I was black before Barack (re)made it cool, but now I’m distant from my race. My main black man problem: removing wine stains from my LL Cool J soupcoolers. I live in a suburb a few miles from the U.S.-Mexico border and go weeks without seeing a single black person in my part of town. An area where the small number of racists are too busy hating on the Mexicans to worry about a couple-few black guys in the area, provided that couple-few remains a couple-few.

I live with my lady, who’s black in ass but white overall, and our six-month-old son who has yet to realize the discomfort that comes with “What are you?” The few black friends I have here operate as I do, without the constraints of being black. The phrases I heard in my hometown of Cleveland don’t apply: “Man, real ni66as don’t ____.” Fill in the blank with: go camping, fall in love with white women (smanging is OK),  listen to Radiohead, travel outside a three mile radius of racial comfort, sit right next to their homeboy in the movie theater, drink a beer without grabbing it by the neck, give high fives…

But we’re still very much black, and proud. I cringe when our ignorant 10 percent equates black with “ghetto.” I hate logging on to WorldStarHipHop.com, but rubberneck at our mess when temptation proves too heavy. I watch UFC and hope the brotha knocks the white dude out…sorry. I listen to “Watch The Throne” and see it as a celebration of modern “black excellence.” I want hot sauce on everything I eat, it’s actually crusted on my computer’s keypad as I write.

But I also thought O.J. was guilty, from the start. And my in-group politics mesh more with Bill Cosby’s than Al Sharpton’s.

Still, I can have an opinion on black love without getting the side-eye, even if my version of black love includes a white woman. I can criticize and compliment us and feel my opinion is just as valid as someone who’s really “down.”

Jesse’s struggle was different than Barack’s. Baldwin’s issues might not have meshed with Malcolm’s. Dubois didn’t see eye-to-eye with Booker T Washington. What K’naan went through is probably completely foreign to other black hip-hop artists. And Rerun from “What’s  Happening” probably didn’t understand the trouble Lamar from “Revenge of the Nerds” faced while becoming the greatest dancer of his generation.

But the breadth and depth of the black experience is great. Let’s appreciate the diversity within the black community. Even Herman Cain.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

You can do anything you want as long as you can accept being average at it. In elementary school I believed in the fallacy of hard work and spent hours and hours trying to perfect my chess game. The school tournament came around and I lost in the first round in less than two minutes to Fat Terry, who had been taught a secret Hindu chess move from the school genius, Munir. To make matters worse my dad scolded me with, “How the hell you lose to Terry’s fat ass?” Because I was just an average chess player, Dad!

The disappointment continued in middle school. I practiced basketball for hours, even in the snow, and still got cut from the team. Luckily a Jheri-curled teacher, Mr. Hinesmiller, also believed in the fallacy of hard work and added me to the “C Team” with other kids who lacked natural athletic talent. We played our first and only game against Solomon Schechter, a school for Jewish kids whose parents didn’t want them interacting with black children, and lost by two points. Two points that I gave them by shooting the ball in the wrong hoop.

High school was a little better. I made the freshman basketball team and scored a couple points my first season. I practiced eight hours a day the following summer and believed I had a chance to be a star. But my sophomore year I got cut from junior varsity and cried like I’m doing now as I reminisce. The next year I transferred to a school in the hood, after my family moved three blocks away from the hood. I learned to play spades in class and took my first trip to the projects. I also made the varsity basketball team and sat the bench. More importantly, I got a handy (not from a teammate). That was great, but the look in the girl’s eyes made me think I was average in the meat department.

In college I got average grades in the easy major. Same for grad school. I then got a mid-level management job at a clinic, where I did just enough work to get my average pay. I left to pursue a writing career and released a book that based on the sales, was average. I traveled a bit and then got another job, but like any ol’ average brotha I was the last-one-hired-first-one-fired. Now I’m working various hustles to avoid being your average worker bee.

In this I’ve learned there’s one area in which I can exceed average-dome: fatherhood. With a little hard work, luck (i.e. not dying) and if only because my son has no one to compare me to, I can be a great father. He knows I’m the guy who grabs him from the crib at 2:15 a.m. and connects him with Mom’s titty, and the guy who plays with him a few hours later, and the guy whose bony shoulder he rests on at noon. So to him I’m great, and therefore, for the first time in my life, un-average.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Walmart is an interesting place to shop, and not just because they hire silent greeters. Their stores are great for people watching, second only to an inner city Greyhound station on a Saturday afternoon. Plus they have an extraordinary amount of ass walking through their aisles at the oddest hours; they’re pretty much a 24 hour nightclub. But they also have a dark side. And I’m not just talking about its sweatshops in rice-cooking countries. Walmart has a secret security force that’s retail’s version of the Mossad.

My brother and I were driving from Cleveland to Columbus, Ohio when we stopped at a Walmart in small town Macedonia to exchange a broken CD player (Fuck yo’ i-Pod). We approached the cashier with the replacement and she looked at us like we were criminals, though we hadn’t even stolen anything…yet. The cashier rudely explained that without a receipt she could not exchange the broken CD player. We pointed out that Walmart’s policy, as described on a sign directly behind her, said exchanges would be given without a receipt. Still, she didn’t budge. So my brother did what any mature adult would do, slam the broken CD player on the counter and walk out with the new one.

The cashier began yelling, “He’s stealing; he’s stealing!” An employee near the store’s exit momentarily tried to block his path, but simply moved out the way as my brother got near. (I guess being big and black is good for more than just having sex with white women in college.) I followed my brother out the store and yelled, “Man, what are you doing!” It was too late.

A plain clothes security guard grabbed my brother in the parking lot and tried to wrestle him to the ground. Another grabbed me, but quickly let my scrawny bones go when he saw his colleague needed a second body. The first guard was nearly riding my brother’s back. The second leaped for his legs and tried to bring him to the ground.

My brother, with the spirit of Kunta Kinte running through his veins, kept trudging his way towards our car. Then one of the security guards did the unthinkable; he squeezed the shit out my brother’s balls.

My big brother yelped in pain. I hadn’t heard him scream like that since my dad whooped his ass for losing a fight in school. I was nearly 10 feet away and felt the pain in MY stomach. Those big balls, which were flashed to me when they first grew hair, were crushed.

I tried to pull one of the guards off my brother, but he was strong and tired and unmovable. Within seconds police cars arrived. A goofy looking cop with a classic redneck haircut, sideburns shaved to the top of his earflaps, threw me against his car and cuffed me. For good measure he whispered, “You try to run, I’ll knock your fuckin’ head off.”

They pulled my brother off the ground and quickly cuffed him. We were taken to the station and interrogated separately. I was let go after the officers determined 1) I was not at fault and 2) My Air Jordan sneakers were not stolen.

My brother spent the weekend in jail where a bigger muthafucka took his grilled cheese, though he did leave his balloon knot intact. I vowed never again to shop at Walmart. I kept my word for awhile, until I needed a new CD player.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

This is the tale of my very worst sexual partner. For his own sake I won’t reveal his name so let’s just call him Shit*y McShitterson. I met Shit*y the same way a lot of us girls meet guys like him; while drunk at a bar.

Shit*y ended up coming back to my place. We do the whole foreplay thing, and holy sh*t he is the worst kisser I have ever had the misfortune of kissing. It was as if he learned how to kiss by practicing on a St Bernard. Just all slobber. For some reason dumbass me did not take this as a huge sign for how horrible him going down on me was going to be. As soon as he put his mouth down there my vagina felt like one of the passengers on the Titanic drowning in an ocean of despair. Now you guys want to hear the best part? Shit*y goes down on me for about two excruciating minutes, then quickly feels my vagina and gets up to get a condom. I ask, “What are you doing?” and he says, “We should f*ck now. You’re really wet.”

I was so pissed off at this point, and in my drunken stupor could not stop laughing. No I’m not fu*king wet you asshole. I’m just covered in your gross saliva and being reminded of the movie Beethoven not getting horny. At that point every bone in my body was telling me I was going to regret it if I had sex with this guy, but when I’m drunk I don’t listen to my bones. I listen to my dumb head that reminds me I haven’t fu*ked since my boyfriend and I broke up.

Well he gets it in there, and immediately the phrase “jack-hammer” comes to mind. He was going so fast that I could hear the sound of his stomach and leg fat loudly banging onto my body. I was thinking that it was a good thing I didn’t have one of those “clap on clap off” lights in my room or else it would have been going on the fritz at that moment—it would have looked like we were fu*king in a rave.

Then the dirty talk happened. He kept going, “Yeah, you like that don’t you?” Seriously, how can this guy be so stupid? There was nothing about my body language that even came close to implying I “liked that”. Yeah dude, I like it so much that I can barely look you in the face without laughing. I like it so much that I have to tell you to slow down every ten seconds, and stop breathing so hard. By the time he finished I was so pissed off and disappointed that when he tried to cuddle I told him to leave. He asked me why and I said, “That sex was so bad that there is no amount of post-coital cuddling or cutesy pillow talk in the world that can make up for it.”

This incident happened around a year ago and luckily I’ve been better at choosing partners. This guy just couldn’t face the fact that his fucking was so bad. Honestly, if I had to choose between having sex with him again and being forced to watch Justin Beiber music videos for five hours straight. I would go with Beiber. It was that bad.

Note to the fellas: being good at sex does not necessarily come naturally. These things take time and it’s different from woman to woman. A real good sexual partner is someone who will be open-minded, and will invest in the other person’s feelings as much as their own. A good sexual partner needs to have humility, and learn from mistakes. Not deny them to the point of delusion. Obviously, I never spoke to this guy again and if you’ve ever hooked up with a girl thinking she’d call you back…maybe this is the reason why she hasn’t.

-Alison S.

Unlike Snoop, I do love them hos. I admire their craftiness and ability to continually work despite serious occupational hazards, like throat herpes, which can leave its victims with a permanent T-Pain auto-tune voice. Unfortunately, most people hold negative stereotypes of prostitutes as drug-addicted heathens who will suck one’s balls off for the price of a Slurpee. Truth is a lot of hookers are sober and generally good, though money-hungry, people. I know, I lived with a prostitute.

I found my roommate “Autumn” on Craigslist. She was looking for a quiet, reliable housemate who would agree to leave the condo during client hours (weekdays from 9 A.M. to 5 P.M. and by appointment). In exchange, I would receive ultra-cheap rent in a prime San Diego neighborhood. I moved in within three weeks.

Autumn claimed to be a masseuse; at first, I gave her the benefit of the doubt. There was a massage table in the living room and oils on the counters. Besides, she didn’t fit the image of hookers I’d seen on television or during drunken nights (and Sunday afternoons) in Tijuana. She was articulate and drug-free.

In due time, however, her story started to come apart. The condo was old and damp, and the shag carpet was stained. It was reasonable to imagine a client coming over for head but not a high priced massage. Also, there was a mobile stripper pole in the living room for clients who “want to learn pole dancing to improve their flexibility.” Next to the pole were strategically placed baby wipes, perfect for removing residue from snatch juice and Victoria’s Secret Strawberries and Champagne lotion. Autumn also told me she did “loin bedazzling” for clients who wanted bling around their privates. She claimed to make good money providing this service to strippers, male and female. I saw pictures of her work on her laptop and admittedly she had skills. I suggested she market her artistic talents to the hip-hop community. Who couldn’t imagine rappers yelling, “NIGGA, YO’ BALLS AIN’T SHININ’ LIKE MINE!”?

A couple months passed, and Autumn and I developed a cordial relationship. She was older, probably in her early 40s, and talked to me like a wise aunt would, but I knew very little of her personal life. I wasn’t even sure I knew her real name, as most of her mail was addressed to another name. Still, I minded my business and we were fine until the day I arrived home a few minutes earlier than usual.

It was only a little after 5 P.M., so technically I was abiding by our agreement. Something told me to leave and come back an hour later, but the urge to watchJudge Judy, whom I had missed for months, was too much. I slowly opened the door and walked towards the living room. Autumn yelled “Dammit! Hold on!” I stood there frozen, like that time my dad caught me having sex and gave me the following advice: “Boy, you ain’t done a woman right unless she leave some hairs between yo’ teeth!”

Autumn emerged from behind a makeshift curtain used to cover the massage table, which was actually a blanket attached to ceiling hooks. Her hair was unkempt. Her thick thighs spilled out of the boy shorts she wore. The underwear was crooked and pulled low. I could see a line where her shaved pubic hair would have started. She was not bedazzled.

