My Totally Biased 13 Best Albums of 2013

All other blogs have it wrong.
You don't drop a best albums list mid-December.
You wait to the last possible minute so
people maybe, sorta, not really give a damn.

So, without further adieu
here's some random gay black music lover's opinion
about the best 13 albums to grace his ears this year.
[And remember, don't get your panties in a bunch.
It's only entertainment (Jay-Z voice)]


13. Arctic Monkeys - AM 

As expected, the Arctic Monkeys delivered another dope album. Nothing but solid grooves and lyrics. AM poses such hard hitting questions such as Do I Wanna Know and R U Mine? When the band slows it down for a bit, Alex Turner's tenor earnestly wants to "be your vacuum cleaner breathing in your dust." Can you get any sexier than that? Yes. But these are rocking Brits here to wake up your ears, not get you laid.

Standout Tracks:
R U Mine?
Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?



12. Drake - Nothing Was The Same

His third time out, Drake does what Drake does best: be Drake. He's gonna serenade you in a monotone voice; he's gonna rap with the confidence that Lil Wayne is still the greatest rapper and will validate him; but most of all, he's gonna give you raw emotion that men will weep along to in the privacy of their bedroom. It seems nothing Drake releases will ever be as iconic as So Far Gone, but he's still one of the best in the game with albums that hold up.

Standout Tracks:
From Time (feat Jhene Aiko)
Too Much (feat Sampha)



11. Disclosure - Settle

Earlier this year, two young chaps by the names Guy and Howard Lawrence came out of England and revitalized the genre of House music. No dubstep, no crazy horns. Just a bunch of two-stepping tracks that b-boys and bros alike can vibe to. Featuring some of the best rising and aspiring R&B and Soul singers, each track is a different journey to the perfect mellow. Feel free to play this start to finish at a party that doesn't mind a few slow(er) jams.

Standout Tracks:
Latch (feat Sam Smith)
F for You



10. Daft Punk - Random Access Memories


Daft Punk has always been popular, since Discovery and the accompanying Interstella 5555 film. When Daft Punk released RAM with a slew of mid-tempo beats, they were championed - though not without a few upset fans who just wanted to dance their way through an album. Still, with the talents of Julian Casablancas, Pharrell, and Panda Bear at their disposal, it's hard to deny the playability of this album. Definitely an album for the Cadillac or Prius. You know, whatever floats your ass from place to place.

Standout Tracks:
Giorgio by Moroder
Touch (feat Paul Williams)


9. Justin Timberlake - The 20/20 Experience, 1 of 2 


2013 was clearly the year of comebacks, with JT's perhaps the most anticipated. Taking his FutureSex/LoveSounds one step further, Justin channeled the 70s/80s approach: not shying away from six minutes plus song, calling for each track to be its own experience. An overplayed Suit & Tie aside, this Pop/R&B album is another great addition to JT's discography. We could have done without the B-Sides that is the 20/20 Experience, 2 of 2 though.

Standout Tracks:
Don't Hold the Wall
Strawberry Bubblegum



8. Major Lazer - Free the Universe

Hands down the best party/dance/Reggae album of the year. Spearheaded by Diplo the don, the tracks are laced with features from Santogold, Flux Pavillion, Elephant Man, Ezra Koenig, Wyclef and more. (There's a track by Shaggy, but we can all pretend that one doesn't exist.) With twerking finally taking over the nation after years of being around, each song will have you shaking your ass in a different pattern. Twerk Team assemble!

Standout Tracks:
Get Free (feat Amber of Dirty Projectors)
Sweat (feat Laidback Luke & Ms. Dynamite)



7. Vampire Weekend - Modern Vampires of the City

A favorite since I first spotted them on MTVu my freshman year, Vampire Weekend dropped their third album to much critical acclaim. Still drawing sounds African music, they leave many listeners wondering what the hell they're playing, adding to their charm. This is the album that the band really start to claim their place among our great acts, rising firmly into the mainstream while staying true to their sound and holding on to their ever-strong fan base.

Standout Tracks:
Step
Ya Hey



6. Childish Gambino - Because the Internet

Gambino's latest effort has received flack recently for not being executed to its fullest potential, called a poor MBDTF clone. Nay, I say. If anything it's closer to the Man on the Moon, Vol. II. Both albums feature a clearly depressed protagonist through a range of up-tempo to mid-tempo songs. True, it can be difficult to fully realize the album's message until you read the screenplay Gambino released as a companion piece, exploring his role as a multi-talented artist. Either way, it's still an outstanding album with replay value.

Standout Tracks:
3005
Flight of the Navigator



5. Chance the Rapper - Acid Rap

Though only a mixtape - his second at that - Acid Rap is one of the best rap records of the year the way So Far Gone was in 2009. Equipped with his own unique adlibs and offbeat rapping style, Chance hits you with some of the most relatable and honest lyrics while still managing to lighten the mood and have fun on a track. He can also carry a tune, and who doesn't love a rapper who can serenade you, too?

Standout Tracks:
Pusha Man/Paranoia
Everybody's Something (ft. Saba & BJ The Chicago Kid)




4. Janelle Monae - The Electric Lady

The Soulful Queen of Sci-Fi is back with the fourth and fifth installments to her Cindy Mayweather tale. This time with features from Prince, Solange, Miguel, and Esperanza Spalding, Ms Monae continues to hit us with the funk as Cindy hides out from the bounty hunters with the aid of her fellow cyborgs and androids while finding love and inspiring a revolution. Though the album is part of a narrative, it and its songs can be enjoyed without context. Jam on.

Standout Tracks:
Primetime (feat Miguel)
Victory


3. Kanye West - Yeezus

Despite his ego. Despite his abrasiveness. Despite Kim Kardashian and the Bound 2 video. Through it all, Kanye West is still one of the best musicians in the industry, and Yeezus proves it. Honestly, first listen, I hated it. But all great projects take time to understand. The same happened during 808 & Heartbreaks. With head beats, West Indian influences, and a few reliable samples, Kanye laid the grown work for a harsh sound we all grew to love with lyrics that make us respect him even more.

Standout Tracks:
Black Skinhead
Blood on the Leaves



2. James Blake - Overgrown

One of the most haunting voices in music today, James Blake dropped his sophomore effort that was made to entrance you. The ambient noises and voice loops will transport you to a world of James Blake's choosing, where he'll treat you to an experience like nothing else you've experienced this year. His voice is sex, his instrumentals the bed. This album is best enjoyed with mood lighting and your racing thoughts.

Standout Tracks:
Retrograde
Digital Lion




1. Beyonce - Self Titled

The fact that she dropped an album no one saw coming and sold over a million couples worldwide through iTunes alone aside, Beyonce recorded and released the greatest album of 2013. I am no obsessive fan (or stan) of Beyonce's, simply a respecter of her craft. She, too, decided to make her own rules, pairing the album with a visual experience: a video for every track. We were able to see her unadulterated vision, and everything from song to video delivered. Beyonce continues to grow as an artist, through her vocal ability and topics. She revealed personal information about her and her family while giving us the most grown and sexy Mrs Carter we had no idea was even a thing. This album has launched Beyonce into something new. She is no longer comparing with other artists "but with mothafuckas in the ground" as another fan explained. She's legendary, and she makes legendary music. That's all there is to it.

Standout Tracks:
Blow
Partition



Honorable Mentions:
M.I.A. - Matangi
Lorde - Heroine
Arcade Fire - Reflektor
Mayer Hawthrone - Where Does This Door Go


And there you have it.
Feel free to argue in the comment session.
Word.

BlackFacers

In the past week,
there seems to be a sharp spike of fuckery in the world.
And yes, I do mean fuckery.

It started last week.
A white woman in Australia celebrated her 21st birthday.
Innocent enough until you hear it was African themed.
Yes, it was as bad as you might imagine. Worst, actually.
These Australians dressed in daishikis; they wore black face;
they wore warrior paint and painted their bodies black;
some even wore Native American headdresses.

Now, I've never been to Australia,
but are they really that culturally unaware?
The headdresses were the kicker for me.
No. I lied. It was the klansman. What even? Why? Why?!

