Day Twenty Four: So It's Come To This

The Object of My Disaffection: Pictured Here, No Doubt Wondering What That Noise is Between Her Ears

This shit has officially gone too far.

Would someone care to explain this to me? Why, when I do a Wikipedia search for "African-Americans," does a page appear with Harriet Tubman and Beyonce placed side by side? I'm beginning to believe the Birthday Girl now when she says that Beyonce is one of the harbingers of the Apocalypse.

And since this can't be my fault, I blame all of you people who have inexplicably propped this dummy and her divisive, airheaded songs up for the last few years. Shame on you for not realizing that your mindless fandom has its consequences.

Day Seven: Parting Shots

"How could I have ever considered cutting off those beautiful balls."

Now that the shock and unabashed delight of the Obama Victory is beginning to wear off a bit, I think I'm finally at a place where I can begin focusing on the absurdity surrounding it. I'll be using this post as an excuse to provide a little bit of color commentary on some of the things that went down the night of November 4, 2008, and fire a few rounds at the clowns who participated in the circus.

a) McRedneck - I KNOW that I wasn't the only person who peeped that mean-mugging, mustachioed hillbilly holding his son at the McCain concession speech. My friends, that wasn't just disappointment on his face. He looked like, at any minute, he was going to pass his son off to the nearest person, go to his Ford F150, pull out his shotgun, and shoot the first black person he saw. That man was seething. My hope is that the Secret Service interpreted that look the same way I did and had a long talk with Billy Bob.

b) Sarah Flailin' - What Now? That's the question that media outlets collectively posed regarding the pointlessly ambitious, high-heeled bag of potatoes that currently (and thankfully still) governs the state of Alaska. I'm not sure why so many white folks are attempting to attribute a complexity to her that simply doesn't exist. The perennial love affair that whites have with themselves never ceases to amaze me. So, what now? I'll take a stab at it. She'll sink back into her Alaskan purgatory with the First Dude, her kids: Tractor, Truck, Trailer, Trick and Tramp, sit on her back porch monitoring Russia with a pair of binoculars, and dream about a time when a woman who didn't know that Africa is a continent almost made it to the White House.

c) "O" Most Famous - Dave Chappelle once mused that he didn't realize how famous a president could be. He said of Bill Clinton that his fame was so great a person could fellate him and then she would become famous. She could even go on to write a book about her knee-chaffing experiences, for the simple act of servicing a presidential penis had turned her into a qualified author. No one, according to the Chappelle, had a pick up line quite as compelling: "S_ck my d_ck, there's a future in it for you!" Not until Oprah Winfrey leaned on a stranger's back in Grant Park and instantly made him a sought after celebrity did I realize just how spot on Dave Chappelle had been.

d) Will I. Am - I didn't really expect to see Dude.

e) The Tears of a Clown - Perhaps I've been a bit too harsh. I'd initially interpreted Jesse Jackson's public weeping in Grant Park as a cynical, last ditch attempt to place himself in the headlines. I thought, surely, that a man who'd whispered malintentions toward Barack Obama only a few short months ago could not have undergone such an extraordinary change of heart. These tears were simply a put on - a present day version of staining his shirt red with MLK's blood to pretend that he was more connected to the moment than he actually was. But I think now that I may have misjudged Jesse. I think now that his tears were genuine. I think he considered that he would no longer have backdoor access to a Democratic White House. I think he realized that he would no longer be on standby to soothe the soul of a libidinous president. I think he knew that he'd been unceremoniously removed from the gravy train. I believe that this series of realizations led him to cry like he'd lost a loved one. I guess, in a sense, he had. The night of November 4th, Jesse Jackson finally came to the conclusion that many of us reached a long time ago - he'd lost himself.