She yelled, “I told you 5 o’clock!”

I answered, “My bad… but it’s already after 5.”

Just then I caught a glimpse of a bare-ass man hurrying towards the bathroom. My bathroom.

“What’s he doing?!” I yelled.

“Oh…he just needs to use the bathroom real fast…. Look, we’re gonna have to do something about this. I have clients! I didn’t mean exactly 5 o’clock. My clients need time!” I walked away without another word. I went into my room and shut the door. I sat there helpless as some man in need of a fix used my shower and probably rubbed one off.

Days later, Autumn said, “We need to talk.” She looked like a seasoned boss about to fire her employee. “I like having you has a roommate and everything but you’re kind of messing up my money. I need to work more than just 9 to 5–”

I cut her off: “Look, whatever you do is your business. I’m in my room keeping to myself. If you need to work, go ahead and work. I don’t judge.”

“I run a legitimate business,” she said. She had fallen in love with her lies. “But if I have to fuck to pay the bills, then so be it. But I need to be flexible for my clients.” Then she said it, “I’ll need you to be out the place by the 10th. Even without your rent, I can do better by having more hours for my people.”

I was being macked by a hooker, but my understanding wouldn’t allow me to be angry. Autumn was about making money, and I was in the way. I moved two weeks later.

Slick bitch never returned my security deposit.

This story also ran on StreetBonersAndTVCarnage. I’m contributing there bi-monthly until they get tired of me. Stay Black.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

I am a black American man who rides a scooter. Neighbors shout “Euro-Negro!” as I cruise through the hood on this un-American vehicle wearing slim-fit slacks and a cardigan made of cloned lamb’s wool available only from a top-secret facility in South Korea, and Urban Outfitters. Passing motorists laugh as I lean forward on the fragile machine and struggle to maintain a steady speed while riding up a steep hill. Worst of all, so-called friends mock my boasts of spending four dollars a week on gas with a simple but biting comeback, “You can’t put a price on your manhood.” But before you judge, let me tell you why I ride a scooter.

First things first: Women. Women love the scoot. Though they giggle as I ride past, it is a giggle of “Damn, who’s that guy weaving through traffic and playing by his own rules. Look at how his bony hand twists the throttle. It’s like he’s saying… fuck a Hummer.”

For example, I once pulled over on a side street to use my cell phone when I heard the erotic chuckle of young women sitting in an open garage. I looked over and stared at them through my fake designer shades. One of the young women said “What is that?” So I rode in the garage to give a closer look. As I was explaining a giant SUV came up the driveway and began beeping its horn. I turned around and noticed a middle-age female driver waving me aside. I asked the young women “How old are y’all?” Shouts of “I’m 16! I’m 17!” echoed in the garage. I scooted away, completely unscathed of potential statutory rape charges.

Or how about this other time: I was about to ride to the grocery store and stuff two days of groceries into my tiny scooter trunk when I received a call from a friend. She said “I’m off early. Is it cool if I stop by and say hi?” I answered, “Yeah. I’m about to grab some food and cook. Come by.”

She came over, hopped on the back of my scooter and received the most exciting ride of her life. Although the only physical contact came courtesy of our helmets banging, it was a joyful experience nonetheless. Well maybe a bit more joyful for me since I didn’t hear back from her again.

Next up: What’s it like to ride a scooter everyday? It’s cold, man. Riding in any temperature less than 70 degrees is guaranteed to chill your nipples. But there are ways around that. You can simply ride close behind a large bus and bask in its warm but mildly noxious fumes. You can also keep a flask of whiskey in the scooter’s ever-so-convenient pouch located near the handlebars. Taking a swig at a stoplight warms your whole respiratory system and helps you focus while driving.

Lastly, how does one maintain his masculinity while riding such a tiny and seemingly effeminate vehicle? I find this really interesting. In much of the world, scooters are the primary mode of personal transportation. But in hyper-masculine America, with its numerous phallic symbols and action stars that never retire, scooters are frowned upon—especially by young, overly aggressive males.

A few weeks ago I was on the side of the street attempting to start my scooter when a shabby car full of three young men drove by and threw a rock that hit me in my collarbone.

A white-hot anger filled my chest cavity and I went into fight or flight mode, which means I broke out in a forehead sweat and my balls ascended. In fact, I hadn’t felt that angry since my ex-girlfriend punched me in the nose, at which point I responded by giving her a throat massage.

Anyway, I thought “My dear scooter, if there’s a time when I really need you to start, that time is now.” And you know what? She started right up.

I sped down the street going at least 80 miles per hour, or maybe 45. I looked to my right and saw that the car used for the drive-by was parked outside the 7/11 and the three offenders were still inside the piece of shit ride. I went up to the passenger window and said things I had learned from watching John Singleton movies, like, “Get your bitch ass out the car.”

I then added “You like throwing shit! Throw something at me now!” The young man, not older than 20, sat in frozen fear. He said only “We didn’t throw anything, wasn’t us.” I responded, “Man, I saw you throw it!”

The driver stepped out the car. I thought “Damn he’s big… uh-oh.” I removed my helmet and quickly wrapped the strap around my hand. He looked and thought better of facing off with a lunatic skinny man holding a lethal weapon and walked into the store.

The situation defused; I had successfully defended Scooter Riders of America. I drove off, glancing from right to left at the sidewalks, hoping to find a female pedestrian lucky enough to ride on my powerful, manly moped. I didn’t see a worthy woman.

I also didn’t see the massive pothole in my path. My front tire rammed into the concrete ditch, nearly cracking the scooter’s frame in half. I fell to the ground and the scooter lay next to me. Traffic screeched to a halt but no one offered to help. They simply stared as I limped over to the sidewalk, full of embarrassment and pain and struggling to pull the wrecked motorbike from the street. I finally reached the sidewalk and lowered the bike to the ground. There it rested, battered and mangled with about four dollars in gas seeping out of the tank.

This is a re-post of a piece that was published on this blog and in Defenestration Magazine. Reasons for re-posting include: new blog subscribers (presumably from my story on Street Boners & TV Carnage), my search for a new scooter on Craigslist, feelings of self-doubt this morning (which I refer to as male menses) and trouble staying focused due to a baby that grunts like Master P at the oddest hours. 

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

When people learn I have a child they assume I’m either married or a deadbeat dad. Thanks to a generation that’s lived through The Cosby Show and Maury there’s no happy medium for a young black man.  Truth is, I’m in a domestic partnership. Though it sounds like something gays fought for when they strutted on Washington with great posture it’s actually for straight people like me too. In short, you get many of the benefits of marriage without making the relationship official in front of God, who’s much too busy working on Governor Rick Perry’s prayer for rain.

But not being officially married leaves me open to all sorts of questions and silliness. The most obvious being, “When are you two getting married?” I don’t have a firm answer so I’ll usually reply “It’ll happen.” Though inside I’m thinking “None ya business. You plan on playing some wedding bills up in this muthaf***a.” Then there’s the second most popular question, “How many more kids y’all gonna have?” My typical answer is “Maybe two or three more, hopefully adopt one too.” But again, inside I’m thinking “As many as the pull-out method blesses us with.”

And then there’s the third and silliest question: “Are your parents married?” Apparently if unmarried and in a happy relationship that includes a child I must have grown up in a broken household and dreamed of having parents like James and Florida Evans from Good Times. However, my stunted emotional growth brought on by Dad’s absence (except for the time he showed up at school to f**k my kindergarten teacher) makes traditional marriage seem unrealistic to me. No, n*gga! My parents are together and enjoying the comfortable boredom of marriage.

Worse yet are the people who don’t know how to refer to my domestic partner/girlfriend/lady. So they say “baby mama,” which insinuates I’m a deadbeat dad living away from my son and his mother. The type of guy who posts pictures of his children on Facebook in hopes of scoring cute-points with chicks. Pictures that include captions like “I can put one up in you too” and “Fatherhood is easy now that my BM accepts credit cards.” Even worse, the term “baby mama” makes my girl sound like a woman with 5-7 destitute chillun’ whose only toy is the shopping cart Mom stole from Big Lots. Come on, man! Her name, Amber, though somewhat common and surprisingly un-Negro-centric for a woman dating a guy with a black ass name like Dewan, works fine.

Damn! This is aggravating! But I’m sure I’ll have it together before my son is old enough to ask me, “Dad, when you gonna marry Mom?” Leaving me with no choice but to answer, “It’ll happen…when your broke ass gets a job to help pay for a wedding.”

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

I’ve always wondered about prison. Mainly how dudes in the joint get their hair braided. I’m sure most convicts aren’t too keen on sitting between Fleece Johnson’s legs for hours on end. But women’s prisons are even more fascinating. Though some of this fascination is due to a mind corrupted by soft porn on Skinemax, most of it stems from a curiosity of how humanity’s nurturers survive in a place that’s so damn brutal. Well, not too long ago I had the opportunity to find out firsthand.

I went to women’s prison in San Diego called “Los Colinas.” Though it sounds like a bar on the brown side of town that serves micheladas, it’s actually a 750 bed detention facility that holds violent and non-violent offenders. Think of it as a camp for a whole lot of women, most of whom could beat you’re a*s.

I was there as part of my former job, HNIC (Head Negro in Charge) of the health promotion department at a community clinic; one of my duties was to evaluate staff that provided HIV prevention education to the incarcerated. In short, I was looking for an excuse to get my lazy a*s out the office.

Upon entering the prison I was searched from head to toe. Thankfully my bunghole was unmolested; guess I didn’t look like someone who would “boof” drugs or weapons. Though maybe I would for the right price and the right weed. I was then forced to relinquish all valuables, including the wallet that held my Magnum Junior Condom for the Thin and Sleek. So much for that Skinemax fantasy…

To get to the classroom I was led past the glass-enclosed cells. Two women per cell shared a toilet and a space half the size of a gay man’s closet. I hate to make the comparison, but have you been to a zoo and seen an animal that was quarantined in a tiny cage for being himself and going for the throat of a zookeeper? That’s what it was like. Seriously, there are reptiles at your local zoo that have a larger habitat than these incarcerated women. And it was loud. Imagine the annoying, aggravating sound of your girlfriend’s voice multiplied by hundreds. Hopefully we’ll see more Asian women in prison to reduce the noise level.

I finally got to the classroom filled with women. Well, wo-men is a more descriptive term. These chicks were hard. I’m not talking about cute lesbian chicks like my fashion idol Ellen DeGeneres; these were hardcore butch chicks that will swing on you for looking at their women. Don’t get me wrong, there were a few “normal” looking ladies. But many of them looked wise beyond their years, probably due to meth.

The class started and the instructor noted that I was visiting the class to evaluate. The ladies turned around and stared with admiration. I had not had that much attention since I went to an “after-party” in Tijuana where all the ladies smelled like cheap strawberry lotion and introduced themselves by grabbing my schlong. But in the class (and for that matter, the brothel) I got nervous and didn’t know what to say so I just smiled and said to the students, “Thanks for having me.”

The class began and everything ran smoothly, for the most part. A large number of students were like bad kids in an elementary classroom: speaking out of turn, sitting with their legs wide open to air out their monkeys, laughing too damn loud at sex related terms, acting up as a way to cope with a touch-feely uncle who’s scarred them for life, etc. Basically, if you’ve ever wondered where the bad kid from fifth grade is now, and you can’t find him on Facebook—he’s probably in prison doing the same silly s**t.

A few of the women were genuinely interested in the material, or perhaps afraid that the guy who said “Come on baby…just let me put the tip in” could have given them a life-threatening illness. I suspected that these were the prisoners who would easily readjust to society until they find a felony conviction precludes them from getting almost any job on the outside.

Class ended and I waved goodbye to the prisoners. I regained my slim fit Magnum holding wallet and soon left feeling a bit more thankful for my freedom. Weeks later I would hear some of the prisoners wanted me to return. I thought more about them too, especially when I read most where incarcerated for drugs and/or assisting their boyfriends with crimes. Even more had been victims of sexual abuse, prior to prison and by guards while incarcerated. I imagine most of them are still in there; and it ain’t like a Skinemax movie.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

My parents weren’t into paying for college. Spring quarter freshman year I asked Dad for new t-shirts and he told me to cut the sleeves off my sweaters. Next year I needed money for books; Mom told me to borrow them from the teacher. And any money they did send was actually a loan under Dad’s “six months no-interest, no a*s kicking” plan–payment due by the end of summer.  So in short, if there was something I needed in college I went without unless it was covered by financial aid or my part-time job(s).

