79) Blog for an entire month besides February

Hooray for me!
The end.
Word.

Naw, I'm joking. You guys get more of a finish than that.

I have to say, I did not think you guys would enjoy the revival of this blog as much as you did.
Then again, you all complimented it
before my posting became sporadic.
In any case, I just want to thank you.
Without you, I wouldn't have as much drive to write.
It's always flattering to know someone admires your work.
I'll see what I can do about keeping my ego in check.

Before going on this month long stint,
my work was suffering.
But this was basically P90x for writing.
I feel confident that I have a gift (of sorts).
I am a writer; I have no doubts about that now.

Some of you may have noticed I didn't post on St Paddy's Day.
It wasn't because I was drunk.
It was because the majority of you were.
I don't write to an audience that's not paying attention.
That's my excuse, and I'm sticking with it.
Besides, 30 days is a month about half the year.

A note about the poems, stories, and essays featured this month.
Yeah, those were basically my fill ins for days I felt too busy or uninspired.
Like my regular posts, some where more popular than others.
In a way, I'm glad I occasionally got lazy.
It gave me an excuse to put out my actual work.

So, what's next?
Welp, I'm taking a break, but it might not even last a whole week.
I still have a lot of posts I want to write.
Topics from hip-hop, sexuality, and race as usual.
To be specific though,
there's a post about Drake I've been sitting on since the fall
that desperately needs to be written before it becomes any more irrelevant.
There's also my Discovering Race series I need to continue.
I don't care if those are popular.
They're more of a self-discovery exercise I'm sharing with the world.
I can almost predict catching flack for one of them, though.
Suppose we'll find out in the coming months.

Again,
thank you for helping me make this month of blogging a successful one.
And don't forget to give me suggestions for post.
I have a box that yearns to be filled.
....yeah, I know what I wrote.
Ok, my dear friends [and associates].
Til the next one.
Word.

A Fashionable Post

My school is having their fashion show tonight,
so allow me to write vaguely today.

Most people know I own mostly funny t-shirts.
Some wouldn't consider that fashionable,
but I like to think of it as an off-kilter style sense.
I like to think I match well with the 3 cardigans and 3 hoodies I have at my disposal.
I could do better in the shoe department though.
Owning only 6 pairs of sneakers and 1 pair of dress shoes might seem modest,
but they are all over 1.5 years old.
My pair of Tan Air Forces have been with me for almost 5 years now,
and my blue Chuck Taylors have been around since freshman year of high school.
I just didn't actually wear them til I got to college.

Ok, so maybe I lack a certain gasp on appealing apparel.
I still have out-dated button up shirts from high school in my closet.
In my defense, I haven't worn them in at least a year... I think.
My 3 polos hardly get any play.
Same goes for the few dress shirts I have.
And like a true young man, I have one black suit, and the suit alone.

Now I'm depressed.
Now I'm realizing what a first world problem this is.

This is such a directionless post.

Can I just say I'm glad flannel came into my life,
as much of a hipster or lesbian that makes me?
I probably hated it in high school,
but it's such a go to option for me now.
I only have 4, but that have been good to me.
Especially you, blue and orange flannel shirt.
You are my favorite.

I'm not the only one that sees people walking down the street wearing something you like and want to snatch it of them right?
The only reason I don't is because I'm black
and doing such would reflect poorly on my race.
[insert appropriate emoticon and/or IM acronym]

I'm also know I'm not the only one that wants to tackle anyone you see wearing something you own, especially when you have it on the same day.

This is why I can get into shirts with nothing on them.
Anyone can own a plain red shirt or a lavender v-neck.
I need Uncle Sam pointing and saying "I want him" on my clothes.
Thank you.

Occasionally I think about wearing a dress.
You girls get to have all the fun.
This is probably why I have a slight urge to do drag.

Remember super long white tees and Jerseys?
Yeah, I never got into them either.

Snapbacks?
No thank you, sir.
I wear fitted hats I found on the bus
with a clear statement of irony.
Yeah... I didn't get into fitted caps while they were popular either.
I have a straw fedora that I adore to the death of me now, though.
I also have a collection of beanies from high school
that I revived because... yeah, that hipster thing again.
I'm such a poser.

Welp,
I think I've reached today's quota.
You guys have a good day now, ya hear?
Word.

Checker for Chubby

From a young age, I've been a firm believer
that big is as beautiful as skinny.
Never have I made fun of a fat person...
unless they started beef first,
then it's open season.
Shoot, I've even had my fair share of "big" crushes.
...no pun intended at all with that.

But there's something I've been wondering lately:
why is the idea of dating a bigger person so undesirable?
I understand the lust for a person with a fit physique;
they put in a lot of work (or have fortunate genetics) for their body.
However, pleasantly plump participants of the dating scene should be valid candidates for mates, too.

Traditionally speaking,
big women have naturally large posteriors and racks.
More times than not,
they're in proper proportion to the rest of their bodies.
Even more traditionally speaking,
flab was seen as a sign of wealth and prosperity
due to the lack of food for the common man of the day.
I'm thinking Louis XVII(?) era,
but I'm writing this too much on the fly to look it up.

I full support those who like bigger partners.
It is not a fetish.
The only time it goes too far is in the case of feeders,
assisting their partners reach ridiculous levels of fat.
That is true obesity.

Men are much more vain than women.
That's usually why you see hot women
with an out of shape guy.
They yearn for the inner.
Men are visual.
If it doesn't seem visually appealing, they want out.
Getting clowned by their friends doesn't help either.

Overall,
if you find a big girl or guy sexy
don't be upset with yourself.
Whether it be their confidence or size,
it's just something you're attracted to.

The Essayist: Boondocks Trinity

There was a time when I didn’t see color. It was beautiful. Those days in Newark, NJ during grammar and middle school seem so simple in comparison now. My best friend for the majority of those years was a Puerto Rican. He was one of the few non-black students in my school, but I welcomed him with open arms as my mother had taught me. It was only after I transferred during my 5^th grade year that I discovered that my friend actually held roots from Portugal. I had mistaken the Portuguese spoken in his home for Spanish.

Even still, I remained ignorant of race through my career at an almost entirely black middle school. It was not until high school that I began to see racial divides and tensions. Though the population was still predominantly black, there were decent amounts of whites, Hispanics, and Asian students. Before, the distraction of girls helped push racial issues to the side. In high school, there were no girls.  This factor allowed the gloves to come off. Slurs and jokes, ranging from race and social status to gender and sexuality, were thrown around freely even in the classroom.

The cafeteria was the perfect place to have free flowing discussions and to review popular culture and televisions shows. During the earlier years of high school, Chappelle’s Show was championed as the best show on television for its brutally honest jokes and sketches. It was popular because it delivered harshness with hilarity, the perfect prescription to a generation that hates to be lectured and wants instant gratification. I quickly began to admire Chappelle’s style. When his show ended on Comedy Central in 2004, a void appeared. It was an abyss created by the lack of a black voice exposing the problems in today’s society. In 2005, the space was filled by a new show on Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim lineup called The Boondocks. It became the new voice of the young black generation and my new inspiration.