Dear Australians and all other
non-dark skinned people around the globe,
you can attend an African themed event
without a smear of black paint across your cheek.
For goodness sake, some of you wore war paint and black paint on your skin.
That's not necessary!
Any and everyone would have gotten your costume without black face/skin.
There are even villages of white people in Africa. Did anyone dress up as a missionary or social worker at this party?
Expand your minds, evaluate your choices, and learn to be racially sensitive.
As you see, just because no one was there to be mad in the moment
doesn't mean there won't be a backlash waiting in the wings.



But no, oh no. That's not all.
The shenanigans continued that weekend
as folks got into the Halloween spirit.
The usual suspects were easy to find:
vampires, werewolves, wrecking balls running away from Miley Cyrus.
But a few decided to up their ghosts and spooks game up.
A pair of white guys thought up the perfect Halloween costume:
George Zimmerman and Trayvon Martin.
The guy dressed as Trayvon Martin would of course have to dress in black face and have a bloody gunshot hole in his hoodie.
You could add Skittles and an Arizona Iced Tea, but only if you were willing to go the extra mile.
And though the Trayvon pictured here doesn't have those items, other white men who picked the same costume did.

I'm unsure as to why this seemed like a good idea,
but let me just make it clear for you as your adoptive black friend,
it's not.

Black face aside, you are making light of a tragedy.
A very recent tragedy, one with so much racial tension behind it.
Rule of thumb, don't go as a murdered person.
The only funny or clever murder costumes involve zombies.
...oh gawd, if I see a Zombie Trayvon Martin, white or black, I'll lose it.
And not in a good way.

Let's think about it.
Dressing up as a dead Trayvon Martin is virtually
the same as someone walking around with a burnt yamaka
and calling themselves a Holocaust survivor.
It's not funny. It's not cool. It's offensive.

On the same note, I'm not a big fan of Anne Frank costumes, either.
Maybe let's chill out with that as well.



I have to admit, however, those two events are not the cause of this post.
No, I came across a photo on Twitter today that was just plain wrong.
Four white men came together to form a Jim Crow quartet.
Looking at the photo again forced my left palm to my forehead, and now I must type the remainder of this blog with one hand.

But seriously, what is this malarkey?

I thought it was agreed blatant racism was over.
Black face aside again, Jim Crow was a minstrel.
It was a big slap in black America's face.
Racist to its core with no way around it.
So why would you ever dress up as a damn minstrel
if you aren't performing a rendition of Spike Lee's Bamboozled?
"Oh, my great grandpappy was a minstrel, so I'm paying homage to him."
Oh, so you come from a line of ignorant bigots.
Thanks for that insight into your back story.
[That's not what any of them said, but I can just hear it.]


Now, I'm no stranger to face paint on Halloween.
I myself have donned white face in order to portray
Dave Chappelle's news anchor character Chuck Taylor.
But there were no racial undertones or history behind it.
I just wanted to be radical and throw off white people one year.
While I was out dressed like that,
I saw a white guy in a Rastafarian get up
with black or brown face on.
I really wish I had said something, anything,
but I didn't think I had the leverage.
A young fool, I was.

I attended a party this weekend,
not even a Halloween party,
but I wore my "I'm happy to be here" mask anyway.
It turned out to be a bunch of white kids from my college
that I haven't seen in years.
And almost instantly I was "that black guy" again.
A guy or two were so friendly towards me, it was annoying.
They complimented my clothing, said I was cool,
how they could never pull off what I wore or did.
Then a white friend told me, "All white people wish they were black."
I scoffed at his lame joke, but I'm starting to wonder
what if it's not a joke.

White people in the media have been under fire lately
for appropriating black culture and making a mockery of it.
But what if they're sincere?
What if they admire us so much they want to be us,
so much so they don't realize how ridiculous or racist they're being?
Does it excuse their behavior? No, I don't believe so.
It's been said that white people love black culture, not black people.
However, there should be fewer pitchforks and torches
and more open conversations, no matter how frustrating they can be.
Some white people will never learn if we don't talk to them,
my fellow Americans (Australians, etc.) of color.
Otherwise, we'll just continue to suffer
throbbing forehead veins until the end of time.


Word

Wild Rumpusing in Ireland: Horses, Guinnesses, Burritos, and a Cabaret

Due to lack of Verizon Wireless service in Ireland,
I am unable to tweet and chronicle my adventures.
Because I'm a writer and feel the need to blab about
my trip immediately, enjoy this series of blog entries.

~~

Prologue-Chapter 2

*some names have been changed to protect the identities of those I've met on this trip*

~~

Chapter 3

Monday, August 12th. 6:33 because old people love to eat breakfast at 7 and to be on the road by 8, even during vacation. Especially during vacation. Irish breakfasts are interesting. Their bacon is ham and their sausage patties are not sausage patties. I would later find that it was indeed no sausage patty, but black pudding. I was unaware pudding could come in burnt-looking patty form. It's nice to try new things.

I sipped the last bit of apple juice from what seemed to be an ounce-sized glass - though the Irish use the metric system - and headed to the bus with two minutes to spare. "Oh look, he made it," one of the tourist shouted out as I lurked down the aisle to my assigned seat. I'd forgotten that my sister referred to me as late all the time. Again, our not seeing each other for ten years prior began to rub me. "You almost had to sing a song," another yelled. Again, I recalled a tidbit Joe the tour guide said from the introductory meeting: "And if you're late to the bus, you have dance. ...maybe sing a song for us." I hoped it wouldn't become a running joke, but I felt the inevitable coming.

I decided to leave my headphones in my back pocket during the trip, expecting Joe to have valuable information to share while we rode to whatever our destination might be. For party conversation's sake, he did. Apparently, around 60% of Ireland's population was currently under 32. That meant either a lot of babies were having babies, the older generation died out/left Ireland, or the baby bomb was real in Ireland. Either way, I considered my chances for finding my ginger prince higher.

Ireland possessed small armed forces - so small they only had an air core, not an air force. Additionally, they faced an economic crisis not unlike the States'. The writer I was thought of an insurgency seeking to exploit these weaknesses in order to gain control of the island and bring true peace and happiness to its inhabitants. Before I could think of a proper plot twist to deepen the storyline, I spotted a highway sign in two languages. As if reading my mind, Joe's voice hissed through the intercom, "Ireland is in fact a bilingual country. Gaelic, the country's national language, and English. We make sure to write Gaelic on all our signs and to speak it to uphold our history and heritage." It'd be cool if the States had signs written in the prominent language of Native Americans, but the casinos would do as heritage preservation enough.

"Now, Irishmen are notorious gamblers. If it rains, they'll bet to see which raindrop will fall down a windshield to hit the bottom first." Joe's hamming began to wear me down as I chuckled. He continued to tell us about horse racing, year long horse racing with two seasons: flat (regular, circular, chase the mechanical bunny racing) and hunt (a mix of everything else, including obstacles). Shortly after the explanation, the bus pulled into a parking lot. I peered out the window at a sign: Irish National Stud & Japanese Gardens.



Chapter 4


"You're very welcome to the Irish National Stud Farm. I'll be your tour guide Natasha today; now
won't you follow me this way?"

I attempted to snap a picture of Natasha in front of the beautiful lake as two swans swam behind her, but alas, my camera still experienced an "lens error." I hoped all the horses ugly creatures with crooked legs. No beauty of Ireland deserved to escape my shutter.

To my dismay, they were all beauties. When you have horses that have placed first in multiple races not only in Ireland but abroad as well and use them to inseminate meres during a four-six month period, you can't not expect majestic creatures.  It did strike me as odd that these horses were essentially pimped out to create strong ponies that would mature into winning horses like their papas. Given the common male mentality that "more sex, the better" - and these horses were getting laid - everyone in the group seemed to except the ranch, perhaps even envy the horses. I supposed as long as the horses weren't required to hand over their sugar cubes and apples all was fine. However, you have to wonder how much money went into the care after each hefty cost to mate with it.

Invisible Spirit, their most prized and fertile horse, was insured for close to a million, if not more. Having sex with three to four different mere a day for four to six months at around 100k a session (pending on the successful insemination of the mere), that great stud pulled in revenue. Apparently, he and the other stud know what hot shit they are. They each had their own grazing land to reduce the chance of confrontation with each other. To say my imagination did not drift to an all out horse brawl would be a lie.