This included food. But while most of my peers settled for Ramen noodles or microwave burritos, I wanted more. So I fried the hell out some gizzards. In case you’re unaware gizzards are a part of a chicken’s digestive system. They’re compact and chewy when cooked, imagine power pellets for a ghetto superhero. Plus they’re cheap. A pound of gizzards and chicken hearts will run you about $0.99. Basically you can feed a family for the price of a Newport loosy.

So one evening after class I started to fry up a pound. I seasoned them real good, just like Mama used to. Then I heated the cooking oil in a frying pan and went back to my room to use the computer. But these were the days of dial-up internet. Downloading music or an instructional video featuring Sinnamon Love, Obsession and Mr. Marcus could take hours.

After 15 or so minutes on the computer, having forgotten about the cooking oil, I heard a crash in the kitchen. My roommate Mike came out of his room holding a pair of scissors–thinking that someone was breaking in to steal our big 19 inch TV. He walked to the living room in search of the culprit. I followed behind, hoping the intruder would kill him first so I could safely run away and later release an “I Miss My Homies” rap song like “Gangsta Lean” by DRS.

We got to the living room and saw the kitchen ablaze. Fire was everywhere, like the London riots–without the free electronics and groceries–in an area the size of a telemarketer’s cubicle. Mike said, “Oh s**t!” and grabbed a towel to swing at the fire. Didn’t help at all. I did the same. We swung wildly as if we were in a girl fight, on the losing end of course. The flames grew larger and reached from the stove top to the ceiling. The smoke was thick and black, like the women in the instructional videos I mentioned above. We retreated and called 911.

The firemen arrived, sirens loud as hell; neighbors were coming out their places wondering what was going on–all this over some gizzards. The firemen were able to extinguish the blaze within 10 minute. We explained how the fire started and from the “what the hell” expressions on their faces I knew we would be the talk of the fire station. I could imagine the conversation, “These nig…black guys, sorry…burned up their apartment tryin’ to fry some gizzards. By the way, what are gizzards?”

We returned to our apartment the next day. The kitchen was almost completely burned and ruined with smoke damage. All black everything. A representative from the company who owned the complex came over to inspect. He asked, “Do you have renter’s insurance to pay for this?” We didn’t. He then asked, “Do your parents have insurance to cover this?”

I called Dad for advice.  He said, “Nope. I ain’t paying for s**t.”

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Some illnesses are hilarious—for example, monkeypox. As we saw during the outbreak of 2003 it’s like chickenpox except it makes people do crazy s**t, like throw feces and bite their handlers. Rickets…even funnier. Nothing more hilarious than seeing old bowlegged men. Step your vitamin D game up, son! But HIV is not so funny. Like other diseases that are known by acronyms (BBS: Bashful Bladder Syndrome); HIV is a very serious matter.

A few years back I went to the campus clinic because my face was turning white. I thought to ride it out and do whites only things like hitchhike or become a contestant on “The Bachelorette,” but I didn’t want to lose the ability to say “n**ga” while rapping along to all the hits from Cash Money Records. My doctor, a monotone and seemingly bored man, diagnosed me with tinea versicolor (TV). He said TV is a yeast-based fungal infection that changes your pigment production. In short, I pretty much had a yeast infection on my face. That’s hot.

But then the doctor started making cryptic statements. He said, “I’ve never seen tinea cover someone’s entire face.” He added, “We need to see why your immune system is not fighting off the fungus. I’ll have to run a test of your white blood count.”

I got a little nervous, but considering I live by the mantra of “I don’t get sick, I get even” I wasn’t too worried. Plus I’m a friggin’ stud emotionally and figured I can deal with whatever comes my way, except for dealing with the self-anguish that results from my inability to whistle.

The doctor called about a week later and said “Your white blood cell count is extremely low.” And then he hit me with the killer “You should come in for a confidential HIV test.”

That hit me hard. First thought: “This punk ass doctor really just told me this on the phone. HIV is fighting words!” I mean, come on. Tell me to get an HIV test to my face…so I can have someone to hug when I get week in the knees. Then I tried to respond coherently, but the devastation made me speak in slave talk, “Do yous o’fen see this here illness on campus” or something like that. He replied, “Around one percent of the people we test at the clinic are positive.” S**t. I agreed to come in for a test.

But first I needed someone to talk to. My girlfriend at the time, who suffered from an illness called celibacy, was out the question for the time being. So I called my best friend, who said “Don’t worry, man.” But he didn’t give me a reason not to worry. So I worried more. Hours later I called my dad. He remained levelheaded and said “Worse case you just have to take the meds and deal with it. Magic Johnson’s doing fine.” But then he threw some HIV humor, “You just gotta get that Magic Johnson money!” Damn, Dad.

Since I had beef with my campus doctor I decided to go to a community clinic for the test. These were the days before the 20 minute confidential HIV test was popular, so I had to wait five days for the results. I waited longer than five days, went to Cleveland for Christmas vacation and could not bring myself to get the results when I returned to San Diego.

But I was unable stop thinking about HIV. I spent hours online reading up on the disease and freaked out when I discovered black men have the highest HIV infection rate of any group. I thought to myself “I wonder if my chances are lower ‘cause I’m light skin-ded.” Nah, bruh. Then I read about high-risk behaviors like butt sex, IV drug use and unprotected vaginal sex. I figured, “Well, I’m kind of metrosexual and one of my goals in life is to be sexy like Rod Stewart, but I’ve never engaged in any homosexual acts, or hetero anal (woah!). And you can’t inject marijuana. As for participating in unprotected vaginal sex…oops, but for most of my adult life I did tend to wear condoms on weekdays.”

All the thinking drove me crazy. I was stressed out and unable to eat much. An ex-flame even joked, “You got skinny, Dewan. Better get that AIDS test.” I thought to myself, “Laugh now, cry later b***h.”

I finally gave in and went to a different clinic that offered the 20 minutes of hell test. The HIV counselor, a flamboyant and hefty gay dude, asked questions about my sexual history. Then he put the thing in my mouth. No Amaechi. I mean he put the swab in my mouth and then placed it in a bag and took it away. He returned and told me the results. NEGATIVE.

I was pumped as hell and wanted to hug the guy. But at the time I was foolishly uncomfortable around gays and thought he might want my anal virginity. So I shook his hand, a really strong manly shake too, and left. Then I called my people when I got back into the car and bragged like I just got a new job. “Negative! I knew I was fine!”

I drove off and thought to myself, “All this stress is crazy. I need to go out and have some sex.”

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

They did not know me well; I kept quiet in their presence. I was afraid my eccentricities–talking to myself in Old English, the bout with depression over the inability to beat myself in shadowboxing, the tattoo above my package that reads “Make you queef or die trying,” storing a razor beneath my tongue to fix my stutter–were too much for most people to understand. In fact, I had hoped and prayed with great zeal that my powerful loins, which impregnated their dear friend, had said enough. But more was required. I was asked to give an impromptu speech at the baby shower to celebrate our unborn son.

As the speech was to begin I felt afraid that four beers and two cups of wine in two hours had gotten the best of me. Just minutes earlier I yelled “Her nipples are like sausages now! Like pizza sausages!” during a conversation about my better half’s decision to breastfeed, I think. But with only five seconds to prepare for the most important speech of my life, even more important than the speech I gave to bridge the “jiggaboo/wannabe” divide among students at Mission College in the late ’80s, I would need to get my shit together. If I couldn’t tens of young potential parents would be scared into using the Planned Parenthood pullout method, or other techniques that decrease the likelihood of going half on a baby. And the terrorists would win. Well, maybe not. But that sounds like something that should go at the end of that sentence.

The speech began and surprisingly my voice sounded clear and serious; I commanded attention. You know how Chris Hansen from “To Catch A Predator” sounds when he hates on suburban fathers trying to inspire youth through online education? That was me. For two amazing minutes my words centered on “celebrating the baby and the importance of maintaining friendships during parenthood.” In short, I was saying that even though we’ll be busy parenting be sure to invite us out for free drinks.

As my speech concluded tears fell throughout the room. Well, I at least saw one person crying. But unlike most times when I see someone cry I didn’t laugh out loud. I grinned with a big, drunken smile. I then looked around and noticed the room was a bit emptier than when I started. The sheer magnitude of my words had caused people to leave the room, much more so than boredom did. I felt on top of the world, as confident as ever! And I thought to myself, “I bet I can finally beat my own ass in shadowboxing.”

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

My heart don’t pump no Kool-Aid. I’m fearless and enjoy doing dangerous things like ghostriding a ’78 Cutlass down East 9th Street in Cleveland and playing drinking games with white people. But I’m scared of Pit Bulls. They’re ruthless and skrong, way too skrong. And like the Gibson boys they gang up on you in a fight and try to rip you apart if you fall to the ground (Durrell takes the legs, Big Wayne takes the arms, Dewan takes the soul).

But is my fear misplaced? Well, maybe. Pit Bulls actually don’t have dog’s strongest bite, they’re third behind Rottweilers and German Shepherds. And smaller dogs with Napoleon complexes who travel in purses are more likely to bite. But according to the Center for Disease Control the dog most responsible for human deaths is the Pit Bull. In fact, DogsBite.org said Pit Bulls killed 52 Americans from 2006-2008. Shit! That’s more than Osama bin Laden killed in the same time frame! Not to mention the entire state of Texas was considering banning Pit Bulls. That’s right, Texas–who celebrate human executions as a state past-time were considering a ban on Pit Bulls that would result in felony charges for those who owned one.

Anyway, just a a few days ago I had my first face-to-face encounter with two feared members of Al-Canine. My friend “Marco,” a gregarious and gentle Mexican giant with an addiction to weed, women, tattoos and big rims (in that order), said “come check out the dogs” as I was having a beer and contact high at his place. By “dogs” he meant two Pit Bulls that were hiding in a backyard shed plotting acts of violence. I said “Nah man I’m cool. I’m not really into Pit Bulls like that.” But just like that time in middle school when I reluctantly French kissed the girl down the street with the Jheri curl and the angry father, peer pressure got the best of me.

I walked towards the backyard as I do when I go into clubs with metal detectors and specials on Hennessy; tense and puffy chested. Marco was already out back opening the shed when I had a change of heart. I tried to close the glass door, but as is typically the case in homes owned by weed smokers, random shit like backyard doors break and remain broken until the owner comes down from his high–never.

The two Pit Bulls ran up to me like I was their long lost friend. The blue one with the gigantic testicles (no canine homo) got a little too happy and jumped up on me. I suddenly felt a whole lot of bitch run through my blood. I shrieked like Prince, but only in the inside. The smaller Pit rushed back and forth between my legs, playfully testing me out like a fish in prison. I kept my manhood. I thought, “Damn man just chill. When they attack you Marco will get ‘em off you.” Then I did what I learned in birthing classes with my girlfriend, I took deep breaths. That didn’t work so I got more nervous and started asking stupid questions to take my mind elsewhere. “How they get so skrong? Oh you kept his balls on, huh? He big. What he mixed with? You keep ‘em in the back, like a surprise for the neighbors, huh?”

The visit was quickly over the dogs returned to their shed on command.  I felt like I did when I shanked this guy in juvie who tried to take my loafers–hard as hell. Well, that was just a dream. But that’s how I felt. Man, I ran that prison.

Marco and I go back into the house and he says, “Let me show my other dog.” Shit. He must have a Pit in the house too? Damn. I bet he calls him Osama.

He comes back with a Teacup Chihuahua puppy. Though he probably bites I could take him in a wrestling match if it came to that. Marco says, “He’s for sale. You want him? I keep him inside for now. The Pits are gonna try to eat him.”

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Vegas, baby. Nah that’s played. Vegas, my nigga. I like that better. We head to the Trump Hotel for check-in. I hand the attendant my credit card, the fake platinum one with the $200 credit limit. She finds my reservations and asks, “What’s the occasion.” I squint my eyes and somehow manage to raise my cheekbones, like I used to do in pictures back in 2003, when Tyson Beckford was the shit. I respond, “We’re celebrating our pregnancy.” The attendant knows I mean business. She knows I want the best room for our special occasion. I want a penthouse with an in-suite midget who sleeps under the bed and works as a personal alarm. Little man tickles your feet when breakfast is served. We end up with mini-suite that has a nice view of the alley.