I laughed uncontrollably at the world Aaron McGruder had created while appreciating the message that was almost hidden in each episode. It wasn’t until the show’s first season ended that I became aware that the show was based on the comic strip by the same name. I felt obligated, as a young black man who deeply wanted to find a voice to educate his peers, to immerse myself deeper into the world McGruder produced to bring his vision to light.

Having lived in a white neighborhood and gone to a white Jesuit elementary school in Columbia, MD, McGruder decided to attend a predominantly black high school (Henderson, “A.M. Biography”). He felt it necessary to connect more with his black community. After high school, he attended the University of Maryland to obtain “a degree in Afro-American studies” (“A.M. Biography”). According to Ashyia Henderson, McGruder’s The Boondocks first premiered on the Hotlist Online website in 1996, after which it appeared in his college newspaper, The Diamondback, until there was dissention between the school and McGruder (“A.M. Biography”). Still determined to have his vision shared with those around him, he began submitting strips to the popular Hip-Hop magazine The Source in 1997. Soon after, the Boondocks began running in newspapers around the country in 1998 after McGruder was contacted by Harriet Choice of the Universal Press Syndicate (“A.M. Biography”).

What makes The Boondocks such a stand-out strip are the characters that McGruder presents. The main characters of the strip are Huey, Riley, and their grandfather Robert Freeman, often called Grandad. I believe Huey and Riley may be based loosely upon Aaron McGruder himself and his brother Dedric respectively, although McGruder denies Huey to be his alter ego (Kang, “Down”). Much like the McGruder brothers, Huey and Riley are removed from the comfort of their black neighborhood in Chicago to a white neighborhood. They then struggle to adapt to their new surroundings in Woodcrest.

Having come from black schools all my life to a primarily Caucasian university, I find myself with a sense of displacement at times. I struggle as those around me don’t fully understand the workings of the world as I do. They don’t see the same undertones in the media or in day-to-day conversation. I can only laugh quietly to myself whenever a joke that would have flown freely in high school pops into my head while in my Theology class. Were it not for the few other black students on campus, I might find myself completely at the mercy of the white culture around me.

Of all the characters in the Boondocks universe, I connect with Huey the most. We both see the world through constant critique, never truly satisfied with its current state. He is as much of a radical and free thinker as the man he is named after, Black Panther co-founder Huey P. Newton. Freeman is also a play on the term freedman, used to describe a freed slave. However, Huey does not necessarily feel free; he believes his people still have a long way to go before they can truly advance as a race. He wants all his black brothers and sisters to succeed, just as I do. We both are looking out for the best interest of black people, even if means disagreeing with the choices our people make. He believes the government is to blame for many failures in America; conspiracy theories are his forte. He’s very preachy and rarely smiles. In one strip, Huey reads the newspaper, as he is a well-read individual. He sees his horoscope, which happens to be highly specific this day: “You will continue to fervently hope Al Sharpton cuts his hair so that he may be taken more seriously by the masses – the irony of which will escape you” (“All the Rage”, 17). Huey plays ignorant to the message, but the irony is that he too sports an afro and is often disregarded by those around him. Sometimes people just don’t understand the message you want to give them.

Huey and Riley represent the two extremes of the black community. While Huey is the revolutionary, angry black kid you can’t stand to hear, Riley’s character is almost so ignorant and stereotypical that you have to love him. He’s also a believable character because I have actually met people like him. He is obsessed with the street life and will do whatever he needs to remain true to his culture in the midst of suburbia. He often puts down Huey or completely ignores him. He is the kind of black person I love to hate, because they are the type most likely to embarrass the whole race and typically look for the easy way out. For instance, when Riley learns about presidential pardons, he thinks it’s his chance to get away with anything he wants. He even sits down to write a letter to ex-President Clinton to set up a relation until Huey interrupts to inform that only the current president can grant pardons. Riley then exclaims, “Great!!! Well, this is the last time I make an effort to participate in government!!!” (“A Right…”, 112). Stereotypical black people, like Riley, are only concerned with learning or helping when it directly benefits them. McGruder, Huey, and I all share a deep distaste for such acts of ignorance and selfishness.

While the Freeman brothers are near polar opposites, their grandfather Robert Jebediah “Grandad” Freeman is a balance between righteousness and ignorance. Since moving the boys out to Woodcrest, he’s tried to provide as best he can for them, though he doesn’t always understand them. During a short succession of strips, Grandad attempts to connect with Riley through the use of rap songs. Riley can’t help but sigh as Grandad says such things as, “…Then there’s that T.I. boy runnin’ ‘round talking about ‘You don’t know me.’ But do any of us really know each other? …. And that’s all Bill Cosby is saying” (“All the Rage”, 79). On a separate occasion, he takes the boys shopping and offers to buy Riley three pairs of Air Force Threes because they’re 80% off when his grandson says he’ll only wear Air Force Ones, a popular expensive sneaker at the time. While he is helpful, Grandad is often selfish and self-centered as well. He’s very protective of his orange juice; it is a full day’s worth of vitamin C after all. Then when his cousins left homeless by Hurricane Katrina come to seek refuge, he pretends to not be home even with his cousins at his doorstep. Grandad is truly diverse in character.

As with any brutally honest cartoon, show, or program, The Boondocks received its share of criticism. One beef McGruder held was with BET (Black Entertainment Television). He had always disagreed with the way they represented the black race with degrading music videos and other generally bad programming; he also disagreed with their overall monopoly on the black television demographic (Henderson, “A.M. Biography”). In one strip, McGruder pointed out that BET founder Bob Johnson said his network “does more to serve the Black community” than McGruder does. McGruder then shows a signal panel of a black behind shaking vibrantly “in order to follow the fine example set by Mr. Johnson” (“A Right…”, 50). One a separate occasion, McGruder touches on the BET buyout made by Viacom and has Huey call Viacom directly and request them to fire Bob Johnson so that BET can begin to head in a new direction, towards more positive programming (90). I, too, have felt that BET shames the race in the way the network depicts black people. With the recent addition of certain reality shows, BET is worse than ever. Before, I would turn the channel from a show I was poking fun at whenever a white roommate walked into the living room, not wanting to perpetuate any of the stereotypes the programming might contain. Now I’ve stopped watching BET completely, at least until it gets its act together.

Perhaps the biggest controversy The Boondocks comic strip faced was shortly after 9/11. When everyone else shied away from placing blame on anyone or criticizing the president, McGruder held no punches. On the actual date, he was busy on one of his usual tirades, this time against actress Vivica A. Fox. Two weeks later, the strips McGruder wrote to address the issue ran in the papers. For this portion of the strip’s run, Huey and his friend Caesar, the only other black kid in the neighborhood, watch the news coverage. Most of the coverage makes fun of itself, but Huey will interject his opinion as well when necessary. Later in the year around Thanksgiving, Huey is asked to pray over the meal: “In this time of war against Osama bin Laden and the oppressive Taliban Regime… we are thankful that our leader isn’t the spoiled son of a powerful politician from a wealthy oil family… and uses war to deny people their civil liberties. Amen” (175). In response to critics asking about the comparison of President Bush to bin Laden, McGruder pointed out that he never explicitly mentioned Bush’s name in that particular strip. He went on to say, “If the reader reads what I wrote and thinks about G. W. Bush, that means it’s f****** true!” (Lemons, “Creator”). McGruder goes on to say that readers shouldn’t be mad at him for drawing connections they made themselves.