The studs weren't the only attraction the Asian couples captured on film. Meres and their children also inhabited the ranch. Each mere and pony pair actually approached the gate and began the feeding process, making for a wonder photo-op I'm sure they were trained for. At least the old folks were getting their money's worth. While teet-sucking engrossed them, I turned my attention to the mini-horses fenced in across the dirt path. Initially I noticed five scampering along their low to the ground bodies. That was until I counted four hooves. The mini-horses were fairly well hung... for their size.

Throughout the tour, I took the opportunity to properly assess the group. While being a majority of Caucasian and Asian senior citizens, I took note of a few anomalies: two couples in their forties/fifties, two families (one of six with a son and daughter, the other of four with two sons), two young females about my age. Each family had a son who seemed college-aged, but I was unable to get a good read on them without feeling like a creep.

Once the tour of studs finished, we were invited to tour the Japanese Garden at our leisure for photo opportunities. I tried my camera to see if the lens error had corrected itself; it hadn't. With no other options, I walked around the garden as my sister snapped photos of me with her overly fancy camera. While posing in ways my sister found annoying and not-aesthetically pleasing, I came across a sign that read "#3 - The Path of Confusion" that pointed into a dark cave. I figured it was part of collection of sign insinuating the Path of Life and immediately followed. Through many twists, paths, and bridges, I found my ways to different signs and interesting pieces to be photographed in front of. And though I didn't come across the signs in numerical order - I didn't even find them all - it was okay, because the true path of life has many options. There's a poem in there some where.



Chapter 5


On the ride returning from the Stud Ranch, the tour group faced a difficult choice: The Guinness Brewery or Jameson Distillery. The bus would stop at each location to drop off whomever wished to hop off. Truly, I wished to see both; and it was even an option. We just would have needed to find our own on way there, as we already need to find transport back to the hotel. And though I am mostly a man of liquor, the Guinness factory spoke to me as we pulled up to it. Mostly because I had just woken up from a nap and more than half the bus filed off.

The Guinness Brewery was a marvelous place. Dark and sleek. And that was just it's first floor gift shop used to distract you from walking around on your own tour and to ensure you buy something. While my sister and I initially fell for this trick, I soon snapped out of my poppies-like haze and suggested we make our way through the multi-floored showroom.

The first floor was showered in indigo lighting that accompanied the small waterfall to the right of the room. 'Lex and I followed the arrows around to the left of the room were we found a large vat of bailey to play with. I resisted the urge to make a bailey angel, but the room was crowded and I didn't wish to inconvenience the other patrons. We passed glass cases of "hops!"before walking up a staircase circling the waterfall. My dysfunctional camera pained me so during this opportunity and rare photo-op. I'm not even certain if my sister captured a good shot of it.

To say I clearly recall the Guinness would be a lie, because they would never release their entire formula. Instead, I received a view into their bottling, packing, and shipping process. Barrels can be such a joy to look at. There was an opportunity to wait in line for a tasting, but my sister and I decided to skip the long line and head up the next escalator. Had I been with a bigger group, though, I could have waited half an hour for that roller coaster of a stout.

Twenty minutes later, we found ourselves back in the gift shop, though I sneaked up to the less crowded, smaller 2nd floor to buy trivial things for my house and roommates (lower in cost to the gifts I brought my mother earlier in the day). I waited by the down escalator while 'Lex dealt with the longer "mainstream" checkout line.

Before exiting the premises, I took note of the map on the wall showcasing pubs in the surrounding areas. I recognized one of the streets as the location of the Nepalese restaurant from the night prior and planned a route home. Outside, my sister stood at the bus stop. I realized I had forgotten my bus voucher, but I always wanted to see more of Dublin.
"Hey, 'Lex, let's walk back to the hotel."
"No, Greg. My feet are tired."
"But the city. The sights!"
"I've got enough of 'em."
"It's not even that long a walk. Like, half an hour tops." I proceeded to persist, but she had none of it. "Fine, I'll meet you back at the hotel."
"You're not walking back alone with all those bags looking like a tourist. Mom would kill me."
"Yeah, you're right." I continued to edge towards the corner.
"Fine, let's go." I had wore her done.
"Ok, cool. Let me just check that map one more time."

Soon we were on our way down the same street that change names three times before returning to Dame Street. "Ah, I recognize this place," my sister said as she dragged behind, refusing to walk faster. Along the way we stopped into a cigar and whiskey store, primarily to buy her husband the Irish whiskey he so badly desired. Browsing the wall of whiskey, I found one that spoke to my soul: Writer's Tears. It was too perfect a name for me to pass up. "Really?" my sister gave me a cock-eyed look. "Writer's Tears? I don't need you to be any sadder, little brother." I shrugged and asked the clerk to fetch it for me anyway,

Whiskey added to our many bags, we walked pass Mama's Revenge. "We should probably put our bags back in the room before we go there, huh?" But my sister didn't want to go, as she reminded me that her feet ached and that I'd be eating lunch alone. I chalked it up as my time away from her the Dallas to London flight stole from me.

Bags back in the room, I sped walked back to Mama's Revenge. When I ordered a sweet-chili beef chalkboard, they asked me if I had my student ID on me. I was honored the little Hispanic women thought I could be an Irish university student. Receiving smiles from the ladies, I sat down with my 7Up can, received my burrito, and properly went to town on it. The chili really rounded out the flavor of the burrito. To trying new things.



Chapter 6


As fast as lunch passed through me, the bus heading towards a dinner destination arrived. The
marvelous Taylor's Three Rock cabaret, one of the highest ranking tourist attractions in Dublin. During the two hours of down time, I googled a quick fix for my camera. Apparently all I needed to do was tap the extended lens softly with a pen. The lens error vanished and all was right in the world. I snapped a picture of the venue but decided to restrain myself from photography during dinner and the performance. No one like a flash in their eye as they forget their table manners on holiday.

The venue was packed with ten touring groups, one each to an a table, which were set up in an Oktoberfest manner. Not that I've ever been to Oktoberfest, but it's how I imagined it. My sister sat to my right, senior citizens to my left and across from me. She sat next to one of the college-aged guys and his family. During discussion, led by my sister and eavesdropped on by me, we found that his family were also from Jersey. You couldn't really hear an accent from any of them, though his father had a strong presence about him that commanded a room in a lightheaded way - much like dads on ABC comedies during the late 90s and early 00s.

At this time it should be addressed that the UK and southern Ireland refers to the 00s as the noughties. I suggest we Americans hijack the term as our own because it is brilliant and better than having nothing better to call that decade than the double O's.

The midwestern couple sitting next to me periodically struck up conversations with me that I would tear myself away from eavesdropping for. We exchanged pleasantries and jokes with the older couples sitting across from us. The man that sat across from me had a very decent voice. It wasn't all-american or blurry sounded like the other senior citizen males. The sound of his voice was soft and creaky - almost as if he wanted to lure you into his white van with candy - but there was a wit unmatched whispering beneath it. Though he shared many one liners, nothing he said intrigued me more than his voice.

By this time I was well into my pint of Smithwick's, a smooth pale beer that I would rank slightly above Coors and the American beers like it. With the starter (Irish term for appetizer) just arriving, I was feeling social but not social enough to yell across the table.  The rest of the meal was slow to churn out as well. When my sister was done with her dinner roll, she stole the college kid's bread when the addition piece she asked for didn't come out. She promised to pay him back for it.

During the meal, his dad brought up the idea of heading out to a pub after the show. "We walked in their earlier this afternoon, made nice with the bartenders. Nice guy. Said the joint closes as 11:30, but we'll be able to stay a little after." The suggestion seemed aimed at his 20 year old son and my sister until he turned to me and invited me as well. I smiled and said sure. Making friends isn't so hard when you have a talkative sister. Once the meal was done and the dessert plates were being whisked away, I ordered a Guinness and prepared for the show as the lights began to dim.

The show opened with the three lady steppers: two blonde, one brunette. One blonde had that smirk across her face as if she knew she was prettier than the others, drawing my hatred for her immediately. Soon they were replaced with three male dancers. The man to the right had a dark, slim, and mysterious look to him. The middle dancer was the obviously the leader and jokester, sporting a wide Irish grin I could help but admire. But the young man to the left, he looked fresh faced, as if he hadn't been on the job long. His dirty blond hair and boyish charm drew my gaze. I regretted my no photos policy already. My sister turned around to point him out to me. I pretended to watch the jokester. As if reading my mind, she snapped multiple pictures of the young lad. I wish she had snapped pictures of the jokester, too, though.