We get to the room and have a look around. Shit’s decked out. Plush towels, pillows, mini-oven and lots of other stuff I can steal. We relax on the bed and I grab a book from the bedside drawer. It’s a pretty interesting read. Some type of horror book, think it’s called the Bible. I place the book down and call room service. I order three blunts; one for me, one for my lady and one for the baby; and a bag of Hot Fries. Room service gives me trouble. Apparently they don’t serve Hot Fries. Shit!

We get blunted and prepare to head to the pool. I strip down to my draws/swimming trunks. The tight joints with stripes designed to block mud tracks. I grab my .22 and tuck it underneath my scrotum. I tell my lady, “No funny stuff, if my perineum pulsates it might make the gun off.” She agrees. She knows I’m not usually ‘bout that life, but I ran into trouble the last time I was in Vegas. Russians spies working with PETA tried to assassinate me over a Siberian tiger I killed while doing business in Lazovsky. Nothing personal; just needed some new furs for Grandpa’s bachelor party in Cleveland.

We get to the pool and my lady immediately jumps in the water, protruding womb and all. I’d like to join her, but my fear of water is overwhelming. Actually, besides overdraft fees and white people that yell “I want my country back” it’s the only thing I fear in life.

I order a smoothie and chill by the water. I notice my girl talking to a woman in the pool. The woman’s about 40 with blond, thinning hair. I stand up to get a better view. You gotta watch some of these women, especially around that age. They’re known for munching their way right into your relationship.

The sun reflects off the top of the woman’s head. I notice she has a tattoo on the crown of her cranium, shaped like Gorbachev’s birthmark. Fuck! I grab my piece. Not my third leg, the .22. I put two quick ones in the blond. My girl finishes her off with a quick snap of the neck.

People run away the pool, crying and screaming like Fantasia does in concert. My girl runs toward me to see if I’m OK. Suddenly a thick ass dude emerges from the bottom of the pool. He gives me the Tyson Beckford look. I tell him, “Nah, man. I don’t roll like that. Not even when I’m Vegas. But I have a friend you might be interested in. Really cool guy. Hey, no judgment here.” He responds in Russian, with a lisp, and begins to reach in his thong. Fuck! I put one in his neck, he’s done. He floats face-down atop the water. I notice his tramp stamp, looks just like Gorbachev’s birthmark.

I lay in the poolside canopy, exhausted. My girl joins me and we soon fall asleep.

I’m awakened by a tickle on my foot. A little man stands over me, but it still kind of looks like he’s sitting. He’s caught me off-guard. I’ve been in shootouts with little people before and they’re tough to beat. You have to shoot at their legs; that’s their strength.

But he smiles and hands me a bag of Hot Fries. That’s The Baby D Experience, Vegas style.

Dewan Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

A short story I wrote, “Chicken & Babies,” was published in the quarterly humor journal Hobo Pancakes. The first few paragraphs are below, read the entire story here. (Cover art from the issue, by Karla Lozano, is pictured above.)

She cooked fried chicken for ME, filled and refilled MY wine glass and thanked ME for coming over. I couldn’t believe it. She was different. I thought to myself, “Thank me? Shit! All I did was come over and eat and drink and crack a corny joke or two.”

Well, I also did something else. But even that, though full of effort, was just short and intense—like a preview for a suspense film starring Leonardo DiCaprio—and probably not worthy of thanks.

“So no!” I thought. “Thank you!”

Fast-forward months later: past the laughs, drinks, long talks, tears, movies, lunches, dinners and everything else you do with your better half.

Again she stood in the kitchen, having just made fried chicken. We sat on the bar stools and began to eat. I splashed hot sauce on the chicken. She hated when I did that without first tasting the food. But I couldn’t help it. Hot sauce is a part of my culture, black American culture. We sneak that shit into the movies and put it on popcorn. Shit, I have an uncle that sprinkles it on pumpkin pie every Thanksgiving. Man, put it like this: I even know a divorced black couple who litigated over who gets to keep the big bottle of Louisiana Hot Sauce from Costco.

Wife got it, husband is appealing to the Supreme Court. Justice Clarence Thomas has recused himself from the case.

Anyway, before going to town on the chicken I asked her, “How was your day?”

Without hesitation or reflection she answered, “It was crazy! I’m pregnant.”

Like I just told yo’ ass, read the entire story here.

Dewan Gibson: Author of  The Imperfect Enjoyment

Mama said, “Don’t be playin’ in the snow!” but I think she meant something else. Obviously I didn’t listen. I went to Washington, DC in the dead of winter with only my thin Cali coat. No hat, no gloves…ooh baby I like it raw. The cold didn’t faze me. I was focused on working and getting my money so I could come back home with riches. Otherwise, my to-be-born in July child will have to survive on breast milk until he reaches first grade and qualifies for free lunch.

I was fine until the snow started falling. That shit was blowing in my face like that time I sniffed coke off Nell Carter’s ass. But I didn’t leave the city; I had to stay and make that money. It was tough, so I thought back to what Uncle Tanisha would tell me when we played “Husband & Wife” in Grandma’s cellar, “Smile through the pain, you know you like it.” So I did. And I overcame. I got that money. Hell yeah. “Get upper-middle class with disposable income or die trying.”

I hope you feel this in your heart and loins. Be inspired. Persist. Like Pac’s mom said, “Never stop until you bust a…” Oh yeah! You can be the American Idol. You can be a background dancer on the New Edition reunion tour. You can get work as a token white actor on “The Game.” You can make muthafuckin’ lead cashier at Walmart!

Through God and Uncle Tanisha all things are possible. I wish you the best.

Dewan Gibson: Author of  The Imperfect Enjoyment

I came across my old Myspace blogs and short stories while browsing through files on a jump drive from 2007. Though not very good, they are somewhat entertaining and reminiscent of a time when my only care in the world was which song to put on my Myspace page. Some of the entries, which I probably won’t repost for fear of upsetting my ol’ lady and her womb, are just plain raw–straight up international chick banger, buckwild, sniff coke off a big girl’s ass type of entries. Others are a bit more tame and will at least make you snicker a little. This is one of  the latter. Here you are, “Mojolicious” from early 2007.

Compliments are always best when unexpected. While making my usual OCD led trip to downtown San Diego I was approached by a rugged, middle aged man with salt and pepper dreads. He wore a neatly lined beard that questioned my assumption that he was homeless. He quickly introduced himself as “Nappy” and asked if I could spare some cash to help out homeless vets. Being that Yahweh, Allah, and Jesus command us to give 10 percent of our income to charity (I figure they all can’t be wrong); I decided to give Nappy two bucks…more or less 10 percent of what was in my wallet. Nappy then gave a sincere “thank you brotha” and paused before saying “you have a very strong aura, really strong…God bless you.”

Yeaahhh!!!!! This compliment couldn’t have come at a better time! Recently, as in last weekend, I’ve spent too much time worrying about aspects of my life that I can’t control. Thinking too much instead of living for the moment. My swagger has been in a lingering recession, I felt as if I was becoming P. Diddy post J. Lo breakup…a big ball of sensitivity without the Harlem Shake. This just had to change! I needed to be the Diddy claiming to have tantric sex with his woman for 30 hours straight. Better yet I needed to be the Diddy in the Proactive commercials. I had to “moisturize my situation and maintain my sexy.” In short, I needed to get my MOJO back.

I decided Sunday (yesterday) would be the day that I get my mojo back. You must understand, one cannot simply declare that the mojo is back, you must make a complete attitude change. Everything from your clothes to the food you eat must be mojolicious.

To start my Sunday I decided to hit the weights. I figured it would be more primal and therefore testosterone inducing if I worked out semi-nude. So I stood there pumping iron with only boxer briefs, feeling more narcissistic than Christian Bale in American Psycho. I start to sweat and smell….mojo was seeping out my pores, it was in the air. Yeahhh!!! The old I was slowly returning. The gregarious, energetic DeWan, the DeWan that dry humped danced with a girl on the corner of 5th avenue and E street…completely dismissing the fact that there was no music and hundreds of people were around. The guy that went to the HR office and demanded a raise and new position. Yes, that’s right demanded. Highly mojo-lized individuals don’t ASK for raises.

I then decided to head to the beach. I hop in the car and change the cd, exit Beck enter 50 Cent. Not the new 50, but “Get Rich or Dying Tryin” 50. Hip hop’s hyper machismo is fitting for the day and I bask in lyrics such as “50 fear no man, warrior, swinging swords like Conan.” I then speed on the highway and roll the windows down completely allowing my hair to go crazy in the wind. The curls that I try to keep somewhat in place are now wild and unkempt, sort of like Philip Michael Thomas after Miami Vice ended.

I arrive at the beach and decide to stop at Chipotle for lunch. I originally planned to eat sushi, but my energy level needs more calories than spicy tuna can provide. I walk strongly to the counter, hands to the side and out of the pants pockets, chin up and back completely upright. The burrito lady (sorry can’t think of the correct term, first thought of burrito artist as Subway calls their employees sandwich artists) says hi and asks if she can help me. I immediately think “yeah, I want a big ass burrito”, but instead decide to offer a more appropriate “Yes, I’ll have a steak burrito please” (mojo men have manners too). I grab the burrito and violently devour it in 2-3 minutes.

I proceed to walk along the beach boardwalk, smiling and mentally celebrating my return to glory. In front of me are three European men. How do I know they’re European? All have sweaters tied around their necks. The Europeans walk past a group of 7-9 unruly derelicts and the taunts and laughs begin. The Europeans are a bit angered, but not enough to say anything back. I then follow, slowly walking past the dickhead derelicts. I’m sure the look on my face says “Try me, I WANT you to start something.” I lock eyes with the dickhead in charge and we dare each other to turn away first. I’ll admit his gaze his intense. His beach worn eyes stare strongly, like a stoic Rottweiler daring you to come into his yard. However, my stare is radiant and unflinching, like that of a lion guarding his kingdom. Guess who won the staring contest? (Thank God I didn’t get my ass beat.)

I continue down the boardwalk and later down the main retail street. Two large breast implants walk past, not exactly sure who they were attached to. I glance, but don’t gawk. A mojofied man has been there and done that. I return to my car and look in the rearview mirror. The hair is still wild, the confidence is back, the aura is strong, my MOJO has returned. I sit in the driver’s seat proud as ever. I still have a full day and long night ahead. Maybe I’ll go to LA and see if Halle Berry wants to eat at Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles, or maybe I’ll call up Adriana Lima and have her meet me at Laguna Beach. Ok, that will probably never happen, but you get my point. I once again believe that I can do ANYTHING (besides whistle, I’ve tried for years and still can’t make a sound). Take care and I hope that you to experience optimal levels of mojoness.

Dewan Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

She cooked fried chicken for ME, filled and refilled MY wine glass and thanked ME for coming over. I couldn’t believe it. She was different. I thought to myself, “Thank me? Shit! All I did was come over and eat and drink and crack a corny joke or two.” (Well, I also did something else. But even that, though full of effort, was just short and intense—like a preview for a suspense film starring Leonardo DiCaprio—and probably not worthy of thanks.) “So no!” I thought. “Thank you!”

Fast forward months later; past the laughs, drinks, long talks, tears, movies, lunches, dinners and everything else you do with your better half.

Again she stood in the kitchen having just made fried chicken. We sat on the bar stools and began to eat. I splashed hot sauce on the chicken. She hated when I did that without first tasting the food. But I couldn’t help it. Hot sauce is a part of my culture, black American culture. We sneak that shit into the movies and put it on popcorn. Shit, I have an uncle that sprinkles it on pumpkin pie every Thanksgiving. Man, put it like this…I even know a divorced black couple that litigated over who gets to keep the big bottle of Louisiana Hot Sauce from Costco (Wife got it, husband is appealing to the Supreme Court—Justice Clarence has recused himself from the case).

Anyway, before going to town on the chicken I asked her, “How was your day?”

Without hesitation or reflection she answered, “It was crazy! I’m pregnant.”

I did what I always do when I’m speechless; I laughed. I thought, “Well, I don’t think she got pregnant at work today so…oh I get it!” I laughed some more and then I said, “Cool…that’s crazy. Wow.”

