Why Do Old Black Women Love Me?

I love the ladies, but my relationship with the opposite sex has been notoriously rocky. From my long period of forced celibacy-some people refer to this period as the 90s-to the good times that stretched from October to November of 2006, I have always tried to maintain a positive attitude during both moments of bounty and need.

This attitude includes being open to different types of women, regardless of race, ethnicity, or religion. When it comes to maintaining this spirit of opportunity, I find that among my friends I fall into the middle of a pretty wide continuum. For some of my boys, they will reject a girl based on an exhaustive set of criteria that Heidi Klum would have difficulty meeting. For others, a pulse and feminine gender seem to be the only key factors, as these walking Ellis Islands are loathe to turn away a willing partner, and should wear shirts reading, "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses."

While my experience has taught me to avoid stereotyping, I can't help but notice that there is one group of women who really seems to love me, and that's mature black women. Over the last few years, smitten black beauties with some extra miles on their tires have bought me free drinks at restaurants, snapped my picture for holiday cards, and giddily squeezed my biceps as though they belonged to Arnold Schwarzenegger in his pre-Last Action Hero Days.

The fervor is such that if you locked me in a house with Della Reese, Oprah, Toni Morrison, and the cast of Waiting to Exhale, there would be so many cat fights and hookups that Flavor Flav would be embarrassed. Thus far, no other girl, much less group of girls, has come close to matching this level of affection.


Even after years of observation, the reason behind this infatuation remains a mystery. If I had to speculate, I would say that the source might be my very fair, milky white skin tone combined with my clean cut, conservative attire. I think this look may be highly appealing to black women who grew up in an era before rap impresarios and moguls, when white men in suits were considered the epitome of wealth and success. Or maybe I'm simply mistaken as being albino, its hard to say.

Whatever the cause, I sincerely appreciate the attention, and hope the phenomena continues well into my nursing home days, so that I can at least get some senior center action prior to the great beyond. Until then, my only wish is that women in other demographics start taking notes on how I should be treated, because while black is beautiful, there's still a whole rainbow of girls out there.

[Waiting To Exhale] [Toni Morrison] [Della Reese] [Flavor Flav] [Last Action Hero] [Ellis Island] [Heidi Klum]

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I Beat People Up In My Sleep

The period when you first start sleeping with someone is a fascinating time in any blossoming relationship, and I'm not talking about just the sex. I'm talking about the actual sleep. The reason being that when you’re sleeping, you have no idea what's going on, and no control over what you’re doing. In some ways, falling asleep beside a person can be an act of greater intimacy and trust than the sex itself.

In my current relationship with Mandi, we are now at the point where we spend two to three nights a week in the same bed. What is it like sleeping with me you ask? Well, according to Mandi, I have a few quirks.

One is that I like run in my sleep, as I will lie flat on my back and vigorously move my legs in a cylindrical motion for ten to twenty minute intervals. If that weren't enough exercise, she has also informed me that I occasionally throw punches while running, some of which have actually hit her in the head and arms. Although I was initially skeptical of this claim, Thursday morning I saw the fresh welts with my own eyes.

While I am sprinting and engaging in nocturnal fisticuffs, Mandi is not exactly lying motionless beside me. She has this habit of turning her body every five minutes, starting on her back, moving to her side, re-positioning to her stomach, before finally returning to her back. The problem is that she frequently takes the covers with her, wrapping them around her body like she was in her own little cocoon. I know this because I frequently wake up freezing in the middle of the night, and will look over to find her in the midst of a rotation, as the blankets that used to be mine tightly coil around her frame.

The two of us sleeping together must be quite a sight, and I've considered shooting a video. It might not be as raunchy as something from the Pam/Tommy Lee or Paris Hilton genre, but it would have all the elements necessary for internet success, including violence, theft, and a hairy, half naked guy running in his sleep.