Just as McGruder did, Huey and I both started our own sort of publications. I have The Wacko Monologues, a blog that I use to voice my own opinion on topics from race, sexuality, double standards, and taboos as well as other various topics. I like to pride myself on the tagline “Insight and Humor” for they are the best duo of all time. I also try to omit names as often as possible when I recount personal events, much like when McGruder alludes to certain public figures in his strips. Huey has his Free Huey Report which he uses as a vehicle to criticize the government, pop culture, and anything else he sees fit. In the comic strip, it is joked that he only has 12 readers, more than half of which only read it to disagree with him. When he has his neighbor, Attorney Thomas Debois, read his issue, it is believed that Huey takes “too many liberties with the facts to call [it] a newspaper” (“A Right…”, 70). When asked why, Thomas responds, “Well, how do you know G.W. Bush smoked crack?” (70). Huey simply argues if it was that unbelievable that Bush could have ever smoked (70). This type of social commentary is what McGruder needed to be shed in the comic section of the paper, Because I Know You Don’t Read the Newspaper according to the title of his first collection of the Boondocks strips.

As mentioned before, The Boondocks is also a television program. The comic strip has since been cancelled, as to make things easier on McGruder. The series has come under the same criticism as its still counterpart, but the two mediums have their differences. The most notable difference is the lack of strong stances on politics. McGruder attributes this to two factors: the nine month delay between the writing and animating process and deciding to ease up a bit (Braxton, “He’s Gotta…”). Because McGruder decided to go with an anime style for The Boondocks, the show is sent to Japan to be drawn (“He’s Gotta…”). Such a lapse of time makes it impossible to be topical on a regular basis. Another notable difference is the reduced focus on Huey as the story follows Riley, Grandad, and even other supporting characters in their neighborhood. Huey always narrates the story, however, for he holds the insight. This is how the story remains his as he interjects his own views and opinions on the actions of others.

If The Boondocks has taught me nothing else, seeing race is beneficial. It has allowed me to view the whole picture. I can be sensitive to different issues and know when others are offending me or passing judgments they may not even realize they are passing. This is why I value Aaron McGruder and Huey Freeman as much as I do: because they are lights of knowledge in the darkness that has become our ignorant society.

Through Dark Eyes

I've becoming slightly crippled by expressing my feelings on a certain social issue that I'll probably expound upon tomorrow. The post I had planned today is too lighthearted/trivial for me to focus on now. So, as a consolation, here's a comic series I created for a class back in 2010 inspired from the Boondocks. It's obviously not as good as McGruder's work, but it's matches the mood I'm in currently.

Without further adieu, please enjoy Through Dark Eyes.

Cruising Online

There is absolutely no shame in using online dating services this day and age.
If I remember the statistic correctly, 1 in 5 couples meet this way now.
So, allow me to portray my online experience to you.

I have never been too successful in the relationship area.
For the longest time, I was quiet
and had no clue of how to approach people.

Ok, that's not entirely true.
Up until high school
I found a girl to swoon over
and make her mines to some effect.
Attending an all boys high school
crushed what little game I had.
Then I figured out I was gay
and the difficulty level increased.
You remember my falling for straight boys post from last week.

In my whole dating career
I have had 1 girlfriend and 1 boyfriend,
both of which approached me on MySpace.
Things didn't work out for one reason or another, obviously.

When I got to college and made a few gay friends - all black -
they introduced me to a site called BGC: Black Gay Chat.
Go figure, right?
With it's blue layout, it was a dark and gritty place.
I stayed on the site for two years looking for a boyfriend
before realizing that "niggas ain't shit" from Newark to Baltimore.
The site was mainly comprised of black men,
but there were a few latino and "thugged-out" white guys.
More than half of the men on the site were on the DL.
By and large, they all just wanted sex.
After meeting with one in person,
I decided I wasn't down yet continued to look for shreds of decency.
It was a near fruitless search.
Don't get me wrong,
I had decent conversation with a guy in his 30s when I was 18.
We both agreed the age gap was too much,
so he acted as an elder gay in a sense.
I lost contact with him when I left the site.

About two years ago,
a friend of mine showed me a4a: Adam 4 Adam.
This site was a bit more
inviting and comforting with its orange theme.
There was more of a diverse crowd there,
though I was mainly contacted by black men.
The men there were more civil.
However, most of my conversations turned dull
once I figured out I had no real interest in them.
I met one guy in person that turned into a friend,
though I haven't talked to him recently.
There was another guy who I flirted with for half a year
before finally meeting in person.
We haven't talked much at all since the encounter.
I stopped using the site after that.

Now, for the past month,
I've found myself using OkCupid
after hearing a friend met his recent girl that way.
Their blue background gave me horrid flashbacks
but I do admire their matching system:
extensive amounts of questions to gauge personality,
detailed profiles to help introduce yourself,
and limits on how sexually explicit your pics can be.
I speared you the details of how many under the waist shots
I've seen from the other two sites,
but just know it's enough to turn a guy off.

I must say, I'm yielding next to no results from OkCupid, though.
Perhaps I'm expecting the trend of guys contacting me first to continue too heavily.
And while I am mildly upset, I'm shrugging harder than Kanye.
After being single for so long I've gotten used to it.
I've become such a solo artist that trying to sing a duet
seems like too much effort, and I can take it or leave it.

I'm sure there'll be that one to actually catch my eye one day
instead of a potential candidate to pass the time with.
Until then, I'm cooling.
Word.

Event Services Appreciation Post

Today's blog comes from a suggestion
via my very good friend and writing buddy
@Dry1313 on Twitter who simply wrote: Event Services.

For those of you who don't know,
Event Services is the department I work for on campus.
I've talked about them sparingly on the blog,
but I've never mentioned them by name before.
However, I'd like to take today to express my thanks.

I started working for Event Services May of 2009.
One of my roommates that year who worked for them
suggested I apply for a summer position
since I didn't want to go back to Jersey.
I have to say, the yearn to not return home
never yielded better results.

These past three years working for Events has been majestic.
I never realized how much work goes into
setting up and running a concert, lecture, or summer orientation
until I joined the team.
Granted, working those long hours
on mandatory calls all day and night Saturday
can bring even the happiest camper down,
there's always great coworkers to cheer you up.

That's really what this post is about.
I've made some of my best friends working for Events,
from a Theatre buddy I got to live with and grow closer with
to a guy who I share a love of video games and relate to emotional
to the friend I talked about in Friday's post
to my favorite white girl whose apartment I'm writing this in.
And of course there are many others who I'm glad to have met
and can't wait to see again.