She stared worriedly and attempted to read my nonverbal. I said, “Wow…no it’s fine. Cool.” She looked relieved that I wasn’t going to leave her and run back to Cleveland, pay no child support and have the audacity to make rap songs about how the mother of my child is tripping. Songs with titles like, “In Maury We Trust” and “Half on a Baby—But You Pay for His Lil’ Ass.”

I’m sure there was more conversation, but it’s now a blur. This is crazy because the only other time I recall blanking out is when Mama forced me to cut off my rat tail. Or maybe that time in elementary school when I won the Monopoly tournament. Well, I also drew a blank when the sixth grade bully, who happened to be a girl, beat me up. But I don’t like to speak on that. What I’m saying is that this was some hellafied life-changing news!

I gathered my thoughts and went right back to throwing down on that fried chicken. The tension was gone and I felt excited about having such an adorable little tax credit. So much so that I spread my legs and imitated a woman in labor, just so she knew that I understood what she would be going through. I guess.

Then I called my parents and gave them the news they’ve been waiting for since I hit puberty.

Mom was in disbelief about the pregnancy, but said she didn’t want to get her hopes up until we got closer to the due date. I assured her that neither Planned Parenthood nor $300 would be involved in any of this. Not even if they end up starting that special “No Interest, No Baby” nine-month financing plan I heard they were planning to implement in minority neighborhoods.

I told Dad and he was pumped too. He even gave great advice, specifically, “Don’t give that baby no black name like we gave y’all. Dewan, LaShaunta, Durrell…just making up shit and we don’t even know what it means.”

The next few hours and days were spent telling friends. Responses ranged from surprise and congrats to “Man, we have to kick it hard before the baby comes.” Well, one really smart friend asked, “How’d you get her pregnant?” Amazingly he has a couple kids himself.

I also asked a friend, who has four kids, for parenting tips. He brought his hands together to form a large circle and said in a southern twang, “You gotta wait at least six months for that muthafucka to ratchet back down. You gonna wanna hit it right away but that muthafucka gotta ratchet back.”

I tried to clarify that I was asking about parenting tips, not vaginal elasticity. He then said, “I know nigga. But the relationship wit the mama is the key. Once that muthafucka ratchet back down you gone be cool.”

The circle was now made with his index finger and thumb. It was tiny, like a snake pussy.

“OK…thanks…so it gotta ratchet back down, huh?”

Then, the advice started pouring in from everywhere. “Just ask for pampers at the baby shower…Read to the baby so he can talk when he’s real little, like Baby Jesus did…Teach him not to call anyone if they’re already having a good text message conversation…Raise him to know that it ain’t tricking if he got it.”

It all started to feel a bit overwhelming, and I hadn’t even had the chance to (watch the mother) change a diaper. Damn!

But then I calmed down. Where can we possibly go wrong? The baby will have a sane and loving mother of high moral quality and a peculiar father that has trouble expressing emotion verbally but will be sure to show the illiterate baby lots of love through his writing. Damn.

Well, I guess we’ll figure it all out in due time. Probably over a plate of fried chicken. With hot sauce.

Dewan Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

The others crouch down, hips twisting and thrusting as they grind to the sounds of Baby Cham and Sizzla. But I stand erect. Tipsy but in no danger of falling thanks to a third leg that functions as a kickstand when my blood alcohol level reaches 0.10. A hard, veiny kickstand made of indestructible black steel that can gracefully pound her love pouch for 3-5 minutes. Hell yeah, 180 seconds is all you need. Short and intense like a preview for a Leonardo Dicaprio film.

I smile. Sweat and Royal Crown hair grease run down my face and into my mouth. I frown. Shit kind of tastes like castor oil. Mama made me take that when my pipes only wanted to release little buoyant pebbles, and just hours later I’d have a guaranteed two-flusher. I laugh.

Passionate Afro-Caribbean voices bellow from the speakers. I think of my ancestors, namely Boubacar “Baby B” Gibson. I cry. He used to run with with Nat Turner and Denmark Vesey in the late 18th century. Boubacar was known to calm tension on the plantation by telling dirty jokes. One day, July 27, 1799 to be exact—the master’s birthday, Boubacar surprised him with a few jokes about how black people like to barbeque and how white people can’t dance. Those jokes weren’t cliché in 1799.

The master’s powerful, arrogant laugh roared through plantation. He laughed so much a piss tinkle ran down his leg. You could see it through his white (cotton) pants. That’s when Boubacar got him. And best believe he got that muthafucka good. He pulled a tiny spear from the pocket of his FUBU jeans and rammed it into the master’s carotid artery. Cracka ass cracka had it coming to him.

That night Boubacar freed all the slaves on the plantation (except for one named Clarence Thomas. Clarence insisted on staying and looking out for the master’s family).

As the newly freed left for Cleveland, Boubacar stood atop the master’s house. His people cheered for him with tears in their eyes. One guy yelled “Give me free!” Boubacar, always one to stress eloquence, said “Nigga! You better learn how to speak good English!”

Full of pride after freeing his people Boubacar decided he wanted to go home. So he swam all the way back to West Africa. Shit, it only took him about a week. They don’t make strong brothas like they used to.

I take a swig from my tallboy Jack and Coke. I return the glass to the bartender who calls me Bruce Leroy and say what’s up to the other bartender that hit on my ex-girlfriend; they’re good people.

I leave reggae night and call White Chocolate. I think of her thickness, like a vanilla shake from Arby’s, not that fake shit from Mc’Donalds. I ask her, “Do you have 180 seconds of free time?” Boubacar smiles with love from above.

This is another example of…The Baby D Experience.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Most of my time in the streets is spent as Vice President of Recruitment & Retention for the Bloods street gang, where I help to attract and initiate ignorant millionaires like Birdman and Lil’ Wayne into our violent organization. But as seen in this picture I was in the streets as a volunteer at Fiesta Del Sol 2010, held in Barrio Logan/San Diego. In between helping “Communities Come Together” and disappearing into a local bar I had the pleasure to meet platinum recording artist Frankie J.

He was such a nice and tiny man. I tried to get an autograph for my sister, who’s a big fan, but I didn’t have a pen and paper. So I said to Frankie, “Sign my chest, nigga. Right around my muthafuckin’ nipple. Pause.” At first Frankie refused so I said “Blood game. Homie. We gonna get all up in that ass. You better sign this muthafuckin pretty ass nipple, homie. Mess around and get that ass busted. Gonna be sitting in a tub of ice for 96 hours, my nigga.” Frankie was shook! Lucky for him my homies, D-Licious and Rainbow, couldn’t make it there before his security stepped in and made me settle for this picture. We was really gonna ride on that fool, literally.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

These "gals" are actually from D.C., but hey...

I saw her at a nightclub in San Jose, said hello but got no response. I figured she probably didn’t speak English, not even “hello.” So I said “Do…you…speak…English?” We laughed; 90 minutes later we were at Denny’s. Thirty minutes after that we were in her Grandma’s house. Ten minutes later her titties were in my face.

Her nips were devil red. If seen by an overzealous preacher they would have surely been rebuked. Well, stroked and then rebuked. Like many Iranian women she had dark hair and visible blood vessels under her eyes. Her face was round and blank and insignificant.

She kept her pants on that night; our time together was like a soft porn on Skinemax: titty galore, no bush. “I’m not that kind of girl” she said. Most say that. Only about 20 percent actually mean it, 10 percent when you throw alcohol in the mix (well, 100% of the Gibson women mean it).

Just two weeks later Rana flew down to San Diego—to see a cousin, not me. However, she did make time to “stop by and say hello” that Saturday evening. I invited her in and immediately we went into my room. This was not due to uncontrollable lust or tackiness on my part; shit, I would have preferred that we stayed in the living room for a least a few minutes. But my big brother was visiting and that was his temporary territory. Besides, my get to know you conversation with women, usually full of direct eye contact and great follow-up questions, is personally intimate and not for public consumption or criticism. Hell, to be honest I’m uncomfortable talking to women in front of other guys. In some weird way it’s like pissing next to another due in a public bathroom—terribly awkward and conducive to severe communication apprehension.

We got to my room and sat in the only available seating, the bed. And since I considered wearing jeans in bed to be unbecoming, Rana soon removed the pants which would not budge just two weeks before.

What I quickly found is that she bested me in bed. I was hurried and in a rush, just a young nigga trying to get as many strokes in as possible before I expired. Keep in mind that in during this time (the mid-2000’s) my typical last time was about four minutes. My only goal was to last for an entire R. Kelly song. I could often make it to the end-of-song-ad-libs, but anything past that was a rare and special event.

Still, I guess I wasn’t that bad or maybe she saw potential in me (or whatever you call it when women think they can change you into their ideal man) because she invited me to San Francisco for her birthday party.

I decided to make the trip for a couple reasons: 1) Maybe I could see my long lost cousin Billy, whom I hadn’t seen in about 15 years 2) I’d have a chance to meet cool people and maybe even another Bay area woman (Sorry, but when groups of unattached young people go out together often times it’s just an in-group dick offering and someone is going to drink too much and wake up next to an unknown cock. But that cock may or may not be unknown to her friend). 3) Rana was cool, fun and seemingly not looking for a serious long distance relationship.

But as soon as I got off the plane and met the crew in San Fran’s Union Square, I noticed everyone was coupled-up. To be exact there were a total of 3.25 couples. Two of which seemed unhappy, one that basking in fresh love and .25 that had only seen other twice and were surely not a couple.

We started off the day with sightseeing. The usual San Francisco shit. Fisherman’s wharf, male hookers offering tossed salads 2-for-1, Union Square, and female hookers promoting an “only curable STD” special.

I swear we took at least 100 pictures. In the poses hands were being held and laps were being sat on. And with each snap my forehead grew increasingly sweaty and shiny with nervousness. What the hell had I gotten myself into to? I was only temporary fun and a maybe a permanent confidant. A relationship with someone 800 miles away would be impossible, especially since my cheating radius was only about 3 miles. In short, if I was dating someone and she happened to leave from within 3 miles of me, even for just a quick trip to the mall, somebody else was getting fucked.

That first night we got exhausted from all the sightseeing and had little energy left for a night on the town. So we grabbed some food and retreated to our hotel rooms. What I thought would be an opportunity for me to last for a song and a half turned into a late night counseling session with her girlfriend. Apparently she had gotten into an argument with her boyfriend and needed our counseling. This lasted for hours. I could only find so many ways to politely say “Most men are not that bad. But new pussy is kryptonite. He’s gonna look and maybe touch, if he can get away with it. Bear with that or just wait til he’s older and doesn’t care so much about new trim.” The hell with that Mars Venus bullshit, that’s all the relationship advice one could ever need.

I slept in the following day, but awoke around noon to a warm mouth around my Johnson. I thought, “Damn, I’m not that nice of a guy. But if you insist. Maybe I should say thank you. This is really kind and considerate of her.”

Later we did a bit more sightseeing and then headed back to the hotel to dress for Rana’s birthday party at a local club. I wore skinny pants and a bright orange v-neck sweater to channel a bit of San Fran’s hip and sexually ambiguous style. Rana wore what young women often wear for their birthdays. Extra short skirt and high heels, the “whorish is okay on one’s birthday” style.

We got to the nightclub and did the trite birthday celebration of taking shots with funny, sexual names: blowjob, lick my ass, sit on my face, pack my fudge, etc, etc. After a few of those I took Rana on the dance floor for a public molestation. This continued for about 30 minutes until she had to take a smoke break. I had yet to see Rana smoke so I assumed she was going to stroll around the club with friends and hope guys hit on her. So I took my smiling ass back to the bar to see what was there for me.

It was there that I saw a group of Asian women. Tall, shiny Filipinas to be exact. One caught my eye but those fruity ass shots had yet to give me the inebriated confidence I needed to break that often impenetrable circle of female solidarity. So I just stood there and ordered a drink.

I was only on my second or third sip when of the gals approached. As usual when I meet women I remember very little of what she said. Or for that matter, very little of what I said. I do remember saying “Can I call you sometime?” And just as I was getting her number Rana and her friends approached. Apparently they used their special female night vision and caught the entire interaction.

The spot blew up. Rana and her friends were trying to get their verbal shots in at the same time, so it was difficult to understand all the racket. Though I did hear “Get your shit out the hotel!” One of her friends also said “Really? On her fucking birthday! Fuck you!”

I tried to explain, “Hold on! I thought we were just all having a good time meeting people and hanging out…” I tried to finish but another one of the gals cut me off to yell at her boyfriend, “What the fuck were you doing? I saw you going there too. You want those bitches! Go ‘head!”