The dancing was interspersed with subpar singing from a male and female soloist accompanied by a violinist and flute player to either side of the stage. Danny Boy and other Irish classics were sung; no tears were shed during the Bing Crosby medley. The main attraction came in the form of an aged Irish comedian advertised to us by Joe Laverly as a leprechaun. Having served 50 years in the industry and serving up self-deprecating jokes, he might as well have been. His speciality were simple, corny Irish jokes you could retell at your water cooler. I promised myself I would remember a few for my corny joker lover back in the states, but alas, damn that blonde in the black dress of a beer.



Chapter 7


Once the bus pulled up to the Davenport Hotel, the 20 year old, his dad, 'Lex and I immediately walked over to Kennedy's pub across the street and a stone skip away. We walked in to find a couple in a corner chatting and a small group in another. Two or so locals sat at the bar. With four empty stools at the bar, the kid and his father took the middle two. Walking behind 'Lex, she took the first seat next to the kid leaving me to walk over and sit next to his dad. Not a bad seat since he placed me in front of the beers on tap. "Go head and order. First rounds on me," the dad said. We thanked him, though I wasn't surprised. My freshman at Loyola had taught me that white males enjoy buying rounds of drinks for friends. It's a bonding experience, invites conversation, and not partaking in such a thing is frowned upon.

I gazed upon the brews on draft. One circular red tab that read O'HARA'S IRISH RED appealed to me. I watched at the short, capped bartender poured my drink. He seemed like a man you would find behind many an Irish pub, and I appreciated that about him. Retrieving a coaster, we placed my beer in front of me. I took a fine sip of the beer and was immediately transported to a Baltimore bar that brews their own recipes: Brewer's Art. The taste reminded me of their Resurrection. Similar, yet different and still delicious. I decided I had a new favorite beer.

"You should try the Crean's beer next," The kid yelled down to me. "I think I just fell in love." I chuckled. I soon discovered he was a history and education major at a college in Scranton. I admired his passion, the words dripping of pride as the left his mouth. His father a hard worker who deserved a holiday. Eventually the topic turn to child raising, though I'm not sure how. I was absorbed into the fineness of my brew.

Towards the end of the conversation, you decided to be social. "I'm sorry, guys. I just realized I don't even know your names." Being seats two chairs away served as a great excuse for always forgetting peoples names.
"I'm Frank, and this is my son Sam. It's nice to meet you, Charles."

Introductions aside, I decide to order another beer. Another O'Hara's, but this time their IPA. It wasn't until I had the glass in front of me I realized the tab read IRISH PALE ALE and not INDIAN PALE ALE. I braced myself for something different and was meet with a taste I was again familiar with. No clear Baltimorean counterpart, but without a doubt the best IPA to grace my taste buds. "Is this a local beer?" I asked the bartender. He assured me it was, saying it was in a few bars in the south of Ireland. There would be no more beer tasting for the duration of my trip. The search for other O'Hara's flavors was on.

Through the night, I was proud I made conversation with the bartender. Granted I was drunk and had no idea what to say to 40-something Frank, but proud nonetheless. Halfway into my IPA, Sam seemed impressed with something. "1850. Wow, is that how long this bar has been here?" I looked up to the framed shirt he was staring at. I asked the bartender the same question.
"Yeah, it's been here since."
"I wouldn't have guessed this place older than the 70s." The bartender wasn't sure whether I meant it as compliment or not. Neither was I.
"Yeah, a bar down the street has been here since the 1600's. Soldiers used to meet in the pub and discuss plans." I wasn't sure if the bartender was gassing up we drunk tourists or not by that point, but I took it as fact for the time being.

Soon after a short walk around the pub, Sam's mom entered the pub to join the fun. I couldn't read rather Sam and his father were pleased with her arrival, but 'Lex chatted her up for a while anyway. I chatted with Sam for a bit until our drinks were done and yawns started to replace words. It was a shame we wouldn't have a chance to return to Kennedy's tomorrow, for our tour of southern Ireland continued in the morn.

Word.


Chapters 8-13 (coming soon)

Wild Rumpusing in Ireland: You're Very Welcome

Due to lack of Verizon Wireless service in Ireland,
I am unable to tweet and chronicle my adventures.
Because I'm a writer and feel the need to blab about
my trip immediately, enjoy this series of blog entries.

~~

Prologue 


Saturday, August 10th. A small yellow imp rattled my doorknob. It didn't startle me, as I was warned by my sister the night prior my three year old nephew is early to rise and requires the assembly of all inhabitants - human and animal alike - for breakfast.  Though a bright child,  Steven didn't remember the plans of iHop until his father planted the idea of pancakes, bacon, and eggs in his head.

Though he's only met me once prior to my visit to Wichita Falls, Tx (where my sister lives and works), he took to me quickly. I'm certain he called "Uncle Greg" no less than 50 times in the past 20 hours. Maybe his little toddler senses knew he'd only have a short while with me before I took off with his mother for Ireland; maybe he was genuinely excited to have someone else around to play with. Either way, we enjoyed each other's company immensely.

After breakfast, my sister continued to fiddle with her new semi-professional grade Nikon camera and pack her luggage as my new snap-and-shoot Coolpix remained in its box. I'd toy with it later, I figured. By 12:30, it was time for us to depart. My brother-in-law drove us to the small Wichita Falls airport, my sister wishing her husband a fun week of father-son time before he rode off into the distance.

Checked luggage and flight times confirmed, we walked through the single lane security check to the single waiting room and made nice with a fellow passenger. No more than 15 minutes waiting, we received news over the intercom that the plane experienced malfunctions and was being repaired in Dallas, where my sister and I needed to fly in order to catch our connecting flight to London, where we would then catch a 30 minute flight to Dublin. The next flight to Dallas was two hours from arriving.

Before my sister arranged to have all of our flights switched, we contemplated calling her husband to drive us to Dallas, it being only a two hour drive. Had we managed to convince him, we still wouldn't have made it through Dallas airport security fast enough. Originally, had all flights ran smoothly, we would have made it to the Dublin hotel before noon. Now we wouldn't arrive until 14:05 or so, well after the tour program we signed up for began. Luckily, the only site we would miss before the group returned to the hotel would be the Dublin Castle. But a castle was a castle.

In a frustration, I stepped outside the airport to curse the building. Lip-syncing to Prince songs three minutes later cooled me down. It helped time pass.

Soon enough, we were on the smallest plane I'd ever flown in to Dallas. A short 40 minute flight. However, before boarding our connecting flight to London, we noticed something. Perhaps my sister still knew how to work her cute charm, because the handsome southern gentleman who switched our tickets bumped her up to first class. Granted, he wasn't able to give us our tickets from London to Dublin and instructed us to acquire them from British Airways upon arriving, but a bump up was a bump up. My sister tried to charm me into first class with her, but with no seats left, there wasn't a chance. I told her to enjoy it.

I was seated on the far right of the five-seat middle aisle next to three 20-something looking Dutch travelers I wouldn't have minded getting to know during the nine hour flight. Before I could embark on such an unusual endeavor for me, my sister walks up the aisle. "Yeah, the guy made a mistake. We're both alllll the way in the back." I was heartbroken. Now I had to sit next to my sister for nine hours. Not that there was anything wrong with it, but when you spend a week long vacation with family - no matter what age - you're going to get sick of them at some point. I was simply hoping to prolong that inevitable moment.

If the snafu in Wichita Falls ticked off my sister, the running around through London's UofMD campus-like airport infuriated her. The flight had mellowed me out, so I reminded 'Lex to relax and just let would be be. Our tardiness wasn't going to change anyway we sliced it. Though her persistence and the help of an Englishmen, we obtained our tickets to Dublin. As my sister scurried off to exchange currency, I sat down in a chair to see which gate our plane would eventually fly out of. In the meantime, I took the opportunity to set up my camera. The first shot I captured: my new navy Nikes.