Day Six: Expect It

Now In Season

Our great, collective, symbolic prayer has been answered. We are understandably euphoric. Brothers and sisters who I barely recognize are smiling knowingly at me and giving me the 'We Did It' thumbs up. This is all good. But we need to be watchful. We can not underestimate the extent to which some of these stupid, salty-assed crackers will attempt to pee in our lemonade. A couple of recent examples from my state:

• In Terrell, Texas, the local newspaper, The Terrell Tribune refused to carry the Obama win as a headline. The editors chose, instead, to go with an area race. Not surprisingly, local blacks, as well as others, who were desirous of obtaining a keepsake were confused and outraged, and decided to picket the headquarters. Staffers, unburdened by a sense decency, actually walked outside and snapped pictures of the protesters. When local media picked up the story, the Tribune saw fit to issue the following response: "We are a newspaper, not a memory book service. We covered the local comissioners race. We felt that was more important." Additionally, they added that this insulting omission could not be attributed to racism because the winner of the commissioner's race was black. Frankly, I almost would have preferred that the Tribune come clean: "We felt this was an opportune time to stick it to you convivial, uppity Negroes."
  
• The students of Baylor University (an overpriced, overrated college in Waco, TX) were gifted with a noose sometime during election day. I've written about this cowardly phenomenon. Apparently, some white folks (I believe we can safely assume this of the noose-givers) can only find self-fulfillment by reminding themselves of a time when they could kill niggers with impunity. The times appear to be a-changin' a little too much for their tastes.
  

I predict that this will continue, at least for the short term. We should not be caught off guard by it. Historically, racist whites have, without fail, responded to African-American progress with violence or the threat thereof. Sadly, it is inevitable. My advice: Screw your courage to the sticking place and ride out the foolishness. I hate to differ with the title of one of my all time favorite albums, but not even a nation of millions can hold us back.

On Cheating: The Big Why

"Despite the fact that she took everything, it's the 'poorly-endowed' part that hurts."

As promised, in this post I will attempt to explain why men cheat. Like many, I've spent a great deal of time wondering why seemingly "good" guys struggle to stay faithful to the people that they love. My conclusions are based, not only on my own experiences, but on those of men who I know and know of.

Men can cheat at any age. Just as I've heard about men who've cheated on their honeymoons, I've heard of decades-long, solid as a rock marriages breaking up over infidelity. Based on what I've seen, however, young men cheat for far different reasons than older men.

Frankly, most young men really don't stand a chance. Socialized, as they are, to equate manhood with sexual conquests, burdened by runaway libidos, and encouraged to go out and accumulate as many exotic, often sexual ego-building experiences as they can, they often find themselves destined for infidelity. Some don't even know why they do it. They just feel compelled. I was one of these. Although I wasn't married, I was unfaithful to women who I dated. On those occasions when I was asked why I did it, I honestly couldn't provide an intelligent answer. I felt that I'd been somehow intoxicated by other women. It wasn't until I ruined a great relationship with a wonderful person that I jettisoned the excuses and really took a hard look at myself.

Many older men, on the other hand, cheat to feed malnourished egos. These past-their-prime Lotharios - particularly those who are married or in long-term, committed relationships - are especially susceptible to falling for the Appeal to Conceit. These men grow tired of seeing themselves through their partner's world-weary eyes. Typically, they've fallen into a rut at home. They eat the same meals. They have the same standard, nighttime, lights off, missionary sex. They are subject to the same "nagging" (Aside to readers: I'm likely to agree with Edith Clara Summerskill, who said that "Nagging is the repetition of unpalatable truths," but most men aren't as willing to accept this truism as I) that they have been for years. They wonder how the young, buoyant, hyper-sexed women who used to be their cheerleaders became the jaded, disinterested coupon-clippers to whom they now find themselves married today. So along comes this other woman. She isn't burdened by having to make his home or raise his children. She doesn't have to worry about the bills or their retirement or the vicissitudes that come with maintaining a marriage. She gets to see him at his best without having to worry about everything that goes into creating his image. He likes her because she makes him feel desirable and intelligent and capable (Aside to readers: Men have exceptionally sensitive egos. Most of the ones I know, including me, require compliments and praise more than they will ever let on.) He is willing to completely overlook the fact that she has absolutely no stake in him, his children or his future. So he finds himself allowing her to feed his fragile little ego - a prelude to adultery. Soon enough, the dearly departed, formerly faithful are creating fantastic, guilt-relieving rationales about how their wives drove them to cheat, or how they were suffocating and desperately needed their freedom, or some such bullshit.