[Pamela Anderson] [Tommy Lee] [Paris Hilton]

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Mom Told Me To Visit A Psychiatrist

I called my Mom yesterday for one of our bi-weekly chats. The conversation normally follows a pretty standard format, where Mom checks to make sure that I am fulfilling the basics laid out in Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, from eating to sleeping to avoiding laying on the couch while wallowing in my own filth. I then dutifully respond to her queries with a quick, monosyllabic answer along the lines of “yes” or “fine.” At this point, Mom will embark upon a ten minute tirade over the house’s chronically leaky roof, cursing my father who designed the roof, our comically incompetent Indian roofer Ganesh, and God in his role as the creator of moisture.

Apart from the fact that conversations with my Mom have changed little since I was sixteen, the call yesterday was interesting because after complaining about the roof, she took the discussion in an unprecedented direction.

Mom: Do you think it would be helpful if you talked to someone?

Me: I am.

Mom: No, I meant a psychiatrist, like Frasier.

Me: Uh.

Mom: Their not just for crazy people anymore. Maybe you’d feel better.

Me: Hmm.

Mom: Believe me, I’m going to have to visit one if this stupid roof keeps leaking…

Mom’s suggestion was disturbing because, like most parents, she has always viewed my idiosyncrasies through a rose colored prism. This meant that when I was growing up, my weight problem was attributed to “husky genes,” my deficiencies in school were the result of “not being challenged,” and the many stains that appeared on my bedspread during puberty were simply “toothpaste.” These past denials tell me that if she came right out and mentioned a shrink, she must think I’m pretty fucking nuts.

It also hurt because I really don’t want to let her down. As her only child, I am the sole measure of whether or not she was competent at child rearing, a task our society regards as an adult’s most important responsibility. Conversely, if a family has ten kids, and three are a success, then the parents would be batting 300, a percentage normally sufficient to have a player enshrined into the Baseball Hall of Fame. For Mom, I’m her one swing, which is why I’ve actually considered her proposal.

My personal assessment is that I do not need to visit a psychiatrist, a conclusion I reached after a day of self reflection and a few moments staring at my WWTCD bracelet (What would Tom Cruise do?) However, I do need to change the way I communicate with Mom.

In particular, I am going to try to listen to her inquiries, and respond with thoughtful and complete answers that actually stretch into sentences. I am going to ask her questions, and move beyond topics such as my eating habits and laundry status. I am also going to fire Ganesh, and replace him with someone who can actually fix the roof, which will hopefully help both Mom and I maintain our sanity for a long time to come without the need for professional intervention.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

[Frasier] [Tom Cruise] [Abraham Maslow][Baseball Hall of Fame]

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Tale of the Tape: David Hasselhoff vs. Roger Clemens

Today I was sitting in the cube thinking about two of my favorite people, Roger Clemens and David Hasselhoff. In particular, I spent an hour going back and forth over which one of them is the bigger star. For newcomers to my blog, you should be aware that, yes, I hate my job, yes I have too much free time, and yes, these are exactly the types of pointless issues I struggle with on a fairly regular basis.

I tried to compare both men based on an impartial set of criteria, and these are my findings.

NICKNAME

Hasselhoff: The Hoff

Clemens: The Rocket

Edge: Clemens

BELOVED BY

Hasselhoff: Tone deaf Germans

Clemens: Texas rednecks

Edge: Even

ASSOCIATES

Hasselhoff: bouncy blonde lifeguards, a talking car, puppies

Clemens: Brian Mcnamee, Andy Petite, lawyers

Edge: Hasselhoff

MORE MEMORABLE QUOTE

Hasselhoff: “There are many dying children out there whose last wish is to meet me.”

Clemens: “I think he misremembers”

Edge: Clemens

LESS EMBARASSING MOMENT

Hasselhoff: Videotape of being drunk eating a cheeseburger

Clemens: Accused of letting another man stick needles in his ass

Edge: Hasselhoff

BRIGHTER FUTURE

Hasselhoff: Vegas stage shows and Knight Rider cameos

Clemens: Prison

Edge: Even

According to my count there’s a tie, which is admittedly kind of weak. If anybody wants to cast the deciding vote, be my guest. If not, the debate may end, since I really need to delete this image of David Hasselhoff from my computer before IT security runs it's weekly porno sweeps. I'm all about uncomfortable moments, but even I would like to avoid a conversation with my boss about why I keep an image of a naked, puppy covered Hoff on my desktop.