Chapter 1


Sunday, August 11th. A non-existent Saturday left me adrift. I find myself in a strange land inside an even stranger hotel. It was far too clean, far too polished to be a proper hotel reception area. Or perhaps this was to be the beginning of my spoiling.

My sister and I walked to the receptionist, a tall, dark woman with long black hair pulled into a ponytail. Her Polish-sounding accent threw me for a loop. "Hello, you're very welcome to the Davenport Hotel. How can I help you?" My sister gave both our names. "Aw yes, Clark? CIE Tours, yes? Jah, you aren't the only late ones. About six others." A relief we wouldn't be the alone missing the first trip, but what misfortunate had befallen our soon to be comrades. I decided I didn't care enough six seconds later.

With agenda and room key in hand, we rose in the lift - half, maybe even a quarter of the size of an American elevator might I point out! - to the fourth floor of the Davenport Hotel. 408 was a nice room: two queen sized beds, coral wallpaper, two plush armchairs, a desk, a clean and stunning bathroom. But no electricity it seemed. No, the outlets cleared worked as 'Lex plugged in her iPad which immediately lit up. We flipped every light switch three or four times before I found a little port on the wall to the left of the front door. Unlabeled, on a hunch, I slipped the key card out of my pocket and into the slot in the port. Without fail, all the lights popped on to burn our retinas. "Welp," I said, "That's a smart way to cut down on your light bill."

Two hours of settling in and realizing my new camera decided to experience a "lens error" swiftly became 16:52. An opening day info session with free drinks was soon to commence. The tour company must have anticipated late arrivals by now. We made our way down to the meeting room on the first floor a little tardy; everyone else sat in the three-row L-shape of chairs around the room. Our tour guide, Joe Laverly, greeted us at the door; I knew him to be the tour guide because he was the only one standing and I immediately spotted his lack of dental care. Also, the accent. That, too.

We take our seats next to what seems to be a white family of four, though I can't tell who's with who just yet. The demographic of the room is old. Capital "O" old. But what else could you expect from an Irish holiday? Mostly white senior couples, I took more note of the four older Asian couples in the room. My mind took to racial stereotypes of Asians on vacation taking pictures of everything and speaking quietly to each other. "What are you laughing at?" my sister turned to me. I could only shake my head.

A waitress soon turned the corner with a tray of drinks: the first full of wine glasses and small gin & tonics, the second full of pints of Guinness.  Joe's eyes seemed to follow this tray closely. "Now you have to understand something," he said. "To an Irishmen, a pint of Guinness is like a tall blonde in a black dress." The first round of laughter commenced. I laughed as well, until I thought he might be hamming up his Irishness for laughs. I don't take kindly to hamming.

In the midst of the hilarity, one of the senior members of the group took a sip from his wine glass. "Hey, wait a minute," he said spotting the second tray, "Is this Guinness or...?" The room bursted into snickers. This could turn out to be an entertaining trip after all.

Being late, the tour guide directed the waitress in our direction. My sister ordered a white wine while I look around the room. "...Guinness, please." When in Ireland, right?

Many things were said during this information session: important things like where we'd be going and food options. But all of it paled in comparison to what he would reveal towards the end of the session.

"Now, we in Ireland have a saying. It's 'Where's the craic?'" Commotion came over the room. "No, no, it's not like your crack. This is Ireland craic. It really just means where's the fun." Turns out it's an gaelic acronym: Ceol(Music), Rince(Dance), Amhrain(Songs), Inis Scealta(Storytelling), and Cainte(Gossip/Conversation). Surprisingly, "drink" was not part of the acronym, but then again, most craic was found in a pub anyway. 

By the end of my pint, the session was over. People quickly filed out of the room as they left their glasses on the counter. It seemed as if many of the older folk were hurrying to eat dinner they should have digested two hours ago. I suggested to my sister we should do the same.



Chapter 2 



After a sitcom's length of time deciding from the hotel's guide of restaurants what to experience, we agreed upon a Nepalese/Indian place a few blocks away. Directions drawn on a map from the Polish-ish lady receptionist and we were on our way.

As soon as we stepped outside into the Dublin air I was met with a familiar feeling. The hotels, rows of small business and restaurant chains, the clean and small streets. I felt as if I were back in Boston. Granted, yes I know, Boston is full of Irish descendants; trust me, it was more than that. The aura of the place was too similar for me to ignore it.

Walking the streets of Dublin gave me first taste of true sightseeing. There were handsome tourists and natives alike all over the city. Being the capital and largest city in Ireland, this was to be expected. However, the hipsters were not. I knew they were hipsters because they dressed like American hipsters and had the same "I'm dressed better than you, ironically"demeanor to them. Irish hipsters. I almost fell in love before reminding myself of my mission: finding a red-haired fiancé to smuggle in my suitcase through Customs. Listen, we all have fantasies.

The other attraction to catch my eye: Mama's Revenge. Twas an Irish burrito spot. To my dismay, it was closed on sundays, but I vowed to my sister we were eating there for lunch the next day. "Okay, little brother, " 'Lex said as she continued to snap pictures of regular buildings like a tourist.

After 3 blocks and two left turns, we found the restaurant only to be told they do not accept debit or credit. A ten minute detour to locate an ATM and discreetly withdrawal funds in Euros later, we returned. The young, 5'2" Nepalese woman who shooed as away the first time now smiled as came prepared to spend money.

Cobra beer was my second drink in Ireland. I received a small bottle and a small glass as I continued to ponder whether I wanted to branch out this a spicy chicken dish or stick to the butter chicken I had been introduced to while still in university. "Be careful, Greg. Indian spicy is different from regular spicy." Oh sister who I have not seen in nearly 10 years, you know me not. For the price of €18 ($24.02 American), sticking with what I knew seemed foolish. New land, new experiences, new taste.

Once the food arrived - and I was slightly toasty of two beers on an empty stomach - the food tasted delicious. Not too spicy at all.
"What's this flat bread?"
"Naan," I told her. I allowed what little I knew about Indian food take charge that day in an attempt to impress her. It didn't seem to affective.

Food done and dessert declined, we were offered shots of Bailey's on the house. Whether it was because they knew we were tourists or because they were new to the neighborhood, I decided to take them up on the offer. It's vacation, and it was off to a good start as far as I was concerned.


Word


Chapters 3-7

On Trial for a Murder He Died In

This past Saturday around 9 or 10pm
I watched Twitter closely
as I spotted the first tweet announcing
the jury in the Zimmerman trial had reached a verdict.
At the moment, I was playing a card game with my friend,
but I knew this moment in history was worth multitasking.

Minutes later the verdict was announced:
Zimmerman found innocent on all charges.
Acquitted.
I felt sick.
I understood from the proceedings of the trial
Zimmerman would not catch every charge thrown his way,
but not a single one?

My immediate rage was directed at the jury,
six white women who did not convict this man.
Then I realized what proof they had to go off of,
and aimed my disbelief towards the prosecution.
Could they not gather the necessary evidence
to send Zimmerman to prison?
Did such evidence ever exist?
What more could have been done?

All cylinders fired as I finally turned
to Zimmerman and his attorney Don West.
They smirked and laughed in the wake of their victory.
A tweeter mentioned, "You'd smile too if you just beat a murder case."
Albeit true, it doesn't make it any less disgusting.

Many people across various social media outlets
have mentioned that this is not a racial situation,
but that it is a failing of the justice system and process.

Believe or not, I spotted one person of color
not necessarily defending Zimmerman
but presenting his case in a light I found interesting,
and in fact almost fell for.
The gist of his argument goes as follows:

• We only know Zimmerman's side of the story, not Trayvon's.
• There was still cause for reasonable doubt for the jury (as far as motives are concerned).
• When faced with a situation involving a suspect perceived as dangerous at night and alone, most of us would have acted first before even allowing ourselves to be placed in danger. Strike first or lie flat, I suppose.

In the heat of my anger,
I allowed his points to cool me down.
It wasn't until the next morning
I began to debunk them.

• Rachel Jeantel, a witness in the trial, portrays Trayvon's side of the story, though secondhand.
• Zimmerman was told not to pursue. The purpose of a neighborhood watch program is to WATCH, not to take action. Zimmerman should have stood by and continued to watch Trayvon at the very most. Pursuing a possible suspect puts yourself in danger, a danger which Zimmerman obviously felt equipped for.
• With that in mind, Zimmerman pursued Trayvon ready for a violent confrontation before Trayvon displayed any violent tendencies. Zimmerman was prepared to strike first because he already viewed the kid he was following as a no-good hoodlum. 