Up until now, I've explained the HOW of cheating but written very little about the WHY. That's because I believe it's important for women to be able to view infidelity within context. Bearing that in mind, here's something that all heterosexual women need to be aware of: ALL sexually active, heterosexual men want to have athletic, unemotional sex with a variety of women. Those women among you who are fortunate enough to have an attentive, faithful, loving boyfriend/husband/partner should know that he's included as well. This fact may be one of the most difficult things for some women to accept. Men are chronically plagued by sexual thoughts. Some of us distract ourselves from this by constantly reminding ourselves how much we love our wives (or how much we stand to lose if they catch us cheating). Others deflect this desire by immersing ourselves in the church (of course, there are a lot of women in the church so this might not be such a good idea). Religious men attempt to quell this sinful urge by marrying early and lovingly directing it toward The One (more on this in a future post.) Still others keep themselves busy with activities that take our minds off of extra-committal sexual pursuits. Then there are those who rush full on in the direction of temptation. I know quite a few men who cheat often, and unapologetically. They feel entitled. For them, the more women the better. These men require no analysis.

Honestly, as much as I'd like to be able to convince you otherwise, there's no foolproof way for determining whether you're with a cheater or a steadfastman. Some women like to believe that once a cheater always a cheater. While this notion makes life simpler, it isn't always true. I was a serial cheater prior to marriage, but my wife and I have been together for nine years and I've been faithful to her since the first day that I met her. This isn't because I don't want to have sex with other women. My fidelity has mainly to do with the following two facts:
1) While I often find myself sexually attracted to other women, I don't want to cheat on my wife. I know I've got a good thing going and I don't want to mess it up.
2) I'm familiar with my own weaknesses. I know that I've given in to temptation before (mostly in college) and I know precisely what I need to avoid.

As a result, I work very diligently to keep myself out of compromising, potentially ruinous positions. I don't go to strip clubs. I don't spend a great deal of time with rabidly adulterous friends of mine. I don't lodge serious complaints about my wife with other women. And, most importantly, I don't create opportunities to cheat. I don't spend any time around good looking women who show an interest in me. At all. I know what that leads to. So far, so good. But being a man is a little like being an alcoholic. You have to take fidelity one day at a time.

So, finally, we come to the Big Why. It's simple really. Men cheat because they want to. They cheat because they put themselves before their wives, girlfriends, partners and families. They cheat because they mistake a strong sexual urge for a biological imperative. They cheat because they choose their egos over their commitments. There's really nothing more to it than that.

On Cheating: Enduring Adulterers

"I do not think that there are any men who are faithful to their wives." -Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis

I've been meaning to write about this for a long time. I'm going to attempt to take on adultery in this post. I'm going to try to avoid doing any finger pointing or assigning of blame - believe me, there's plenty of the latter to go around anyway. I'm just going to write about a pattern that I've noticed. I'm inclined toward cynicism so don't expect me support the idea that love triumphs over all. I've too much evidence, anecdotal and otherwise, to the contrary.

My friend's husband is having sex with other women. She broke down and told me what was going on one day when she couldn't contain her sadness any longer. Apparently, it's been going on for years, and with a myriad of different partners. Not terribly long ago, this man suddenly became incapacitated by illness. His wife, a prayerful, loyal, long-suffering type, dedicated herself to caring for him to the point that she was literally wiping his mouth and emptying his colostomy bags. Miraculously, he recovered and, in short order, started screwing everything that moved. When my friend confronted him with evidence of his infidelity and demanded that he explain himself, he told her that, because he'd been so close to death, he felt that he owed it to himself to live each day as if it were his last (on the last day of his life, apparently, part of his agenda would be wooing and entering other women.)