[Roger Clemens] [David Hasselhoff] [Andy Petite] [Brian Mcnamee] [Knight Rider]

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States Worse Than New Jersey

I was born and raised in New Jersey. To me, the Garden State is more than just big hair, Italian gangsters, and funny accents. It’s more than an area of 8,729 square miles that has produced luminaries such as John Bon Jovi, Jack Nicholson, and Shaquille O’Neal. It’s more than the bastion of wealth that boasts an overly educated and high earning population, yet also has within it’s borders two cities ranked among the ten most dangerous in America. To me, the land mass that stretches from the Jersey shore to Hoboken produces people with an attitude, energy, and outlook on life so staggeringly unique that whenever I hear it’s name one word dominates my subconscious, and that’s home.

Even as an unbiased native, I’ll be the first to admit that New Jersey is not without its quirks. Those rolling hills bordering the turnpike are actually overflowing landfills (On the positive side it was recently announced that all our landfill space is full!). That guy walking down the street in an undershirt wasn’t planning on wearing anything over that. And a fat cat isn’t an obese feline, but rather a heart attack inducing sandwich comprised of two cheeseburgers, French fries, lettuce, tomato, and onions crammed onto a single sub roll.

I love all of these things, but living in Virginia the last few years, I’ve discovered that the sentiment is not mutual. In fact, there are a lot of folks around here who openly dismiss Jersey as an “armpit;” code for a festering black hole of shit from which nothing good could ever emerge.

I encountered one such hater two weeks ago, and upon our first meeting she had no trouble launching into a fifteen minute diatribe about what she believed to be the many deficiencies of my home state. When I inquired where she was from, she replied, “Indiana.” Sadly, such encounters with total ignorance are not unique.

So in an effort to combat the confusion that exists, I’m going to return the favor, and list all the states I’ve visited that are far worse than New Jersey.

1. Kentucky-Just take a look at who wears those, “Getting Lucky in Kentucky” t-shirts, multiply by 4 million, and you’ll understand.
2. Mississippi-The state with the worst education system inexplicably has the hardest name to spell.
3. Indiana-I’m naturally suspicious of any people who would willingly refer to themselves as “Hoosiers.”
4. Alabama-Here they go out of their way to recognize the things that are truly important, like God, football, and incest.
5. Delaware-Home of tax free shopping is the perfect target for annexation by New Jersey.
6. Utah-How a can a place filled with preachy Mormons, polygamists, and an NBA team have so little alcohol?
7. New Hampshire-State motto is Live Free or Die, and after visiting the latter option didn't sound so bad.
8. Arkansas-This state’s biggest industry is poultry farming, which makes it the perfect spot to visit if you happen to love chicken poop.
9. North Dakota-You know things are bad when your citizens are jealous of those who get to live in the frozen emptiness that is South Dakota.
10. Michigan-People here will show you their town’s location by pointing it out on their hand because they think it looks like the shape of the state. From what I’ve seen, they’d be more accurate using their ass.

[New Jersey] [Bon Jovi] [Jack Nicholson] [Shaquille O'Neal] [Indiana] [Michigan] [Arkansas] [Fat Cat] [Landfill]

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How Do You Help An Alcoholic Friend?

One of my best friends in recent years is a guy we’ll call Dan. Dan is an alcoholic. We met, of course, at a bar, where we were both trying to gain the attention of the same girl. I tried to engage her by asking if she had any interest in books, while Dan, staying true to his indomitable style, asked if she had any interest in sex. Shockingly, neither of us got the girl, but Dan and I hit it off and wound up exchanging numbers.

I’ve now known Dan for three years, and learned that he is actually two very different people. Sober Dan is quiet, contemplative, and regularly goes out of his way to help others. He enjoys watching Animal Planet on TV and working at his pizza shop. Drunk Dan is boisterous, rash, and crude beyond all belief. He enjoys alcohol, women, and more alcohol. These personalities are so different it’s hard to fathom that ten Bud Lights are all that separates them.