Damn, I messed up the whole party. The tall, Asian girls were still there looking on, some laughing and others giving the “you black bastard” look. All the commotion and energy made me nervous and my stomach started to bubble. Or maybe that was because I had a “blowjob” shot and no man should take such shots. Anyway, I could do nothing but walk away and so I did.

But not before letting off a mean and cruel fart. Man, that shit smelled like a neglected old person left alone to slowly die, or open ass unexpectedly blowing in the wind. It hit the Asian girls first and they yelled a remarkably cohesive “Ewww.” I wished I’d have stayed to see it hit the evil Iranian dictators but I was embarrassed and had to shake the spot.

I left the club and texted Rana, “Sorry about all of that, I really didn’t mean for it to be like that. Tell the one dude to be easy and good luck. Just leave my stuff at the hotel desk.”

I called long lost Cousin Billy.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

Rehearsing For Work On the Subway

I singlehandedly turned my local Wal-Mart into a 24 hour night club. I’d buy toiletries; strike up conversation with curvy women in the baby care aisle and make lots of retail friends, especially with the ever so kind elderly greeters.

But I no longer live across the street from my favorite corporate oppressors. So I’ve taken the party elsewhere. A place to go when I’m having a good, El Debarge like hair day and don’t want a scooter helmet ruining my freshly conditioned (but not texturized!) curls: THE BUS STOP.

I was fresh off a hard day of work. Hard meaning I had to constantly minimize my internet window when The Man came into my office. I saw her two blocks ahead, walking toward the bus stop. Recognizing a smallish waist and shapely hips I used my superhuman optic nerve to zoom in for a closer look. Damn, she has a donk. A pulsing alarm rang in my visual cortex: “Emergency Ass Alert. Two Blocks North. Please Proceed Quickly.”

I did my cool man’s run towards my target. You know; the jog-run hybrid people use when they have somewhere to go but don’t want coins and Chick-O-Sticks falling out their pockets. I reached her just as the number six bus is leaving the stop. Damn, we were both stranded for the next 30-40 minutes.

I said to her, “How come you didn’t run and hold the bus for me?” She laughed, and replied, “That’s embarrassing to be running for a bus.” We then talked of the typical things people discuss at a bus stop, mainly bus routes and destinations. I explained to her that there’s a trolley stop just down the street that could get her home quicker. Well, down the street was actually a 1.5 mile walk. But I’m six feet tall, and five of those six feet consist of often-ashy legs. In other words, if she could hang with my stride we’d be there in no time.

We started our journey and I asked her “Are you getting off work, school or something?” Her answer was vague, “Neither.” As she changed the subject I noticed her right hand. The skin between her thumb and index finger was tatted with an amateurish three dot symbol. Looked like some gang shit. Well that’s not so bad. I actually found it kind of exciting. Plus, maybe she wouldn’t mind if I called her “Gangsta Bitch” while we play spades and drink top-shelf malt liquor.

Our walk continued and I gave her valuable advice about taking the pedestrian route to this trolley stop. Namely, make eye contact with drivers when crossing the highway exit and stay on the left side of the street since the sidewalk ends on the other side. Failing to remain on the left side could cause one to get hit by a car and have a tragic but very entertaining death.

However, she wanted to talk about more important things, like clubbing. She asked where I hang out and I ran down my list of Tuesday to Sunday nightspots. Her eyes immediately lit up. Game recognize game; lush recognize lush.

It turned out that we hang at some of the same dive bars. She asked if I liked to dance. I told her that I only have two moves, but I try really hard and that’s all that matters. I also mentioned that I had been watching old Sean Paul videos on Youtube and was hoping learn additional moves for the summer. She laughed, with me and at me.

We were almost at the trolley stop. She was going west, I was going east. This would have been a prime opportunity for a smooth closing statement like, “Maybe your friends can get with my friends and we can be friends.” But I don’t have a S-Curl and I wasn’t sitting in a hot tub with a bottle of Moet.

So I said something much more me: “Let’s catch the six bus going the other way next time. Maybe go to happy hour.” I know…sounds corny as hell. But I meant it, and I didn’t say it like a line. I really did mean

our broke asses should take the bus and get a drink, next time.

She answered, well she laughed and then answered “Yeah we should. I’m at that stop every Monday.” I replied, “Cool, I’ll call you. What’s your number?”

Then she hit me with the “I don’t have a cell phone right now.” I thought to myself “Negro please!” and didn’t even bother to offer my number. I simply said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you on the six.” She ended the conversation with, “Next Monday we’ll get a drink.”

She crossed the tracks to wait on the west trolley. Then she went over to the pay phone and tried to make a call. The 1980’s communication relic was not taking her coins. She continuously placed the quarters back in the slot, no bueno.

I walked to the pay phone. “You can use my cell for a little if you want. I got ATT rollover minutes” I said. She smiled and I noticed her left hand holding the phone; it was almost marked, but not with a backyard tat. She wore a wedding band and ring.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

Yep, I ride a scooter. And you want to call me “Euro-negro” for cruising by while wearing slim-fit slacks and a cardigan made of the finest cloned lamb’s wool only available through a top-secret facility in South Korea, and Urban Outfitters. You really want to ridicule me for getting 80 miles per gallon and spending just $4 a week on gas? Worst of all, you speak ill of me as I lean forward like Usain Bolt on the starting block and struggle to maintain a steady speed while riding up a steep hill. Damn man; let me tell you about my scooter…

First things first: Women. Women love the scoot. Although they laugh at me as I drive pass, it is a laugh of “Damn, who’s that guy weaving through traffic and playing by his own rules. Look at how his bony hand twists the throttle. It’s like he’s saying…fuck a Hummer.”

For example, I once pulled over on a side street to use my cell phone when I heard the erotic giggle of young women sitting in an open garage. I looked over and stared at them through my fake designer shades from Marshall’s. One of the young women said “What is that?” I then rode all up in their garage to give them a closer look. As I was explaining a giant SUV came up the driveway and began beeping its horn. I turned around and noticed a middle-age female driver was waving me aside. I asked the young women “How old are y’all?” Shouts of “I’m 16! I’m 17!” echoed in the garage. I scooted away, completely unscathed of potential statutory rape charges.

And this other time I was leaving my apartment building, about to head to the store and stuff three days of groceries into my tiny scooter trunk. I received a call from a friend who was in the neighborhood. She said “I’m off early. Is it cool if I stop by and say hi.” I replied, “Yeah. I’m about to grab some food and cook. And since you have a pretty smile, pleasant disposition, intelligence AND a big ass, you’re more than welcome to come over.” (Well, I didn’t say the big ass thing, but I sho’ nuff thought it.)

She came over, hopped on the back and received the most exciting ride of her life. Although the only physical contact came courtesy of our helmets banging it was a joyful experience nevertheless. Well maybe a bit more joyful for me since I didn’t hear back from her for a few days.

Next up: What’s it like to ride a scooter everyday? It’s cold, nigga. Even in San Diego’s mild climate. Riding in any temperature less than 70 degrees is guaranteed to chill your nipples. But there are ways around that. You can simply ride close behind a large bus and bask in its warm but mildly noxious fumes. You can also keep a flask of whiskey in the scooter’s ever so convenient pouch located near the handlebars. Taking a swig at a stoplight warms your whole respiratory system and helps you stay focused while driving.

Finally: How does one maintain his masculinity while riding such a tiny and seemingly effeminate vehicle? I find this really interesting. In Europe and most of the third world scooters are THE mode of transportation. But in hypermasculine America, with its numerous phallic symbols and miles of highway scooters are frowned upon—especially by young males who are often uncomfortable in their sexuality and feel the need to terrorize males scooter riders who are more in-touch and comfortable with their heterosexuality. In other words, punk muthafuckas like to talk shit about real men who ride scooters.

For example, this weekend I was on the side of the street attempting to start my scooter ( It has a minor carburetor problem that needs a-fixin’, takes a little extra time to start in the morning) when a shabby car full of three young men drove by and threw a hard object at me, which might have been a rock but felt like a paintball when it hit me in the ribs.

Suddenly a white hot anger filled my chest cavity and I went into fight or flight mode, which means I broke out in a forehead sweat and my balls ascended. In fact, I hadn’t felt that angry since my ex-girlfriend punched me in the nose, at which point I responded by giving her a throat massage.

I thought to myself “My dear scooter, if there’s a time when I really need you to start, that time is now.” And you know what? She started right up.

I sped down the street going at least 80 miles per hour, or maybe 45. I looked to my right and saw that the car used for the drive-by was parked outside the 7/11 and the three offenders were still inside the piece of shit ride. I go up to the passenger side window and say things I typically only think/write, but never verbalize, namely “Get your bitch ass out the car.”

I then added “You like throwing shit. Throw something at me now bitch!” The young man, not older than 20, sat in frozen fear. He said only “We didn’t throw anything, wasn’t us.” I responded, “Man I saw you throw it!”

The driver stepped out the car. I thought to myself “Damn he’s big…” Uh-oh. I removed my helmet and quickly wrapped the strap around my hand. He looked and thought better of facing off with a lunatic skinny man holding a lethal weapon and walked into the store.

And just when I thought the altercation was over a chola, who generally tend to have a lot of love for Baby D, came out the store and said to the offenders “Why you throwing shit at the homie? You ain’t doing nothing now.” I think they found her more intimidating than me. She then said “Damn homie, you kind of fine.” I answered, “Thanks a lot” started my scoot and rode off. Believe me man, I can’t make this shit up.

As I rode away I felt somewhat ashamed at losing my Barack Obama cool. I usually prefer to settle problems over warm tea in comfortable cafes. But this was different. I had to make a statement for scooter riders of America. Even though we ride vehicles that look like circus toys and avoid highways at all costs; we are not to be fucked with. Think about like this, everyday we are only one pothole from an extended hospital stay. Yet, we ride in complete confidence. As if we own the roads. You think we won’t stand up to some rock throwing punks. Try me, there will be blood.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

Maybe we did grow up with Jheri Curls , Michael Jackson jackets and The Cosby Show. Perhaps we do remember when Eddie Murphy wore tight red leather pants and grabbed his balls while making jokes about boning Brooke Shields. And yes, we will always consider E.T. to be a much better movie than Avatar.

But you know what? Even at our slightly “advanced” age my rambunctious friends and I still know how to party when the parents leave town. Case in point: Last week’s buckwild party at Omar’s Mama’s House in South Bay San Diego.

I rolled up to the party on my scooter, looking as cool as one can look on a red mini-bike with a missing mirror and turn signal held steady with Scotch tape. I was there early to help set up, which in my eyes means having a few drinks before all the good shit is gone.

Turns out I was there too early. There were no drinks and a full-fledged sausage convention was taking place. Dudes with baggy pants and San Diego Chargers gear packed the driveway, talking about fishing and spelunking…or something like that.

But the conversation was cool and two hours soon passed. It was almost party time so I grabbed my messenger bag at hit up Omar’s Mama’s shower. I stepped out the shower, sprayed a little cologne and rolled-on just enough deodorant to accentuate (but not mask) the smell of manly pit.

I got dressed and then it hit me—I forgot to put on lotion. I pulled up the right leg of my skinny, checkered slacks. Then I pulled down my fake silk socks. Killer ash had already attacked my ankles. Shits looked like I had been running around barefoot in the cotton fields of Mississippi. Fuck it. I’m already dressed and it’s time to party.

I go back outside and see my homeboy Notorious V.I.C. grilling carne asada. By the way, if V.I.C. is involved in any sort of get together/party there’s gonna be some carne. He is to carne asada what Sista Betty is to hog maws, or what Aumt Jemina is to surp. That’s right, “surp” not “syrup”…nigga. Oh yeah, for those without Mexican friends carne asada is Spanish for “skinny ass steak.”

The food was soon done and the first female guests arrived. Four chicks: three young ladies from Africa and a white Rasta. At first I couldn’t believe word about the party spread all the way to the Motherland. Until I found out the women actually live in San Diego. Still, I like to tell myself that they came all the way from African just to attend the party. Makes me feel good to know that I had a hand in organizing such a spectacular international event.

The ladies took a seat and remained there for awhile, only talking amongst themselves. I approached and tried to start conversation. They were hesitant at first, but eventually my Somali forehead and East African features made them feel at ease. Our conversation flowed well and they started to mingle and drink. Well, more so drinking than mingling.