Yet, from my perspective, this is only half of the tragedy. Soon after learning of her husband's cheating ways, my friend began to seek counsel from me and a mutual friend in whom she'd confided. On a number of different occasions, the three of us would spend hours discussing her husband, her options and her sanity. Based, I believe, on some combination of these discussions and her own self-motivation, she made the difficult but sensible decision to pack her things and leave the bastard. The plan was executed perfectly. She saved up enough money to relocate. She set up a job and a place to live in another state. She lulled her husband into falsely believing that she would continue to eat his shit. Then, she arranged for him to come home to a dark (the electricity was in her name) empty (she had purchased most of the furniture, except the bed - more on this later) house one day after work. She called me, and our mutual friend, after she'd gone to thank us for the sound advice and update us on her progress. Everything was going well. Then, a few weeks later, out of nowhere, she called us to let us know that she was coming back "home." According to her, she simply "missed" her husband too much to stay away and was going to attempt to work it out. But, ironically, it was too late. Her husband had already moved on - and moved another woman into 'her' house. Now, her husband was ready to divorce her and she was left to cry and rail against the fact that "that Nigga done brought home a bitch to sleep in my bed!" As she told me this, a famous Big Daddy Kane line played in my noggin like a refrain: "Put a quarter in your ass because you played yourself."

She's not alone. I know at least four women whose husbands have cheated on them, with relative impunity, for years. Each of these women has more or less confided in me regarding their situations. What invariably happens is this: They tell me and various others that their husbands are running around on them. The curse the cheating SOB's name loudly, and often publicly. They make plans to leave. They stay. Eventually, the husband grows tired of the charade and ends up leaving them.

This pattern is so pervasive that I find myself wondering why anyone feels the need to continue burdening anyone else with news of male infidelity. If a man knows he can get away with cheating he will continue to make a fool of his wife and himself. I'm familiar with the challenges that face women, especially those who have children, who attempt to leave an abusive spouse. What I don't understand is what those women who are in a good position to leave - financially, educationally, emotionally and physically - gain from staying.

Recently, a lot of media attention has been given to Gary Neuman, author of The Truth About Cheating: Why Men Stray and What You Can Do To Prevent It, in an attempt to determine why men can't manage to keep it in their pants. I believe I know the answer to this and will address it in my next post, but I think a more important question to answer is why women continue to put up with it. Instead of taking exhaustive, often futile measures to try to obliterate men's adulterous inclinations, perhaps it would benefit women more to look after themselves.

The Office of My Familiar

"I never noticed how phat your ass is, Boss."


My wife is a pharmacist. That means she's got her doctorate (Pharm.D.) and is a nationally recognized and state-certified professional. I'm not simply bragging on my lady here (not that it would score me any points since she stopped reading my blog long ago). I mean, I'm extremely proud of her and I understand the economic and social obstacles that she's had to overcome to accomplish her goals, but the whole reason I'm mentioning it is because of two work-related incidents she's shared with me.

The first was recurring. While we were living in Virginia some years ago, she was working with a pharmacist who happened to be a black male. If any of you can recall my Heathen Manifesto post, he was the Credit to His Race who had two families, and had the temerity to chide her about not belonging to a church. At any rate, she began to notice that as soon as he became comfortable with her, he suddenly lost all traces of his professionalism. Propriety and pretense devolved into frequent and often bizarre inappropriateness. In her eyes, this fall into unsuitable familiarity was precipitated by the fact that she was a black woman. Because she was a "sister," he immediately assumed that he could get away with what one of my Houston frat brothers refers to as, "that ol' bullshit."

Fast forward to the present. My wife works with a Jewish man (let's call him Mike) who is the pharmacist-in-charge. The two of them are the regular, nine-to-fivers at her current location. Other pharmacists are often brought in to provide coverage when one of them needs to take off. Recently, an outside pharmacist (let's call him Elroy) was hired to take over for Mike when he had a doctor's appointment. For about a half-an-hour, Mike, Elroy and my wife worked together with seamless professionalism. As soon as Mike left for his appointment, Elroy asked, loudly and to no one in particular, "Alright! Where the party at?" In her words, "This Negro thought that the pharmacy transformed into a nightclub just because a white man went to a doctor's appointment."