While working during the year is cool, working during the summer is what I always look forward to,
maybe because that's when I start
but it's genuinely a great time
despite the hell we go through in June with freshmen orientations.
There are barberques and group "powwows" and much more bonding. It was during my first Events summer that I built a tolerance/taste for beer.
This can be seen as a good and bad thing,
but I just see it as allowing me to be more social.

Of course, from actually working as well
I learned a bit of leadership and responsibility,
especially over the past two years
with hoards of new faces coming and leaving our staff.
I like to think they mildly look up to me
like I admired the graduating seniors my first summer.

The thing I love most about working for Event Service
is that we basically are a family.
Even once you graduate,
you're always welcome to come back and work.
Ok, that doesn't sound as glamorous as I thought,
but trust me, it's a warm feeling to have.

The full timers on staff help foster this.
They're all charismatic and helpful.
A few of them I would even consider friends.
They're actually the only people on campus
I allow to call me Chuck.
It usually sounds ugly and mangled when others say it,
yet when they use it I just feel called to attention.
Even in the beginning when I didn't talk much,
I felt as if they got me.
I think that's part of the reason I stayed on staff.

For the longest time
I was afraid of my boss.
He is a fairly intimidating man;
he demands respect and pristine work.
But he also willing to crack a joke or two
when tensions aren't too high
or when an event is running smoothly.
I've even seen his compassionate side on a couple of occasions,
namely when I took a leave of absence around this time last year.
He assured me I'd still have a spot when I returned.
That's the essence of family I mentioned before.

Honestly, I don't think I could have asked for a better campus job.
I doubt any other student staffed department is as close-knit as us.
I mean, we live and work together over the summer;
you can't get any closer than that.
Word.

Story Time: Cab Relations

The lights whizzed by as they were consumed by the darkness around them. I was unable to make out the street signs, even from my window seat. Nate sat next to me, and Kip was next to him staring out his window. Their roommate, the birthday boy, was in the front with the cabbie. For a kid celebrating his 20^th birthday, you’d think Titus would be a little drunker on our way out, but he chatted the cabbie up like he was on his way to the office. The driver was Indian, if I remember my accents right. He seemed like a decent, honest man. I wondered how often the man drove his cab this late, gathering bizarre stories. His tall beige turban intrigued me as well.

On our way towards the bar, we almost hit a couple walking across the intersection. As he left the scene of the incident the driver said, “I hate black people. They always walk in front of my cab when I have a green light, they can’t drive, and when they’re in my cab, they’re loud and don’t tip! Not to mention, they are lazy.” He seemed to quiet down but then added, “And they always stare at my turban. Do I stare at them in their dingy doo-rags? No. I don’t. Black people infuriate me.”

            Titus looked back towards me and laughed. Obviously the cabbie didn’t see the black kid get in last and sit right behind him. “Yeah, don’t you agree, Greg?” Titus asked me. Of course what the man said could be said for some of the black people in DC, but they were still stereotypes. I didn’t fit any of those stereotypes other than the fact that I don’t tip. Reserving funds was a must.

            I passionately wished to respond and challenge the small minded immigrant, but the night was young and getting kicked out of a cab was not on my list of fun activities. So I played along and said, “Yeah, I hate those damn niggers. They’re no good.” I always joke about my race, but if any of my black friends heard me say that, they’d probably excommunicate me. Not because I agreed with the racist cab driver; because I said nigger around white folk. But for me, comedy always came before political activism. Mom never did think I had my priorities straight.

            My companions laughed for a bit, soon falling silent. I continued to stare at the man’s turban through the greasy plexiglass, wondering what might be under it. It was as big a mystery as what his wife looked like under her burqa – maybe bruises and scars he gave her. Why did he smell so strongly like curry when it was well after dinner time? How did he end up driving a taxi for a living? How did he end up in this country for that matter? He couldn’t have been a first-born American; he didn’t sound it.  Within seconds my forehead succumbed to a burning sensation.

            “Greg, you alright?” Nate asked. “You’re scowling.” I raised my cold hand to my face, attempting to distribute some of the heat. I didn’t talk for fear of my own unpopular remarks slipping out; instead I flashed my friend a reassuring “everything’s gravy” smile. Returning my gaze to the window, I saw our destination to the left. Good. I needed to drown my frustrations.

28) Stop falling for straight boys (for the most part)

Hi, my name is Charles, and I like straight boys.
At least I used to.
It's been a long time coming but I think I've finally kicked my habit.
Now, I have no doubts my attraction for the unattainable still lingers,
but I promise I'm better now.

For as long as I can remember, I've liked heteros.
It's actually how I realized I was gay.
Often in high school I would look at a guy I didn't know
and say to myself, "I'd like to be his friend."
Little did I know I meant to attach "boy" to the last word.

It didn't stop there.
My freshman year of college
I repeatedly hit on one of my straight friends
until he started to ignore me and being in the same room with him became awkward.
It made me recall one of the rules I established
my freshman year of high school when I thought I was straight:
I can be cool with a gay guy as long as he doesn't hit on me.
I have since realized that this is a ridiculous stipulation of who to associate with.

But even my first straight rejection didn't stop me from chasing after other guys.
Once... I can't believe I'm telling you this.
I obviously won't say who, but at a small get together my freshman year
a guy I had a crush on compared members with me in front of everyone.
That threw me off and misled me like no other.
I later chalked it up to white guys being way more comfortable with their sexuality,
at least that group of white guys. Love those guys.

Another pivotal moment in my hetero perusing career
is the night a friend drove me home from a party.
A year and a half prior, I heard he experimented with a gay friend of mines.
By this time, I was a senior and decided to live life with no regrets.
So I cracked a joke and kissed him on the lips.
He pushed me off and I could only laughed as I got out and walked to my apartment.
This instance taught me that not all people who've had a same sex experience are LGBT, quite an important lesson to learn if I do say so myself.
Luckily we're still friends. He's a good kid.

Let me take this time to say that active male LGBT allies trick me up the most.
They're so rare; I believe unicorns to be more real than they are.
Luckily I've met one that treats me with great respect,
makes gay jokes that are tasteful and doesn't go over the line,
and attends LGBT events whenever he's available.
Yes, I've lusted after him once or twice,
but I recognize his heterosexuality.
He's my favorite mystical creature.

But he wasn't the one that set me straight, pardon the pun.
I worked with a guy at my school over the summer
that everyone swore was queer
even though he had a girlfriend.
So one drunken night, I professed my love for him
and he gently let me down.
I started to sob as he walked away.
I know, I didn't expect it either.
Apparently I really liked the guy.
Usually when something like that happens
I stop talking to the guy and just act awkward.
It's not the best strategy and it stressed me out,
but that's how I operated back then.
So I see him the next day, and all goes as planned.
But the day after we're back to our usual antics.
I really appreciated that.

The following school year I met his girlfriend.
She was nice... but I still plotted to get her out of the picture.
Yes, I was one of those gays that fantasized of the straight guy leaving his gal for me.
I've written a poem and a short story about it.
I had no shame.