As a whole, the verdict leaves me feeling unsafe.
While the trial was not a matter of color,
the crime without a doubt is.
Zimmerman, a large-enough white* man,
looked down on Trayvon, a black seventeen year old,
as suspicious for walking around a gated community with a hoodie on.
To me, it screams racial profiling.
Apparently there had been break-ins around the gated community,
but who's to say it was all by one criminal?
Who's to say the race of these home invaders?
Did Zimmerman have a description to go off of, to look out for?

The most vile part of the trial and media's take on the situation
is the criminalization of Trayvon Martin.
Pictures of him throwing up the middle finger and sporting gold grills are shown.
I'm almost positive those pictures were flown around last year
and it ended up being another kid who looked like Trayvon in the pictures,
but I may have my facts wrong on that one.
They attempted to bring up old charges such a theft on school grounds
- which were dropped - and suspensions he racked up in high school.
If these reports of Trayvon's past are true,
it does not matter.
Zimmerman did not know Trayvon personally.
He did not know his record.
There is no proof Trayvon ever tried to break into someone home in that neighborhood.
In any case, one with a criminal past does not a criminal forever make a person.

Back in April, I stopped blogging after the Boston Marathon bombing.
I had just spent a week in Boston and left the day before the bombing occurred.
I was in shock. I didn't know how to handle the situation.
The same week,
the gun regulation law requiring background checks was overturned.
There was one other piece of unbelievable news that week,
but my memory is failing to recall it.
The point being, I was scared.
Scared to the point of not knowing how to react.
And so I spent the next few months without writing.

After the verdict in the George Zimmerman case,
I was perhaps ten times as scared in comparison to the bombing.
The bombing was malicious and affected the country,
but it was an isolated incident.
The killing or imprisonment of an innocent black man or woman
is far too common and directed to the community at what seems like all times.

Realizing this is what turned my fear into rage, my rage into a seeking for justice.
As it happens, my yearn for justice reminded me why I wanted to become a writer.
My goal as a writer has always been to educate others of the struggles of the not-so-privileged, of those different from them. I see how important that goal is now. When we don't understand each other, people are convicted of crimes before they're  even made a suspect, people are persecuted for their beliefs, people are told they don't deserve the same rights or that they are an abomination.

I want to live in an America
where every citizen can
respect, understand, and love each other.
Judging from the verdict
of the Zimmerman case
- the mere fact such an event transpired -
I realize we are far from it.
But I still need to work towards it.
I hope you'll do the same
in your own way.
Word.



[pictures taken from Buzzfeed's photo coverage of the NYC Trayvon Martin march]
*edit - Zimmerman's father is white American and his mother is from Peru, making him "white Hispanic" or any other term you can call to mind. - 7/15/13, 5:17PM

Humpday: Do You Really Know Your Type?

Believe it or not, my dear friends (and associates), I've received a question from a reader via the Ask Me tab above.
Seeing as it falls into relationships and sex, why not discuss it on humpday?


Anonymous writes: "Is there anything wrong with repeatedly putting out what kind of girl/guy you're into? Why or why not?"


Is there anything wrong with saying
what demographic or features in a person
you find yourself especially attracted to? No.
Is there something wrong with
only responding to people who fit
that criteria like a puzzle piece? Yes.
Allow me to elaborate.

Let's say Claire is looking for
the classic tall, dark, and handsome fellow.
She finds it very alluring and desirable.
Her height is 5'11", 6' 2" in heels.
She's not gonna meet too many guys
taller her unless she's looking to scout ballers out the NCAA.
When a 5'7" man approaches Claire,
"No hobbits need apply,"
are the only words out her mouth.
Maybe she sees height as a sign of masculinity.
In which case, I would argue
if all men inherently possess
the same amount of masculinity by birth,
shorter men would logically
have more masculinity per square inch.
But that just sounds like we're talking about qualities of meat.
No person can decide what height they'll be,
not even with platform shoes or heels.
Claire might have just passed off on the match of her life,
or more immediately, the best sex in her young adult life.
Besides, doesn't she know that the best things
occasionally come in small adorable packages?

Quincy is a black man that lives his life like a Childish Gambino song:
Forget these white girls/I need some variation/Especially if she very Asian.
He's received flack from his parents,
asking why he doesn't just find a nice black girl
instead of "experimenting with all these other girls."
Quincy has dated his fair share of black girls,
and none of them seemed right for him,
cultural differences or something to that effect:
"Nigga, what the fuck is a Yu Yu Hakusho?"
But he's deadset on finding the perfect Far East girl
that will understand him and all his quirks
and fascinations with Chinese, Japanese, and Korean culture.
Obviously, an asian girl is not what he really wants,
but he's limited himself to them
because those are the only people he believes who share his interest.
A pity that Jessica, the latina three blocks from over,
will never find someone to enjoy Death Note with.

Those are probably the best examples I can give you.
If your type include facial features being a certain way,
no way around it at all,
I really don't know how to help you, you vain S.O.B.

Just think about it.
Do you really know who you're into?
Has seeking out that cooker cutter image been working out for you?
Or do you need to just go with the flow,
see who sparks your interest?
Sources say they've been surprised.
I wouldn't know myself;
I'm still out here casting wide nets over the city of Baltimore.
Word.

How Poetic: 2 Poems, Price of 1 Post

Music Shall Set You Free

Hypnotic,
the trumpet
blares
from the speakers

Mindsets
become fixed
upon
what perplexes them

Loose
from the
constructs
of mental blocks

Drumming
leading a
march
to what troubles

Clarinets
clearing the
way
for shining light

Truth
but a
guitar
string pluck away

Bass
plunging into
depths
known but unknown

There
your childhood
innocence
sits but shattered

The
cause staring
blankly
with dark eyes

Leading
the band
with
its sweet soprano.

__________________________

Economic Break-Up

A stranger in my house
is a woman I used to call my spouse
but she was a louse emotion-wise
whose demise is no fault but her own.
I could not condone her rampant ways
leaving me nightly to display abilities
on the dance floor leading to the possibility
of infidelity.

The mortgage is shared
and afford to bare without the place
is not a stance I care to take
while she refuses to go
and continues to shake
any scare I manage to produce.

Divorcees sharing a flat
turning all my up at bats to fouls
with any lady I convinced
doesn't hide her feelings beneath a cowl
and she reaping the benefits of being stuck
with me out of luck
because men do not give a single fuck
outside of the bedroom.


_______
Word.

Bar Review: NYC Gay Bars... and a NJ Bar, Too

Well, it seems like this month is all about new series.
I almost feel like a network executive
testing on pilot episodes on the masses.

If you remember two years back,
I challenged myself to visit a bar
not necessarily frequented by my Loyola students
in an effort to experience different ways to get drunk
...or different scenes and cultures in the community, that too.

This past weekend,
I had the pleasure of exploring four new watering holes.
With my knack for over-sharing via the internet,
I feel it my duty to let you guys in on the atmosphere
of these venues in the event you ever have the opportunity
to come across these swell places.


Thursday Night:

Rockbar - 185 Christopher St., NYC, NY

Venue Size: One-level hole in the wall bar
Special Event: Karaoke Night
Drink Special: N/A
Atmosphere: Dim lighting with Christmas-like lights strung along the walls and columns; one bar; limited tables with stools; mini-stage (not in use that night)
Locals: Greenwich Village gays and the ladies that love them of all ages
Time Spent There: 9PM-10:15PM
What I did there:
Having always walked pass this bar
during my random outings to the Pier on Christopher St.,
I decided to try it out since I had time on my hands.
I walked in solo and surveyed the area.
Seeing no immediate place for me to sit or stand,
I ducked into the bathroom to compose myself.
Reemerging, I headed to the bar and ordered
my standard, a Rum & Coke: $8 for a tall glass.
It was strong enough to sip for 30 minutes.

I inched towards a wall spot near the DJ booth
less than a yard away from the bathroom.
A tall, older black gentleman sashayed
across the room with a tip jar.
I'm not exactly sure why;
I tip bartenders myself.