In spite of this contradiction, I’ve seen the transformation happen a lot, as Dan and I go out to bars once or twice a week. On those nights, Dan will be drinking when I arrive at his apartment, and he will also drink in my car on the way to the venue. In fact, like a cagey squirrel, Dan has mastered the art of hiding beer in my car, as I have discovered bottles in the trunk, under the seat, and, my personal favorite, in the glove compartment where I keep my license and registration.

Dan’s roommate, John, is also a lush, and at 3am they will frequently start wrestling, demand Taco Bell, or both. For example, last week they were able to order without incident, but at the pickup window John put Dan in what he called a “rear naked choke.” Dan responded by getting out of the car and challenging John. John’s response was to charge Dan, knocking him into the bushes where they would spend the next twenty minutes grappling. Unfortunately, I didn’t have money to pay for their Cheesy Beefy Melts, and the ten cars behind me started honking, while I did the best I could to avoid the glare of the drive-through cashier, a young, cross-eyed Asian guy, who probably thought earlier in the day that life couldn’t get any worse.

Lately, I’ve been thinking more and more about Dan’s drinking, my role as an enabler, and what, if anything, I can do to help him quit. Having raised the subject of alcoholism to him before on numerous occasions, I know that when confronted Dan will acknowledge he has a problem, tell me “I’m ten years too late,” and then quickly change the subject. I’ve considered not driving Dan to the bar anymore, however I fear he will attempt to drive himself, or turn to John, who is no better an option.

So that’s where the situation currently stands. If anyone has any suggestions they would be greatly appreciated, since I have no experience dealing with alcoholism and am completely out of ideas. Until then, I don’t see anything changing, and Dan’s steady deterioration will continue.

[Alcoholism] [Taco Bell] [Animal Planet]

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To Dye or Not to Dye: A 30 Year Old Guy Battles Grey Hair

It used to be that worrying about one's appearance was a strictly female enterprise. These days, the paradigm has shifted, and this has placed men in an interesting position. We are post Queer Eye and the metrosexual revolution, where gay dudes taught us that we could manscape and spend $80 for shirts, yet a little of the sagging and plumping that accompanies normal male aging is still considered distinguished, even sexy, by a certain segment of the female population.

These parallel lines of reasoning presented me with a quandary when I noticed my first grey hair earlier this year. The tipping point in favor of action came when one of my company’s interns referred to me as “sir.” Sir! While ideally she would have referred to me as the “cool guy who is going to come over later and tear through me like a tornado in a Texas trailer park,” any vulgarity or profane adjective that comes to mind would have been far preferable to sir, a designation she probably reserved for old men of her father’s generation.

My initial plan to combat the grey involved plucking them out with tweezers I bought at the local supermarket after telling the cashier a long winded story about how my girlfriend needed them because they caused her less irritation than traditional waxing. Having procured the tweezers, and befuddled the cashier, I would spend fifteen minutes every week in front of a mirror searching for and removing any grey hairs I could find. Although I did this alone, I began feeling somewhat self conscious, and mentioned this weekly ritual to my doctor. His response was, “I wouldn’t worry. My wife does that.”

After having been completely emasculated by my doctor, along with his wife, I stopped plucking and decided to explore the world of over the counter dyes. I went to the drug store with my friend “Irish” Patrick for support. Irish was 29, had a similar issue, and was considering the possibility of splitting a bottle of Just For Men. We have different hair colors, as mine is black, and his is brown, but we figured we might be able to get a shade in the middle, saving ourselves some cash in the process.

The selection we encountered was staggering. Everywhere you looked there was a box adorned with a rugged guy enjoying the freedom and confidence his newly invigorated coif provided. In spite of this initial optimism, things went downhill fairly quickly. Irish and I couldn’t agree on an intermediate shade, and then all of the products I saw for my hair color featured black guys with beards and jheri curls. Twenty minutes later we would leave the store empty handed.

So that’s where I'm at right now. On a theoretical level, I believe that human beings should age naturally, without the use of artificial means to preserve an image that is hollow and vain. On a more practical level, I like dating 21 year old girls, which means my battle against grey hair will continue.

[Just For Men] [Metrosexual] [Manscaping] [Jheri Curl] [Queer Eye] [Grey Hair] [Richard Gere]

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