However, I've known the two of them close to two years now.
I have no doubt he's been aware of my feelings for him.
Perhaps she has as well.
But they're both extremely friendly to me,
occasionally inviting me over to hang and catch up.
Our friendship has shown me that I can be friends with a straight guy I like.
A crush that I thought was true love for over a year
blossomed into a genuine friendship that includes his girlfriend.
And I only realized this last week.

Being so fresh off the lust for straight guys
I wonder how long I can keep from fooling myself
I'll run off with one into the sunset.
Since high school, helping a guy realize he was gay
or at least being a straight guy's experiment
has been my deepest fantasy.
I realize now that no true happiness will arise from that.
That's my key, and I hope it keeps the door
to myself realization unlocked.
Word.

On Looking Suspicious

There just seems to be all kinds of f**kery occurring in March.
By now, we've all heard about the death of Trayvon Martin
and the possibly most likely racist self appointed head of the neighborhood watch who shot him.
Here's an article if you haven't.

Through the years, there have been far too many instances of a black person, more specifically a black male, looking suspicious enough to justify a beating or murder with a very slow legal process following, if any at all.
It's enough to terrify a young black man.
Certainly enough to scare me.

As usual, I avoided looking into the situation
because I knew it would only infuriate me and I like having pleasant days.
But these sort of things always find their way to me.
Today in my writing seminar,
we talked about the massacre of 16 Afghans -
which is another very important issue and discussion.
Of course, a relation was made to Trayvon and we talked about it.
Midway through the conversation, the topics racial profiling and suspicion arose.

I avoided adding my two cents in the conversation,
being the only kid of color in the room,
forcing me to have an internal dialogue.
I realized what I was wearing: a red and black plaid lightweight hoodie,
black shorts, red Chuck Taylors, and an ironically outdated red fitted cap I found.
I realized where I was: a extremely white campus where topics of race and discrimination are avoided by the majority.
I realized the person I was molding myself into: a self-proclaimed black hipster who knew how to interact with Caucasians and educated black folk, while gained the trust and respect of said individuals.
It was at this moment I became aware of what I was doing: becoming as far from "suspicious" as possible.

It's hard to pinpoint if I actively set out
to accomplish this as a high school graduate
and consciously forgot my mission along the way,
but I wouldn't put it pass myself.

Still to the best of my abilities,
I can't escape the feelings that I don't belong.
Whenever I walk through a predominantly white neighborhood,
I still feel the need to tread lightly.
I utterly refuse to run through such neighborhood.
Actually, I wouldn't run pass a cop car either.
No need to give them any reason to berate me.

In light of the 9/11 attacks,
you would think white would target middle easterners instead.
In fact, I remember jokes around black neighborhoods
wishing such would actually happen.
The reality of the situation is that
the terrorists are not on our soil but overseas.
Whereas African-American hoodlums are a prominent issue here.

Am I saying stereotyping as such is acceptable? No.
Do I propose anything to fix this issue? Yes,
but such a theory deserves sharing with other and feedback before becoming public.
What I will say is this.
To this day in the 21st century,
I am still cautious about being a black man in America.
I do not deserve such a terror to haunt me.
Yet I fear it may loom forever over us.
Word.

How Poetic: Pardon My Ignorance

After going to the Andrea Gibson reading last night,
I was inspired with 3 good ideas for slam poetry.
Since I failed to flush any of them out yet,
here's my first attempt at slam poetry
written about two years ago.
Enjoy.



Pardon my ignorance, however blissful it may be.

I’ve yet to become enlightened in affairs of such air and flare.

It bursts bright at my sights.

Where are my shades?

Ah, my pair of trees,

guard me from these foreign ministers

so sinister in their ways.

They wade in tainted holy water,

attempt to bless me falsely.

Yet cautiously, I bet like a beggar;

I give it no chance.

I’ll live to dance another day,

no way to die,

much rather I’d fry.

But I am no chicken,

no last name like Dickens,

but I spin tales so tall,

they seem as feathers 64 feet high.

Flock to them, dare not block them.

They form not as opposition but as propositions like 8.

All for rights, for all rights, rights for all

to adore me a more.

Love for myself high on a shelf,

unreachable by anyone else.

Fact rather false.

Wrong turn on route 22

and ended up rather untrue.

So blue above the garden of reason.

But please, pardon my ignorance.

One Last Day

Writing 31 days straight is challenging,
so I asked for suggestion for posts
@Babe_raham on Twitter suggests:
Starting now, you have 24 hours to live. What do you do? #thoughts #prompts

Using an hourly breakdown seems the best way to go about this.
To help me get in the mood,
I'll be listening to this song on repeat until I'm done.

7PM
Write a blog detailing what I regret about my life, what I'd do different, but why I'm glad things happened the way they did.

8PM
Attend Andrea Gibson poetry reading/LGBT discussion at my school to bask in the brilliance of another writer.

9PM
Walk around Loyola, stopping at each building I've lived in or experienced memorable moment in before walking off to the Roland Park area to eat a Subway meal. Instead of leaving after ordering my sandwich, I stay to talk to the female sandwich artists whom have grown to know me as a regular. Also, I'd like to see if any of them have a crush on me for a silly ego boost.

10PM and 11PM
Walk to a close buy liquor store and buy a bottle of Hennessy and Absolute Citron: the former because that's what Kanye got drunk on when he accosted Taylor Swift, the latter because they support the LGBT community and a featured regularly on RuPaul's Drag Race.
Keep a promise and walk to a room full of wonderful ladies to watch the Muppet movie as I generously share  my booze.

12AM
I leave the room where I've spent many night on their futon and visit friends I haven't seen much this past year, offering them a shot during their studies if they would like. 5-10 minute max in order to see most people before they go to bed, because people are more reasonable about sleeping than I am.

1AM
Wrap up spreading good cheer, walk to the park across from a building on campus. Think about texting every guy I've wanted to hook up with, but decide not to contact. No need to leave a guy traumatized knowing he was the last person I slept with.

2AM
Go back to my room and spend time with my roommates, distracting them from their homework. Continue to drink, and beg one roommate to play his guitar as we sing songs that make us laugh, cry, reminisce, all that jazz.

3AM
Continue with the prior hour's activities until they decide to fall asleep.
Think about all the friends I have not on campus that I won't be able to see before I past and cry.
Contemplate posting to various social media outlets that I don't have long to live, but decide to keep it a secret in hopes that it's not true.

4AM to 8AM
Pace my drinking as I watch 2 movies I wanted to see before I die illegally online.

9AM to 12PM
Sober up as I attempt to write the best 2 poems/short stories I'm capable of producing in hopes of leaving some kind of writing legacy.

1PM
Attempt to have lunch with the first person who accepts from my walk earlier in the day.

2PM
Visit teachers I never got to know personally on campus because I was too afraid or unsure of how to approach them outside of class.

3PM
Skip my Music Fundamentals test because I'm supposedly dying in four hours. Spend the hour polishing my writing from the morning.