The karaoke selection was massive,
drawing from an online database.
Singers chose top 40s, 90s R&B,
country, ballads, and the occasional slow jam
as they stood among the crowd and belted
instead of gracing the stage I soon presumed was for drag queens.
The quality of singing was mediocre to mind blowing.
These are gay men we're talking about here.

I ordered a second drink to calm my one-man jitters,
a Coors Light draft: $5.
I almost went up to the DJ booth to request a song.
I almost struck up a conversation with the gaggle of gays next to me.
However, liquid courage takes a while to grasp me.
By the last swallows of my beer,
the tall black queen with the tip jar
danced in my direction while making eye contact with me.
I acknowledged him with an "Oww, get it,"
before giving into awkwardness and fleeing the scene.

Overall, it was a nice place to waste an hour.
Definitely more of a group hangout.
3.5 out of 5.

Rogo's Bar & Grill - 734 Willow Ave, Hoboken, NJ

Venue Size: Two-floor establishment
Special Event: Thirsty Thursday
Drink Special: $12 pitchers, $5 rail drinks, $3 drafts
Atmosphere: Brightly lit; front bar with plenty of tables to the side; back room featuring billards, beer pong, and darts; multiple sport games on various screens; second level left unexplored
Locals: Mostly mixed crowd of white, black, and Hispanic men and women
Time Spent There: 11PM-12:15PM
What I did there:

Wanting to support a friend who works as a promoter
and see a few high school peeps,
I ventured out to Hoboken after my time on Christopher St.
There was a clear sports bar vibe to the place
as soon as I walked in the door.
Failing to immediately see anyone I knew,
I dove into the bathroom once again.

Before ordering a drink,
I walked to the back room and found the party.
I greeted the promoter as I noticed
beer pong and pool all ready in progress.
Hiphop and dance music blared from the speakers
as the DJ spun on his laptop.
I chatted with another friend or two
before attempting to get a drink at the bar.

Even with two bartenders,
the long bar and many patrons seemed too much for them to handle.
With people posted up all along the bar,
it took me about 7-8 minutes to get a drink
while I pretended to be interested in a basketball game.
Seeing the demand, I opted for a double Rum & Coke: $5.

Not knowing what else to say
or having anyone to play pool or beer pong with
- many of the people I knew were associates at best
and already with closer friends -
I held up the wall and laughed along
as one friend played darts with his lady friend.

Soon reaching the end of my drink
and beginning to feel like a creeper and a loner,
I attempted to order a second drink.
After two minutes with no clear sign of being seen soon,
I left the bar and walked back to the train station.
I needed to catch a connecting bus
before its service ended for the night anyway.

With a more steady group to hangout with,
it could have been a chill, drink heavy night.
3.75 out of 5.

[edit 4/9/13: apologies, to you all and Rogo's for the prior mistake in special prices; it has been corrected.]

Saturday Night:

On a whim, my older cousin called me just before 8PM,
"Get dressed; you're coming out with us."
 I knew not where I would be going,
but within two hours I found myself meeting
a very colorful group of straight people.


Pieces - 8 Christopher St., NYC, NY

Venue Size: Chic bar, slightly bigger than hole-in-wall
Special Event: N/A
Drink Special: N/A but cheap drinks
Atmosphere: One bar with few additional tables; pool table and mini-stage
Locals: 20s-30s gay men and the average New Yorker who loves a queer environment
Time Spent There: 10:45PM-12:05AM
What I did there:
My cousin's friend was my tour guide
on this magical night.
We entered Pieces, were I was assured cheap, strong drinks.
Airplane! the movie played on multiple screens with subtitles
as a hip-hop cover of Popular from the musical Wicked played.
This place immediately seemed like the place for me.
After checking my coat
and being handed a Rum & Coke,
I was not disappointed.
What looked like a single but tasted like a double was only $5.
I took my place among the group
and stared at the gay men dispersed about the bar.
It was by no means packed in the bar,
but it was full enough to seem like a good place to be.

A hipster-gay walked around with a tray of dollar shots.
I didn't purchase one,
but the girls who tired it didn't seem disappointed.
I ordered a second drink, hoping to loosen up
around the strange group around me.
As one guy talked to me about 90s rock bands,
I nodded along, watching him roll to cigarettes.
I was invited out to chat with them.
It was then that I thanked them for being
so welcoming and awesome to me.
The drinks were good; I felt myself loosen up.
I had them guess my sexual orientation.
Upon realizing of my queer nature
they seemed to like me even more,
though one girl seemed half disappointed.

We walked back in.
I continued my conversation with the guy about music
before having one of the girls try to introduce me to a guy.
Appreciation the gesture, I pointed out to her
that the guy was nearly pass out drunk.
She agreed and continued to talk to him
to allow me to dance with the other ladies of the group.
Before I could order another drink,
I learned we were on to the next venue.

Pieces is a good time.
I saw posters for drag shows.
4 out of 5.





Stonewall Inn - 53 Christopher St, NYC, NY

Venue Size: Two-floor club
Special Event: N/A
Drink Special: N/A
Atmosphere: 1st floor bar with tables, 2nd floor bar with dance floor
Locals: GAYS, in extra all caps.
Time Spent There: 12:20AM-1:30AM
What I did there:

Without given the chance to properly survey the 1st floor, I was dragged to the second floor by my gay bar tour guide and possible new fag hag.

I stopped off in the bathroom before hitting the dancefloor.

Upon my arrival, a stranger (female) came up to me.

We danced the night away for at least 5 minutes, if not more.

My tour guide found me again and 

dragged me to the bar to help loosen me up.

Rum & Coke: $8 for a tall glass.

She danced with me as well, almost forcefully. 

We danced the night away for even longer.

The gay guys there seemed diverse and good looking.

Unfortunately my liquid courage rarely works through flirting.

I continued to dance, forgoing a second drink:

a bit because of the price,

but mostly because I was having a good time without it.

Around 1:30, my cousin began to fall asleep.

The group decided it was time to go.

My cousin insisted that I stay with the group of 25-30 year olds,

but I knew I had to leave with her.

I'll never know what the 3rd bar 

could have had in stow for me that night.

I don't feel right rating this bar

since I experienced only a fraction of what it had to offer.

But for what it's worth: 3.75 out of 5.

Thus ends my first windup for bar reviews.

Let me know if you found them helpful

and if you have any bars that I should try out.

Word.

Friday Rush: Beyonce

The Friday Rush is another new segment I'm trying out.
I basically figure on Fridays folks are usually rushing
about preparing for their night out
or shutting the world out as they stay in.
In either case, I figured I could use Fridays
to quickly talk about popular fads or people.
In other words, this is my attempt at being trendy.

This week: Beyonce.
Listen, the queen of this pop/R&B ish
has been busy keeping her fans and haters alike
on the edge of their seats and tweets.
Besides, Wednesday, she and Jay-Z
celebrated their 5-year anniversary.
Since Jay-Z isn't doing much
but looking after his daughter and the Nets,
his wife reaps the benefits of praise this week.

Her HBO doc "Life is But a Dream"
gave everyone a look into her life
from recording to break downs
to her marriage to Blue Ivy,
whom all the girls and gurls [read: gays]
were happy to catch another glimpse of.
Add bonuses include:
1) hearing unreleased Beyonce tracks
2) hearing Beyonce curse and act the country Texas girl she is.

Bow Down/I Been On:
The song drew criticism,
many people believing Beyonce was becoming too cocky.
But may as add as an occasional Beyonce stan,
that MANY a rapper claim to be the best and/or
better than anyone else in the rap game
without so much as a receipt of their "superiority."
Beyonce was simply doing the same,
but with more credits to her name.
If you're the best and you know it,
there is no reason for you not to clap your hands.
My condolences to Keyshia Cole [a R&B recording artist with a dying fanbase]
after she attacked Mrs. Knowles-Carter on twitter for the track.
Since that week of the single's release,
Keyshia has been receiving hate-tweets and more
on par to the disdain many Beyonce fans have for Keri Hilson.
But this is all just "Black Twitter" going-ons.