Soon the atmosphere changed. The living room and garage was filled with party-goers. Mainly party-goers with two X chromosomes. In short, the sausage convention was over. So much so that the guys who had arrived early became awestruck and speechless. I guess they were completely overwhelmed by the sight of pushed up titties and asses held tightly by lay on your back and kick your legs to put on jeans.

However, us brave men (or brave when buzzed) were completely in our element. Girls extended their hands in greetings and we pulled them in for hugs. Women that came with boyfriends were discretely taken to the sweaty garage to grind with new, more interesting guys. Ladies that remained in the living room received kisses from the moist soupcoolers of your’s truly. The shit was getting wild!

But those of us who organized the party still had a task at hand—to provide the ultimate party experience (sort of like The Baby D Experience, but extended to more people).

Omar pumped the keg and served drinks for hours at a time, only stopping to bag on chicks and make sure his faux-hawk had an adequate amount of gel and remained in place. DJ Dave played reggaeton and reggae for six straight hours, until he passed out and threw up in the wee hours of the morning. But even that was done with great skill, as the vomit landed directly on an old rug when mostly everyone had left the garage. V.I.C. gave a group of women a personal tour of the bathroom and did not complain or call the cops when said women molested him. This tall, skinny, bighead looking dude with a big smile took a very special pretty young female friend to Omar’s son’s room, where they did grown folk thangs in a toddler’s bed. Ricardo, engaged to be married and tamed, simply sat in a chair and sipped on a beer—admiring how his boys were running with the bachelor baton that he passed long ago.

The sun would soon be up and the party ended. Around 60-80 people were lucky enough to attend and feel a magnificent, loin shivering joy that can only be provided by a party at Omar’s Mama’s House. Some people stayed for an hour, some stayed for hours, some stayed for the whole night…but all were touched. I mean that in the dirty way and in the emotional way.

The four of us went to Denny’s the next morning, hungover but still glowing from the previous night’s extravaganza. We dined like kings who had been newly anointed by flirtatious women with rotund asses and game respecting men. The glow would last for days. And just when it started to recede Omar called and said “Let’s have a fuckin’ party at my sister’s house next month.”

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

I’ve previously mentioned the amazing people and things one can find on Craigslist: big girls looking for love and scooter parts. But I’m now utilizing Craigslist for something much more important; I need a roommate.

I’ve lived alone for the past nine years. But in my younger days I lived with my best friend. Though he might have been having secret butt sex with “down low” men on our college campus, we got along perfectly well. My last roommate was just as cool. Even though he couldn’t pay the bills and had to forfeit the lease, he kept the fridge stocked with beer. He also had butt sex, but with women.

Despite all the entertainment provided by ex-roommates I soon moved into my own place. Why? Well, I was ballin’. Though I wasn’t rich enough to have champagne with my cereal, or make it rain on a hoe with a handful of hundred dollar bills, I was doing well for myself. I was teaching at the local university and working full-time as the HNIC at a local community clinic.

But times have changed. I lost my teaching job, due to budget cuts and exercising unique teaching methods that include telling jokes for half the duration of the class. I also lost hella cash in the in the stock market. I then quit my job at the clinic to travel the world and promote my bestselling book that’s not actually a bestseller.

Upon my return to San Diego I was unable to land a fair paying gig. Turns out that karma caught up with me for that time I stole a newspaper from the neighbor’s yard (My intent was not malicious; I simply wanted to use $0.75 Dad gave me for a bag of Skittles and a Tootsie pop).

Eventually I exhausted my fat stack of doe that was saved over the years. Shortly after, praise be to God, I landed a consulting gig and then a year long contract job. And once I broke up with my complaining ass ex-girlfriend who hated my marketing techniques, book sales went up a bit.

But then the transmission went out on my poor man’s Porsche. And my goal of saving to buy a small desert home for a future sabbatical seemed much too distant.

So I thought “You know what Baby D, it’s time to cut expenses.” Well, I also want to buy table service at fancy nightclubs and get a new white, linen suit for the summer (nigga shit, as my friends say) but that’s for another story.

So here I stand, in search of a roommate on Craigslist. Let me clarify—a female roommate on Craigslist. It might wound weird, but I’m a neat freak. Also, I can’t live with a guy I don’t know, unless I’m sure I can beat his ass.

The first apartment I visit is occupied by two Latina sorority girls. The young woman showing me the room seems gregarious and very kind. She’s a big girl and says “As you can see, I love to cook.” Self-deprecating humor is hot!

Also, the costs are minimal and she also mentions that they sometimes hold sorority meetings at the place. Let’s see: cheap place, OK location, in-house sorority meetings. Hell yeah!

It seems like a go until I get a call from the sorority girl. Apparently the owner has decided to move back in and they cannot renew the lease. Interestingly, that same night I found that there were six Google searches from San Diego for my name, all of which ended up on my blog.

Hummm…I wanted if my writings on salad tossing and “finger in my booty” had anything to do with the owner suddenly “moving back in.” Doesn’t everyone want a roommate that makes powerful statements about the need to stop kissing dogs, as they are habitual salad tossers? Guess not!

I continue my search and come across an ad on Craigslist from a tango/salsa dancer that is looking for a roommate. The tone of the ad reminds of a young woman I recently met at a bar. Damn, I was smooth as hell that night. I broke through the often impenetrable circle of dancing female friends, held a good 7-9 minutes of interesting conversation, copped her number and disappeared like a drunken coed between a bathroom and Ben Roethlisberger.

So I compare the number listed in the ad with that of a woman named “Elseke” who is in my phonebook. It’s her. I send a text and make arrangements to view the apartment later that evening.

I arrive at her apartment and find out it’s actually a house. A house full of female roommates. A see a couple women on the couch, another woman coming out the bathroom, I even spot a set of titties bouncing in the backyard. Well, maybe not. But I think I did.

I ask about the move-in terms and Elseke gets all technical on me. Deposit, application to the landlord, last month’s rent. Maybe I’m old school, but I’m used to “Take that room over there, nigga. Get that rent to me by next week.”

But the place is nice. I make plans to return the application and get back with her soon.

However, during the scooter ride home I come to my senses. Can I watch soft porn in peace with a bunch of women around? What if I’m walking around the house rock hard one day and someone accidentally falls on my cock? Wouldn’t that create tension in the house? What if Elseke actually fell in love with me that night at that bar and has been waiting to wrap her hands around my bony shoulders and protruding ribs?

Highly unlikely, but stranger things have happened. Like that time I shook this dude’s hand at work and he said “You have nice hands.”At which point I rebuked him in the name of Jesus and returned to my office feeling as I did when Ronnie tried to touch my schlong in kindergarten and Dad fight him like Macho Camacho if he does that again.

So I come up with a plan. I need one female roommate, who is busy and often out the house.

Days later I spot another Craigslist ad. The woman, who works nights, is looking for a roommate who works days. I reply to the ad and meet with woman later that same night.

I arrive at the condo and a PYT, small in the waist/thick in the ass, greets me at the door. She’s wearing black tights and that’s it. Well that’s all I saw, just black tights and ass.

Her skin is cocoa and her hair is a bushel of small curls. Nah, let me put it plainly. Her do is a little nappy, but she’s on her way to the salon right after I leave. She doesn’t have kukabuds on her neck or anything like that, but throw a little water on there and they might start to pop out.

She mentions that she looked me up online and liked my writing. Damn! OK. Then she says “I wrote a book too. It’s about stripping” Well, let’s say “skrippin” since she’s from down south. Then she mentions she also does massages and body waxing. OK, maybe I’ll go for the Ronaldo look in celebration of the upcoming World Cup.

Did I mention that she wrote a book about stripping and works nights? Hummm. Did mention she drives a slick ass Mercedes that body waxing probably couldn’t pay for? Hummm.

Well, I guess I’ve found a new roommate. Get your mind out the gutter!

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

We love his aggression. He’ll run past you or through you and explode off one leg from just inside the free throw line—watch out, might get nuts on your chin. The opposition calls timeout. He walks toward the bench, bow legged and tip-toe, sweating like Fantasia at an outdoor concert in Mississippi.

But he’s not done. He pauses at center court and thrusts his tatted arms in a hostile upward motion. He wants more. And you oblige because he is The King. You jump to your feet and wave a towel, screaming like a maniacal woman seeking to establish paternity on The Maury Povich Show.

Now things have changed. You say what Kobe would have done (Do you not remember Kobe tanking the final playoff game against the Phoenix Suns, just to make a point that he is the Lakers end all be all? Or how about the clinching game six of the 2008 finals—the Celtics spanked the Lakers and a helpless Kobe by 39 points). You say what Jordan would have done (Did it not take Jordan eight seasons to win his first championship?). You say what Magic would have done (But he couldn’t have done it without Kareem, Worthy and Scott). You even question his commitment to winning.

Have you forgotten what Lebron has done since 2003? For himself, the team, the league, the fans, the city. You make no mention of how he carried us to the 2007 NBA Finals. The night he dropped 48 on the Pistons in the Eastern Conference Finals, including the team’s last 25 points, is a distant memory. What about the game winning three against Orlando in last year’s playoffs?

You ride his aforementioned nuts when things are going well. You proudly wear his jersey and nearly come to blows with anyone who disputes that the hometown kid is The King.

Oh yeah, you love the perks that come with living in the birthplace of basketball royalty. Especially when the Jay-Zs and Ushers come to town to witness; transforming Cleveland from a “mistake” to the city of the moment—if only for a couple nights a year. Believe me, they don’t come to see the city’s landmarks and bask in the pleasant ambiance of terrible weather and high crime. They are here for The King, they will leave with The King.

And now you have the nerve to ask him to stay. Prematurely labeling him an opportunist and money obsessed athlete, if he even gives thought to playing in a city that won’t turn on him after one game. Yes. One terrible game in which admittedly, he played with the emotion of a 10 year old guide dog.

You know what? Go ahead and spend your hard-earned money on Browns tickets. They’ve really shown a commitment to winning, right? Or how about those Indians? Looks like a potential World Series title this year, huh?

Damn, I wonder what fans of Kobe, Jordan, or Magic would do?

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

The trolley doors open and the passengers exit. Unlike air travel this is not referred to as deplaning, or even worse, de-trolleying. Why? Because that’s just plain stupid.

I’m first in the makeshift line and move closer to board as the last passenger prepares to leave. She gets to the final step and pauses. She cocks her head forward as if she’s searching for something between the rails. A dirty, bluish liquid explodes out of her month. Instinctively I hop back and bump the hurried teenager who had no business all up on my ass anyway.

The bile splashes on the yellow concrete of the “no standing” zone. She looks at me and says “That was rude, wasn’t it.”

I think “Of course, woman.” But I remain silent. The freak angel on my left should says, “Cool man! You can’t go wrong with a chick that’s down to display her bodily fluids. Get her number!” The sane angel on my right shoulder says “That’s a nasty bitch. Leave her alone”

I move closer and prepare to step on board. She moves back and walks to her seat, her hips clicking from side-to-side. Her ass has squeezed every last wear out of the faded blue jeans. Freak Angel might be right.

I grab an empty seat and think to text one my friends who always text back. I like people like that. Shit, left my phone on the couch.

I relax into the seat, which is built to dissuade sleeping. I stretch my long legs into the aisle and look at the faces abroad: a well-dressed couple that refuses to grab a seat, despite the numbers of spaces available; an older Asian with a deformed upper palate that causes her jagged mouth to protrude, the woman with the sexy body fluids who is now holding a baby; and a fat, freckled teenage boy whose shy demeanor makes him look like fresh meat for a bully—well this is the 2010, I suppose he could just shoot the whole damn school up if it came to that.

Only 10 minutes later my stop has arrived. I get off and walk a half mile to the “natural” grocery store. I’m crossing the street when a bar begins beeping frantically. Startled, I look to my right and see an old friend at the stoplight. I probably haven’t seen him in about five to six years. Cool, he’ll say what’s up and ask if I need a ride. Nope, this muthafucka actually yells “What’s up!” and proceeds to drive away. The voice of Alonzo Harris, Denzel’s character in Training Day pops in my head. He says “You bitch made nigga.” I agree.

I get to the store and look for ahi tuna and tabouli. Sounds bougee huh? Fuck it, it’s good. But…the store has one piece of damn near spoiled ahi tuna and no tabouli in site.