4PM and 5PM
Go to my service learning and spend the last bit of my energy being a mentor to middle/high school aged actors/writers. Feel good about myself.

6PM
Lock myself away in my room. Look at my 101 Tasks in 1001 Days and force a single tear to roll down my face to laugh at how cinematic I'm being in an attempt to brighten my last hour on Earth. Write a short letter expressing my love for all of my family and friends, mentioning "I'm sorry I didn't let any of you know I was dying today, but they were simply too many of you." Write a special thank you to my mom for her support and dismissing all are minor difficulties with each other.

6:55PM
Simply write, "Thank you all. I love and appreciate you. Farewell" on my blog. Unlock my door, position myself on my bed, and attempt to fall asleep before an unannounced flatline occurs.


One usually imagines a much grander last day on to be alive,
but you wouldn't be able to plan it out.
You have 24 hours from the time some source lets you know what the deal is.
That's it.
With a realistic view on the situation,
I'd be very satisfied with if that was my last day.
Word.

Story Time: They Called Me Nigger

I remember looking out the window of my mom’s car on the way to school at miles of trees and farm land. The South was so different from New York City. I wouldn’t find a crowded subway anywhere near here. After twenty minutes, we arrived at St. James Prep, a private all-male Catholic school. My mom always preferred private schools to public: better education and morals, she said. I left the car without saying goodbye, my mind too focused on the day before me.

            The brick porch leading to the entrance was bare; we must have misjudged the starting time. Late for my first day of high school, what a way to start the school year, I thought. Entering the building, I searched my pockets for my class schedule. I walked through the empty halls until I found my homeroom, cracking open the door and poking my head in.

            “Ah, you must be Mr. Williams,” the teacher motioned towards me. “Please, have a seat.”

            As I took my seat in the front, the only spot left, I looked at my fellow classmates. There were only three other kids the same color as me. My middle school had been much more diverse. I wondered if this was how the population of the entire school broke down. I snapped out of my thoughts as the teacher introduced herself and told us that high school would be much harder than middle school.  We were let out at the bell’s ring. I didn’t bother looking for my locker just yet since I had nothing to put in it. Besides, I felt stares from other students while walking in the hall. Was it that obvious that I was a city boy?

            The same was true for my following three classes. In Algebra, there were two the same race as me; in U.S. History, there were four of us; in English, I was on my own. It wasn’t until lunch that I saw more than ten of us at a time. My people were all sitting together at a table in the corner. I was tempted to join them, but I refused to segregate myself. As I expected, the other tables were completely made up of the majority. I tried to put my anxiety aside as I walked over to a table in the middle of the cafeteria.

            “Hi,” I said as I placed my tray down. “My name is Taylor.”

            I was greeted warmly by a boy directly across from me. “Nigga, why don’t you just sit with da rest of da crackas in da corner? You know you want to.”

            I froze upon hearing “the word.” I had never heard it much at my old school. Maybe once or twice while walking around the city but never in school. I couldn’t believe he had called me one. I thought that was something black people reserved for themselves. “You’re talking to me?” I asked.

            “Yeah you, nigga. You see anyone else without pigment in their skin at dis table?”

            “N-no.”

            “Then get ya ass to da table in da corner, then!”

            I walked in shame to the table in the corner. I wasn’t aware that integration was a crime in the South. I took my place at the White table in silence.

            “Don’t let him get to you. I hear it’s like this with every freshman class. They’ll warm up to us as the school year goes on,” a red-haired kid explained. “My name is Rufus, but you can just call me Ruff.”

            “…Are you trying to make your name sound less white?”

            “If you want to put it so bluntly, yes. I’m attempting not to get picked on for my name. Do you know how corny and white Rufus sounds?”

            “I’m Lenny,” the kid next to me interjected. “You know, I heard that once we get to be seniors, we’ll gain enough respect from the black kids to actually start using the word ourselves.”

            “You must have heard a lie,” I told him. “No self-respecting black person would let you call him the N-Word.”

            “No, it’s true.” Ruff agreed. “My older brother graduated from here last year. He said it starts with us making fun of the black stereotypes anytime they joke about a white stereotype. Then we begin to call ourselves the word, first while no blacks are around so we can get use to hearing and saying it without cringing. Finally, our senior year, one of us has to be brave enough to try it out on one of them. Someone in the middle, no one too popular or unpopular. Once that’s done, we can come together as a whole class and use the word as a term of endearment.”

            “Oh, so the kid at the table called me the word as a term of endearment?”

            “No, he was disrespecting you,” Lenny clarified. “Blacks use it both ways. We can only use it in its positive sense.”

            “Right, using it negatively like they do will only end in a fight,” added Ruff.

            “God, I thought remembering math equations would be hard.”

            “Well, it’s kinda like math,” Lenny said. “The things you learn one day will be implemented for the entirety of your stay here at St. James. “

            “Oh, that reminds me,” Ruff leaned in close and stared right into my eyes. “Don’t use big words around some of them. They’ll think you’re trying to embarrass them.”

           

            I sat down at the table and peered directly into the eyes of the kid who told me to leave the table prior. “What do you want now?”

            “I want to be accepted for who I am, not the color of my skin” I paused for dramatic effect, realizing how lame and cliché I must have sounded. Then I finished, “nigger.” They called me the word, so why couldn’t I call them the same?  However, it took every fiber in my body to keep me from running out of the cafeteria.

            I should have ran, because just as the word left my mouth, the two kids sitting next to me grabbed my arms as the other lunged across the table. I don’t think I had ever been beaten so badly in my life. It was two minutes before anyone tried to break it up. The black teacher supervising the lunch wanted me to learn my lesson. I thought about telling the principal about his lack of intervention, but I didn’t want to get in bad with the faculty too.

            Apparently, I had stopped listening to Ruff and Lenny just as they were explaining the difference between the –a and –er forms of the word. It made a world of a difference, I realized now. Damn my proper grammar. As I laid in the nurse’s room, waiting for my mother to come in, ice on my right eye, I doubted that even if I had used the –a version of the word I would have broke down the racial barrier in the school. I would have to approach the issue with more subtlety next time. Maybe I could joke how the black kids had made me black and blue, that I was one of them now. I think I’ll wait until this whole mess blows over though. Enough insult and injury had been exchanged to last the week.

21) Attend a non-hip hop concert

I would first like to thank WLOY for giving me a free ticket.
My next thanks goes to my lack of competition for said ticket.

I went to the Dr. Dog concert at Ram's Head Live yesterday.
My friend Sam has their latest album on vinyl and has played it for me a few times.
They have a solid sound, but they didn't really stand out to me.
So why did I want a ticket?
Because a lot of my good friends were going and I knew it would be a good time.
It wasn't until we were headed to the venue that I realized I could cross a task of my list.

Why is it on my list at all?
Because I've actually only been to hip-hop concerts.
A few of them played with a live band,
but I felt that I needed to diversify my concert experiences.