She's not alone. EVERY SINGLE black female professional that I know has had to endure (or is doing so currently) some kind of come on, ignorant comment, leer or improper gesture from some brother that gets just a little too familiar. Now, before you rush to judgment about me, I recognize that this is not endemic to my people. Men being what they are, women in general have historically been exposed to both sexual and non-sexual workplace incongruities. Having acknowledged that, I still find it regrettable that some brothers just can't check that player shit at the office door. If I had a dollar for every complaint I've heard, from my wife, sister, mother, and women friends, about some failed attempt at workplace pimpery, I'd move my family to the Hamptons. If any of you would-be office Lotharios are reading this, my suggestion to you would be to focus on your God-damned job. Apart from having to occasionally bear witness to some of the shittiest game I've ever seen, I'm tired of sisters at my job regarding me with suspicion just because I smile at them and say "Hello."

Blaxplanation Disclaimer: I realize it was wrong to take a pic of a genial, professional black couple and contaminate it with that unfortunate quote, but, like the recently-removed editor of Golfweek, I'm just trying to generate some readership.

"Slave For A Day"

On occasion, unchecked white liberal guilt can (evidently) be mined for entertainment purposes.

A Haitian theme park called, appropriately enough, Memory Village, could be in the works for whites who seek to assuage their angst over their ancestors' brutality. The 'Slave for a Day' attraction is sure to appeal to the above-mentioned guilty libs, sadomasochists with unresolved Negro issues and, considering the activity ends with a full out rebellion, anyone who wants to get to get his or her Toussaint L'Ouverture on. From the article:

"They [visitors] can choose if they want to be spectators or participants. If they take part, they will be given traditional African clothing and then 'kidnapped', chained and forced to march to a slave ship in a mock crossing of the Atlantic.

They will then be part of a re-enactment where slaves were taken to market to be sold and later broken down with torture in quarantine and put to work on a plantation.

Towards the end of the 12-hour stay, visitors will take part in a recreation of the slave rebellion which eventually led to the establishment of Haiti."

The founders of the "project," a married American couple named Ron and Carla Bluntschli, have already raised a considerable amount of money and need about $700K to make their dream a reality.

Where to begin? I basically had two separate and distinct reactions when I initially read about this. The first was disgust. Some of you have seen Michael Moore's brilliant documentary Roger and Me, which chronicles, from Moore's unique perspective, the deleterious effect the closing of a GM plant has on residents of Flint, Michigan. For many, the most disturbing part was when a local woman who is selling rabbits, "For Food or Pets," smashes a rabbit's skull (apparently it didn't make the pets list) and skins it in preparation for a meal. For me, the sickest part was when members of Flint's upper class, while most of Southeastern Michigan disintegrated around them, decided to get all prissied up to spend a night in an abandoned prison. If memory serves me correctly, some of those bastards were literally walking around old cell blocks with half-full martini glasses. I've never been a fan of ghetto tourism in any of its forms. Apart from the obvious stupidity of those who promote and take part in it, it perpetuates the insulting idea that the socioeconomic position of an entire segment of the population can be fully understood simply by throwing on some prison stripes or submitting to a questionable form of "torture." If visitors to Memory Village really want the authentic slave experience perhaps they should allow Ron and Carla to kill their children, rape their wives and daughters, abduct them and everyone they know and drag them to a foreign, hostile, indecipherable country, steal, plunder, inhabit and force them to forsake their motherland, destroy their entire familial structure, enslave them for approximately 400 years, subject them to sub-second class citizenry status for about a hundred years after they release them and THEN chide them for having the temerity to bring any of it up. Yeah. That'd be about square (thanks to Breez for reminding me of this wonderful line).

The second reaction I had to this story was one of unabashed amusement. This is because I can imagine some Haitian kid named Hennrick getting paid to gleefully dole out daily beatings to Memory Village guests. I can imagine Hennrick announcing that today's revolution will begin promptly at 3pm. I imagine Hennrick's friends and family regarding him with utter disbelief when he reveals to them what he does for a living. I also imagine Hennrick being besieged by requests for dates from some of the very people whose asses he's spent the last few hours whipping. Now that I think of it, I've probably got a few dollars lying around the house somewhere to donate to Ron and Carla.