Lastly, Grown Woman/Pepsi commercial:
On Wednesday, Beyonce released via her tumblr account
- yes, that she operates herself, a true blessing to her fans -
that at 9am Thursday a video would hit the interwaves.
Like a sheep, I woke up at 8:45am this next day,
groggy like any other non 9-to-5er waking up that early
for what would hopefully be a new single.
It was not.
It was a damn Pepsi commercial with a teaser track.
However, the teaser and commercial itself
more than appeased my annoyed spirit,
and I soon found myself replaying the video for 7 minutes.
Seeing Beyonce relive each of her singles
as she stared in a mirror...
it just entrances you somehow.
It's rumored that the full song, Grown Woman,
will be released this coming Monday,
but I'll believe when I'm alone in my room lip syncing along.

All this is leading up to her new album Mrs. Carter
and her worldwide tour, which will hit the states this summer.
Will I be in attendance?
No, I don't have hundreds of dollars to spend on a front row ticket
which is the only way I would want to experience a Beyonce concert.
Will I buy the album when it drops?
Well, it will definitely be in my iTunes the week it drops
one way or another.

Beyonce is out here getting her money
and stringing us along like dopy eyed pups.
Those who mind will call her out for it,
and those who don't will continue to
catch everlasting life from her.
Or you can fall somewhere in between,
that's cool, too.

In short, Beyonce is the diva the world deserves,
 and but not the one Destiny Child needs right now.
Word.

Double Chin

Alright, fine. I'll admit it.
I've gained some weight since graduation.
I will not disclose how much,
but yes it is on par (if not past) the freshmen 15.
There has to be some phenomenon called
the post-grad 30 or something right?
...crap, I said I wouldn't disclose.

For the most part, no one's made a big fuss about it.
That was until I returned back home for a week.
"You look bigger."
"Look at that round ol' face of yours."
"You getting fat, yo."
Yes, from the subtle to the flat out,
I expected comments on my weight.
It's only fair, they didn't really get the chance to
when I gained the freshmen 15.
I was still transitioning out of the
urban baggy clothes phrase into preppy-wear.

But girth aside, I really don't mind it.
As long as I can still dance my ass off,
I could weigh 300 pounds for all I care.
...okay, not really, but you get my point.

It's my face that bugs me.
That round face comment,
it's kinda true.
My cheeks poke out above
my sideburns as they reach my goatee.
But really, the worst part
is the slow formation of the dreaded...
DOUBLE CHIN. [lightning strikes]

There's something so demeaning about a double chin.
I suppose it's the true sign of overweight/obesity.
You can hide rolls in big clothes
or lumps under a veil of black,
but not even a turtleneck will hide
that twin beast hanging from your face.

I've discovered that as my double chin began to fully form
- or perhaps it was just when I consciously noticed it -
my eyes were drawn to the chins and necks of other people.
I noticed that even some of my "average" build friends
indeed too had the beginnings of what was sure
to become a full fledged double chin,
and there was nothing I could do to help them.

I mean, seriously,
has no exercise or machine been created
to target face fat.
The market for that is WIDE open.
Do you know how many people
would kill to see their jawline defined,
to see cheekbones they hadn't seen in years
without the use of cosmetic surgery?
Why must the face be such a hard to reach area
when losing weight?
I'm almost certain that's one of the last places
you start to see results in when working out.
Then again, I'm no doctor,
so what do I know.

All I know is,
I feel sorry for every female and asian man
who lacks the ability to grow facial hair
in the vain attempt to hide their extra chin.

So to all you doubler chins out there, keep your head up
- no seriously, it doesn't look so bad like that -
at least you're not a member of the no neck committee.
Word.

Humpdays: Vicariously

In an attempt to structure myself,
I may or may not implement
themes to certain days.
Clearly Wednesday Humpdays are an easy start.
So, without further adieu....


There is no better remedy for
returning from a long night of aimless drinking
whilst suffering from a lack of nerve to approach someone
than a strong nightcap and a good Netflix queue.
You turn off the lights,
cozy up in bed under the sheets,
and prepare for a marathon of your favorite Cartoon Network show.
[It's a recent add to Netflix. Overly spectacular, I know!]



Shortly after your favorite character's catchphrase - we'll use "Oh My Glob!" in this case - you hear moaning.
Realizing as a grown young adult
that many cartoons carry strong sexual undertones, you recognize the source of the moan as not your laptop.
Curious as George, you pause the show.

The next sound instantly alerts you to what's happening: the clacking of a headboard against the wall.
Your roommate is once again "getting it in."
Immediately, you are plagued by a strong case of hate.
Your brain racks for ways to cockblock,
maybe by blasting the ending credits of your show
at truck volume for even the neighbors to hear.
Oh god, can the neighbors hear the sounds of intercourse, too?

Snapping back to reality,
you realize you should be happy for them.
From the sounds of it,
they're pretty happy themselves.
Then you feel like a perv,
listening for over a minute all ready.
Jaded, you take another gulp of your nightcap.
"Fuck it," you think. "I'll listen for rhythm's sake,
see how good they really are."
And also because your lonely self
could use the pointers.

And so you continue to stalk your roommate
and their partner through the paper thin walls
without even readjusting yourself in bed.
Your room suddenly turns black
from the laptop conserving its energy
from lack of use in the past five minutes.
You enjoy the sex sounds
like a dull married couple
enjoys the music of the rainforest
but tenfold.

Then you hear her scream in ecstasy.
The deed is done,
and you can only stare at a wall in amazement.
Hearing one of them squeak out of the bed,
you frantically type the password into your laptop
and attempt to watch Adventure Time as quietly as possible.

The next morning
- when you wake up past noon
and spot your roommate on the couch -
you casually mention the poor quality of the walls
and smirk at each other like the devilish 20-somethings you are.
It'll be a vicarious night you won't forget for some time to come.
Word

We Ain't Goin' Nowhere

If you couldn't tell yesterday's post
was an April Fool's joke...
I can't even blame you.
But no, my dear friends [and associates],
this blog is not over
- not until my fingers are blown off
during a careless firework demonstration.
Besides, you really think I wouldn't do some sort
of memory lane, greatest posts ever sappy BS?
Because I am so doing that when I'm digit-less.

So what the eff happened to me?
A mixture of the usual:
Carelessness and frustration.
Also, the 5 or 6 post I submitted
back in September-November
were all written on a work computer
while I was laptop-less.
Why was I laptop-less you ask?
Because my dumb ass tried to fix
the charger output inside my laptop
drunkenly one night to watch Chicago with a friend
and fucked it up beyond repair or further charging.
When work become too busy,
I stopped posting.

And that is the sad start to what could have been the end of this blog.
Shortly before the end of my temp-like position
at what has become my part-time employer,
I purchased a fine Macintosh.
I know, I'm so fancy with my secret money stashes.
That was in late February.
But Charles, why didn't you start posting again then?
Because I was a lazy ass who lacked motivation,
that's why.... ya jerk.

Obviously, I beat myself over this.
All March long, as I remained jobless-ish
[and still do - PLEASE HIRE ME]
and lacked direction,
I pondered rather or not I still had anything to write about,
if my stint as a writer was suddenly over without warning.
Looking through small notebooks and jottings on my phone,
I knew there was still something there.

So, using April 1st as a do or die moment,
I killed the blog, hoping I would resurrect it like Harry Potter or something.
I don't know,  I never read the books or saw the movies.
I went through a weird religious/anti-magic phase as a kid; sue me.

As I type this at 4:19pm this fair Tuesday afternoon,
I'm desperately hoping you all still care enough
about this silly thing I call my gift to the world.
Gift? ...yeah, gift.
Because my presence (on the internet) is a present.

So, onward to the confessions of a gay black 20-something
with a Bachelor's degree and just enough direction in life
 to not send him into an alcoholic stupor - however barely that may be.

Prepare for more honesty than ever before,
despite my family occasionally dropping by
to see what I'm really up to.
I mean, they have to find out at some point right?
Just, uh, remind me not to get too graphic, all right?

Oh, one more thing:
Remember how I blogged all March last year
in an effort to rekindle my passion for blogging?
Yeah, not doing that again.
But close enough, I'll be blogging every weekday in April.
And I'm traveling so... could lead to some pretty interesting
subject matter, huh? Yeah, I think so.

Well, I'll see you fools with actual content tomorrow.
[proceeds to Diddy Bop and Harlem Shake]
Ugh, I've missed so many topical blogging points.
Word.