And I'm glad I did.
Dr Dog played an amazing show.
I think they're a 5 piece band,
but they were 6 the day of the show:
2 guitarist, 1 bassist, 1 drummer, 1 pianist,
and 1 guy for tambourine and other assorted instruments.
The band has 2 lead singers that switched off songs.
The first guy was tall, dark haired, more attractive
and seemed like your typical lead in a rock band.
He wore sunglasses inside and everything.
However, I liked the short, blond singer better.
His voice was a bit more unique,
and he really got into the songs he sung.

The energy of the crowd rose each time he sung.
Speaking of the crowd,
it was a mix of hipsters and laid back kids.
Well... mostly hipsters.
Turns out hipsters smoke just as much weed at concerts as negroes do.
My group watched the band play from the 2nd floor.
It was cool looking down at them, watching the guys jump around.
The audience below stood and bobbed their heads for the most part.
We on the upper deck were more interesting, though.
During most of the second half of the show, we couldn't stop dancing.
The band jumped, and so did we.

There was no better instance of this than when Dr Dog
played what I believe to be their best song: Lonesome.
And yes, the short blond sung lead.
Because I actually knew the words to that song,
you couldn't tell me nothing.
I'm pretty sure that's when I broke my sweat.
My dancing was very bouncy and free flowing
whereas it's very structure and rhythmic at rap shows.
If you want to say I "white people danced" yesterday, I wouldn't fight you.

As I write this, I'm listening to their album
and catching flashbacks of the show.
I appreciate their sound a lot more now.
Thank you, Dr Dog, for breaking my rock concert cherry.
Can't wait to go to my next one.
Word.

Dragulation

I'm a fairly "masculine" queer,
but there are just days like today
when my flame is on full blast and can't help it.
So allow me to take this to talk about an obsession of mines: drag queens.

As a young gay, I didn't know how to take drag queens.
A guy in pumps alone threw me off.
That was until I watched Paris is Burning for a class
the last month of my senior year in high school.
If you've never seen this documentary
on late 1980s drag culture in New York City,
put it on your list.
To say it will give you life is an understatement.

Seeing those black and latino drag queens
sashay and suicide drop in the ball scene
intrigued me like no other.
It showed me that drag queens aren't that different from us "regular" gays.
However, I still kind of kept my distance from them.

It wasn't until the 2nd season of RuPaul's Drag Race
that I rediscovered my love for drag queens.

I remembered RuPaul from the 90s,
but I didn't know what to make of him/her.
I was much more into Arsenio at the time.
It still blows me, however,
that his first name is actually RuPaul.
With a name like that, he was bound to be fabulous.

So why do I appreciate RuPaul and the contestants of Drag Race so much?
I think it's the abrasive nature and genuineness.
They all know who they are, for the most part,
and they refuse to apologize for it.
They have the Charisma, Uniqueness, Nerve, and Talent that I yearn to embody myself.

I also think their transformation intrigues me.
You can watch a busted man turn into a beautiful woman before your eyes
through the magic of paint (make-up) and fabulous gowns.

It almost pains me that I haven't met a drag queen in person yet.
I've seen plenty on youtube,
and they're just a fierce as those on Drag Race.
I can only image how catty a day with them would be,
in or out of drag.

Secretly, I want to try being a queen myself.
I was this close to doing it last Halloween,
but I lacked the support and materials to do so.
Maybe one day I'll shave down to a baby face,
get some strong foundation,
find a sickening lace front
and a marvelous ensemble
and slay all these other girls in the game.
Until then, I'll just enjoy being the trade that ki-kis on the low.
Word.

As an added bonus, enjoy this "lip sync for your life" from season 4 of RuPaul's Drag Race. [warning: spoiler}

Mid-season Debriefing

I know the 16th is really the middle of March,
but today is the Ides of March
so I say close enough.

These past two weeks have been fairly successful. The reception of this blog's revival has been largely positive.
Then again, this is based off last week's post.
Even I would have to agree that this week has been a bit off, or at least not as appealing as last week's topics.

Speaking of which,
I checked my stats
and the Beckham poem is doing the best.
I presume this is due to his name drawing random readers
who google his name or the billboard.
I'm particularly proud of
The Dangers of Not Giving a F*** and the Kony piece.
I spent a fair amount of time on those.
I spent a good amount of time on all the posts last weeks.

That's the difference with this week.
I definitely have post ideas,
but they need time to be flushed out.
None of them are quick fire.
I also realize I don't have enough ideas for the rest of the month
so I went to Twitter and asked for prompts.
To those who replied, thank ya kindly.
I'll get to those this coming week.
For the rest of you,
I do have a suggestion box.
If you want to see me write about something, let me know. Please.

How do I propose to give my post the proper attention they deserve?
I'm going back to what I did when I started this blog: write at night.
I might even take time to write a few all in one sitting in space them out over the week.
For some reason I felt like each post had to be written the day I would post them.
There seemed to be a bit more passion that way.
Or maybe it's just that I'm used to writing at the last minute.
Either way, it's a habit I need to break out of before I become a professional.
...well, more of a professional than I am now.

Also, I may be changing the design of the site and adding a logo.
Look at for those / stay on me about them.
I've been saying I would design a logo for over a year now.
Til next time, my dear friends [and associates].
Word.

The Essayist: Before We Die

[This personal essay imitates the style of Darin Strauss' Half a Life.]

            I shed no tears the day my mother’s great aunt died.

           

            A day or two after the Christmas of 2011, my grandfather had fallen ill. I don’t remember with what. I only remember thinking he’d be fine. He was only in his upper 60s – lower 70s; he’d been in the military – guessing from the pictures I’ve seen – and he exercised practically every day. A couple of days later, my great great aunt was rushed to the hospital. She was about 106 or so. My mother and I were visiting my sister, her husband and three kids in North Carolina when we got the news. The combination of these two emergencies troubled my mother greatly; we returned to New Jersey on New Year’s Eve.

            I was thrilled to go back early. Not because I wanted to visit my grandfather or a woman I had never carried a conversation with in my life while they lay in the hospital. Because it meant I would be able to travel to NYC and partake in New Year’s Eve debauchery with my friends.

            I’ve always seemed to prefer the company of strangers over my family. Not that there’s anything wrong with them; by all standards, they’re upstanding people. I guess part of it is my age. I was born at a weird time. My sister on my mom’s side is thirteen years older than me; my sister on my dad’s side is seven years older than me and lived with her mom in Georgia. The closest relative I have is my cousin who’s three years older but lived in Kalamazoo – yes, Kalamazoo, the one in Michigan – before moving to Miami. There was never anyone to ease me into the family.

            My family has become somewhat quiet, somewhat of a secretive, since my birth as well. From what my sisters have hinted at, there was some sort of drama concerning uncles or something to that effect, but I’ve never been one to pry. I was taught to “stay outta grown folk business.” I just carried that into adulthood like most of the other lessons taught to me.

            During the first week of my second semester, I received a call from my mother. “Aunt Pearl died.” Uh ok.” A week later I received another. “Yeah, it was a nice service. I have a few of the programs saved if you want me to send you one.” No, that’s alright.

