, tall, straight, white, unmoving—

Amidst a backdrop of arms raised, eyes closed, gently swaying, sangin’ ass, gay ass blacks.

I approached. “Hey. Ummmmm. Errr. Uh. Yeah, I don’t really have an explanation for this.”

Is there an explanation for this?”

“Right,” said I. “Um. No. I mean, this usually happens, yes. But, uh. The SWV is new to me.”

“They’re singing all of the words,” said he.

“Yeah. Yeah they are.”

“And there are a lot of words.”

“Yes. Yes there are.”

I looked around us, then. I looked at our patio counterparts. I listened to the whole party stop everything everyone was doing just to slow bop and sing to this one monkey-ass song, that had, at some point, endeared itself to all of us during our youth.

Smiling, I looked at Rob before downing the remainder of what proved to be a bottomless cup of red wine, and said, “God, I love black people.”


July 2019
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a history of my meanderings….