            For the past four years, my family members have asked why I never call them. I tell them I don’t like talking on the phone, which is true. But the real reason is that I have nothing to talk about. Sure, I share a good laugh with my mother or sisters when I see them in person, but there’s only so much observational humor you can conduct miles away from each other. In a way, I’m shutting them out of my business, not divulging any information willing, like they did to me as a kid.

Perhaps one day I’ll regret this decision. Secretly, I hope I can find a way to relate to my family so that we can learn from each other. I wonder what their life must have been like, what odd similarities we share. Then I allow myself to become distracted by those immediately around me, leaving my close relationship with relatives as a forgotten dream.

Gettin' Ugly

So I've been thinking for a while...
what actually makes someone ugly?
I'm talking physically ugly.
There are plenty of ugly people personality-wise,
but what makes us look at a person right off the bat
and go "Ooooo... bless their face"?

I've heard from various people that
symmetry is the cause of typical beauty.
If that's the case, it explains why I can't stand to look at Luke Wilson's nose.
But honestly, symmetrical faces usually bore me.
There's nothing exciting or unexpected about them.

Do faces without distinct bone features turn you off?
Perhaps protruding brows don't do it for you?
What about noses half the size of a person's face?
Lips too juicy or deprived looking?
Or maybe it's a mixture of them all,
features that look essentially good on people
but look horrible on another because
they don't have the right smile to go with that jaw structure.

Either way I try to break this down,
this is the vainest post to rule them all.

So, since it's difficult to explain multiple ugly people
let's skip to how to approach them.
Are you allowed to tell a person their ugly
or do you have to assure them that they're average at the very least?
When people rag on their friend and say "Ayo, you one ugly mofo,"
are they just having fun or do they sincerely consider them unattractive?

Look, I know I don't have it all my damn self.
That's why I feel at liberty to discuss this with you all.

Whatever the case may be,
I think it's important to remember everyone's attracted to different things.
Just like I'm not attracted to people with symmetrical faces
[or maybe I'm intimidated? I've never tell],
there are some people that prefer people with a crooked jaw or Dumbo-like ears.

So don't worry about whether or not you're attractive,
just wonder when that person who thinks you're stunning will come along.
Word.

Is the Job for You?

While I was home last week,
I got dragged to a business meeting of sorts at a friend's house.
He gathered a few of us, his friends, to join a money making opportunity.
Two guys in professional looking polo shirts came in
and told us about this well established company that we've never heard of - and that you won't hear of from me cause I haven't decided how I feel about them yet.
The company basically works like a pyramid scheme.
One of the guys kept repeating it wasn't a pyramid scheme,
but if you have to say it at all, it probably is a pyramid scheme.

But I will say, this scheme seemed to work.
Even Donald Trump backed it;
he's used the company in Celebrity Apprentice twice
and he was even in their little infomercial we were shown.

The main way to succeed in this company is networking:
you have to be able to recruit people to join the company
and make sells yourself to see the big bucks.
But if you succeed, you really succeed.
Or at least that's the image the two young black men portrayed
to the rest of the black guys in the room from different parts of the hood.
You work for yourself; you get what you put in; you get paid.

Even close to a week later, I'm unsure of how legit their system is.
There was only one thing I was sure of: it wasn't for me.
The job required persuasion skills, of which I have next to none - at least in person.
It wouldn't be worth my time or money (the buy-in was a smooth $500).
I'm a writer, not a small business owner.
There would be no passion in my occupation
and I would hate every day of it, even with the money I'd be raking in.
That's the kind of guy I am.
If I wanted to make money or have a steady job,
I would have studied accounting in college.

As we leave the world of formal education,
we will all be faced with different opportunities and positions,
and it is up to us and only us to establish which will be the best fit.
A bashful Biology major isn't going to take a sportscasting job.
The practical, ambitious money maker won't audition for a role at a small theatre.

Of course, they are times when we're at a crossroads in life
and have no idea what we should do next.
For us 20-somethings, and even older folks,
internships are a good practice.
I met with a close friend and his work colleague last week as well.
They're currently interning with a business in the Financial District of NYC,
and though they don't find the work or environment particularly thrilling
they are still picking up valuable lessons applicable to other aspects of life.

I, for instance, even learned something from the business opportunity I turned down.
One of the guys who came in said something to the effect of: "Your friend here invited you all here. He didn't know who was gonna join in; he didn't know who was gonna buy his service, and he  didn't know who would just flat out say no. But he didn't rule anybody out. You can't. From your parents to your friends to the bum on the street, you shouldn't rule anyone out. You never know how they're gonna surprise you."

There's been multiple times when I've ruled people out for certain projects,
and I'm sure there have been occasions when someone ruled me out.
Life is full of surprises, and inherently so are people.

So what the morality of the day?
Take chances on people,
know what works for you,
and do what makes you happy -
whether it be passion or cash flow.
Yes, even in this recession.
Hopefully then you won't wake up decades from now
regretting your life in the most cliche way possible.
Word.

The Origin of "Word"

From the conception of this blog -
even before it was officially a blog -
I've ended almost every post with "word."
It's become my signature, a trademark,
as simple as it may be.
If I ever forget to end with it,
I'm sure someone would feel odd
as if they were a child going to sleep
without his favorite toy dragon,
as if they finished a sundae
only to remember there was no cherry on top.

So, where did it come from?
If memory serves right,
it was my text messenger signature
as a way of bringing back phrases popular in the 90s.
When I didn't feel like typing anything
it served as a simple reply.
"You ready to go?" "->Word."
"Aight I'll see you there." "->Word."
"Where you at, son?" "->Word."
I'm lying, I was never that much of a jerk
to reply to the last one like that.
When I did send an actual reply,
most people who received a text from me
said it seemed like I was agreeing with myself.
"Ok. I'll see you there. ->Word"
For some reason, I liked the idea of agreeing with myself.
After deciding to dub my online jottings The Wacko Monologues,
"word" seemed like an appropriate end for a guy talking to himself.

There was a period of time from mid 09 til early 2010
where I used "trust" as an alternate.
When I ended a post with "trust,"
it meant that I was attempting to be sincere through my sarcasm.
Eventually I found this technique crippling as a writer
and decided to establish my sincerity with the proper language.

Somewhere down the line "word" ceases being an occasional practice
and became the standard end to all my blog post.
There was a time I had grown tried of it,
wanted something more unique that reflect my blog's title,
even asked you guys for suggestions.
But none of you older readers provided any suggestions.
You guys have been awfully crappy at audience particaption
since I stopped posting directly Facebook two years ago,
but it's okay. I forgive you.

"Word" has become tired and true for me, though.
It has evolved into a deeper meaning,
embodying every noun, verb, adjective, and adverb I write.
Shoot, it even embraces the articles and conjunctions.
It has become one of my favorite words in the English language [behind copacetic].
I figured it was only right to finally dedicate a post to it.
Here's to you, word.
May we dominate the literary world someday.

Word.