How I would love to drive to another grocery store…but that would require paying around $4,000 to get my car fixed. Which buy the way is one of the most sexy and exotic two-seat American cars ever made. Automatic rear spoiler, heated seats that can induce thigh-shivering orgasms in females, only three of my sixty payments left to make, two built-in subwoofers…DAMN! But that shit doesn’t drive right now.

I grab a couple steaks, fruit and a few other items that won’t make my canvas grocery bag too heavy. I being the walk back to the trolley and notice how in Southern California people stare at pedestrians as they drive by, as if we’re doing something odd. What happened to being green? Fake ass liberals.

I get to my stop and grab a seat on the brown, concrete bench. The trolley should be here any minute now. A brown man with dirty work clothes says fuck my personal space and sits within six inches of me. There are at least five benches open.

He says to me “Fucking police. I just worked 18 hours. Can you watch this for me? I gotta piss like a horse.” He places a 40 wrapped in a black plastic bag behind my leg. I look over at the two trolley police. They’re too busy joking to notice much of anything.

He soon returns. “Thanks Bro.”

I reply, “No problem. Just getting off, huh. Where you workin’?”

He answers, “At the port. Fuckin’ 18 hours. But I…”

He leaves mid-sentence, just as an attractive middle age woman takes a seat at the adjacent bench.

I’m soon joined by a father with two young children. The little bowlegged girl stares at me, as toddlers often do. If there’s a line between baby fat and childhood obesity, she’s toeing the mark. I want to start talking with her but toddlers are often unable to hold good conversations, as they are not well-versed in issues I find important like immigration reform and the previous night’s episode of Judge Judy. She whimpers a bit, I ignore her.

The trolley arrives and I grab a window seat. The doors fold close. I look out the window and see the woman with the blue bodily fluids. She’s in the bus stop parking lot, impatiently pushing a stroller bound child around in circles. Her head still cocked over.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

I met him in a nightclub. Yes HIM. Unlike the hyper-masculine I’m Sunday afternoon in a recliner chair comfortable with my heterosexuality. If a dude seems cool and better yet has good wingman potential we’ll hang out. Perhaps he has specialty with the seemingly unattainable women who have been pretty since birth, no ugly duckling there—women that were the shit in junior high, high school and would’ve been all that in college had they not flunked out and became internet models/party promoters. Women who are the cream of the genetic crop and know it. The type of women I rarely have the courage to approach.

And Jaron was that man. I saw him in action that night, stopping the beautiful ones with his cliché “What up gurl. Let me holla at you for a sec.” He hit, he missed, but he continued shooting. I observed with slight admiration. Until I realized he was the kind of guy who would stare a little too long while you’re out with your girl. Muscled and courageous, he might even say some stupid shit like, “Hey man is that yo sista?”

As the night came to a close we ran into two girls, including one who was a mutual friend. A single generation removed from Africa her curves lent truth to the Hottentot stereotype. I remembered playfully dry humping that ass on the corner of 5th and E Street downtown a few months earlier, which led to 2-3 budget dates and a quick flameout.

The four of us pretended to be the best of friends and I invited everyone back to my apartment. Hottentot ended up in my room where we had a quick talk, rejection and platonic nap. Jaron fucked the other girl on my couch. And then he grabbed a pot pie from my freezer and ate it without asking. The pie was probably undercooked because just 15 minutes later he took a mean shit. That was Jaron.

Jaron and I had a lot in common, but different schedules so we rarely hung out. Maybe once a month he’d call with his sex updates. They ranged from “I just fucked this Asian girl, you can come over and hit it now.” to “You got some bitches tonight?” No and no.

But his most memorable call was yet to come. I was on my way to a late night loiter at the 24 hour Walmart when he rang. He cut to the chase. In his country twang he said, “Man, I just had this freak over. She was ridin’ me and I put my finger in her booty. She like that shit man.”

“I put my finger in her booty.” I’ve always found my asshole, aka the third eye, taboo and scary. In fact my ass cheeks are clenched as I write this. But the asshole of a young lady is disgustingly intriguing.

My girl and I have been together, off and on, for a minute. And we’ve done what people who have been together for a minute generally do: In the car outside the club-check, on her parent’s couch while they’re upstairs watching TV-check, in a pitch black cave near the seals at LaJolla beach-skeet, skeet skeet! Yet, her asshole has remained unadulterated.

Mind you, we’ve “credit carded” each other frequently. For those unfamiliar it simply means using one’s hand to make a sliding motion all up in the crack of the other’s ass when she least expects it. For example, say she’s at Urban Outfitters taking too damn long to pick something from out-of-season sales rack. I’ll simply approach quietly from behind, ready my hand in a karate chop position and slide from the perineum on up. Transaction complete bitches!

We also tend to “cheek spread” each other frequently. Again for those unfamiliar, it simply means spreading one another’s ass cheeks when its least expected. I might be napping facedown in the nude and she’ll catch with me with the cheek spread. While not as thorough as the “credit card” it does produce a quick burst of cold air that awakens an otherwise sleepy asshole. Better yet, it gives the spreader an opportunity to spot (and remove) any foreign objects lurking near the spreadees asshole, such as mulatto colored tissue residue.

But I recently decided to take our ass activity a bit further. I don’t remember how I brought it up, but I probably said something romantic like “Hey, can I do you in the ass?” And despite being a virgin in the bootyhole she jokingly obliged.

We both lay on the couch naked from the waist down. Perhaps we should have been completely naked, but I kind of like playing the horny newsman role. You know, dressed from the waist up, dick just-a-swinging below.

Anyway, I spoke in a Barry White voice and said “You want this dick in yo’ ass don’t you?” Then I did a white man surfer voice “You want this freakin’ cock don’t ya? Hell yeah ya do.” In reply, she did an assortment of her best porno style moans. “Uhhhhh! Yeah Daddy!” We almost fell off the couch laughing.

I said “Ok, ok let’s be serious.” She replied “Get a condom.” I answered “What’s that?” and then went to grab a few from the bag that my sub-lessee forgot to take when he moved out in August. Then she said “I know you’re not serious Dewan, you’re not going up my ass!”

I returned to the couch and said “Ok, just let me rub it first.” I gave her a slow motion cheek spread, but she quickly locked up as my Arsenio Hall length index finger came near. I caught her off guard for a second, snuck a quick rub and brought my finger to my nose.

Wow. No smell at all. Her ass was as clean as an old school player at an all white party that ever black organization seems to host during the summer. In fact, I’d feel completely comfortable rubbing her asshole and flossing my teeth shortly thereafter. Put it like this, I’d be more than happy to pour ranch sauce around that muthafucka and dip my celery sticks in it as I watch Dr. Oz. Man, if I could ever get my balls to smell as fresh as her ass…they’d be hella-lickable, like two stickless Tootsie pops.

I overcame my clean-ass amazement and took a quick peek at her bootyhole. It looked so gentle and innocent, like a pink, premature baby not yet ready for the world’s harsh realities. I gave her a compliment, “Nice asshole!” And we couldn’t stop laughing. That was that, and her asshole remained, gentle and innocent. Guess Jaron and I really don’t have much in common.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

On Friday I had a grand ol’ time at a nightclub near the San Diego/Tijuana border. Though I was still on US soil the night brought back memories of the good ol’ days in TJ: Purchasing chiclets from children to support the local economy, seeing thick ass Ricky Martin in concert at an outdoor soccer stadium (exit only) and going to the real Gringo-free nightclubs and brothels. Check out the story below from 2007 to get a better idea of what I mean. Obviously it’s old, but probably new to you. Listen man, I’m not lazy…just working on a new off-the-chain literary mixtape that I hope to finish next week. Anyway, I hope u enjoy.

Tijuana Nights

Rewind to August 2001. I’m new to San Diego and decide to take an afternoon trip across the world’s busiest border. I’m driving a golden-tan Nissan Altima with cracked pleather interior while listening to East Coast hip hop. Seated next to me in the passenger seat is my roommate and friend from college. An a-alike of Rob Lowe, with an admiration for African American culture and books, he also happens to have the blackest name in white history…Joe Clarke (with an “e” added to reflect his European heritage). We’re driving south on Interstate 5 and see a sign that we should probably heed as a warning, “Last USA Exit.” We drive across the border into Tijuana and see pharmacies on every corner, little children selling candy and grimy apartments that rival the shanty towns of South Africa.

Within 10 minutes of entering Tijuana we’re pulled over by the police. I look over at Joe and he’s beet red, shaking his head saying “shit, shit, shit.” Two officers approach and I try to remain calm. I offer the standard “how you doing officer, everything alright?” He answers quickly in Spanish. To this day I don’t know what he said, but it seemed to be some sort of lecture. I hesitate to interrupt, but finally say “sorry sir I don’t speak Spanish.” The other officer begins speaking in perfect English, claiming that I did not have my seat belt fastened. I think I did, but refuse to argue. He then asks to see my registration. I open the glove department and a plastic baggie with pills falls out. Relax it’s only advil and benadryl. Mom and Dad made me a ghetto care package for my cross country trip…pills, tissues, canned turnip greens, and rolls of quarters for my first months rent. The officer ignores the drugs and tells me that if I want to go home I need to give him money. I only have a 20 dollar bill. Joe, at this time unfamiliar with how to use his white privilege to obtain a decent paying job, only has a single dollar bill. He instructs me to fold the bills under my license and hand it over quickly. I relent and hand the bills over, looking into the officer’s eyes as if it’s a business transaction.

Fast forward six years and my impression of Tijuana has changed somewhat. I dated a woman from there who showed me the city outside of the prostitution, illegal prescription drugs and poverty. Still it’s not like I look forward to visiting Tijuana…hookers are generally good people and prescription drugs aren’t that bad, but I’m not down with the poverty. I also went to a club there months after the police altercation and had a memorable time. Well, actually it was a strip club on a Sunday afternoon. I felt kind of bad because I couldn’t take my eye off the stripper’s cross pendant attached to her thin golden necklace. As she danced for me the cross bounced recklessly near her breasts…talk about blasphemy. Now that I think back…maybe it was more of a brothel than a strip club and maybe she wasn’t dancing. I plead the fifth. Ay Cochino! Anyway, September 15 is here and it’s time to make another trip to Tijuana in celebration of Mexico’s Independence Day (the real independence day, not Cinco de Mayo).

I make the 15 minute drive to the border and meet my co-worker “Fernando.” He’s a smallish man with spiky gelled hair and a knack for making sound effects while talking (a click of the mouth and a wink, an occasional growl when unsure). We haven’t hung out before, but we’re close in age and have similar interests in drinking and partying. He’s also a Tijuana native and knows the ins and outs of the city. We’re joined by “Tony”; a hefty Chicano who I quickly find has a propensity for one-liners. Within five minutes of meeting he says “have you heard of the new Hummer truck made only for Mexicans, Panamanians, and Costa Ricans…it’s called Border Patrol” and then “Do you know why lowriders have such small steering wheels…so they can be driven with handcuffs.” More Jay Leno than Chris Rock, but I’m always open to hearing a good joke.

We arrive in Tijuana and I quickly notice we are in the urban wilds. Nearly every street has stop signs, but no one bothers to use them. They do however wait at red lights, at which time you’re approached by streets salesmen of all ages, including the aforementioned children selling chiclets. Tony, as many Mexican-Americans often do, apologizes for the grime of the city. I brush it off… it’s obviously an impoverished area, but the city has a great energy and the unique appeal of contrast with most American cities.

We arrive at Fernando’s friend’s house to pick up two more party goers. These two guys speak very little English so unfortunately our conversation is over after a quick introduction. One guy has his hair all gelled up and likes to squint his eyes while talking, to give an extra air of coolness. I used to do the same in pictures when Tyson Beckford was the shit. The other guy just smiles and is nearly silent. I am too so I just raise my beer and say “salut” to alleviate the awkwardness. The house we’re in has at least ten cars in the backyard and dozens of license plates hanging from a chain link fence that’s guarded by an old German Shepherd. I become curious when I see an Ohio license plate, but of course I don’t ask. I know black people don’t like nosy ass people and I think we have that in common with many Latinos. You generally won’t hear of either group starting community watch groups or bringing pies to new neighbors.

We arrive at the club and I can’t believe its size. The building is designed as a large castle…in my mind. When I say “oh man, it looks like a castle” I’m quickly corrected by Mr. One-Liner, “no it’s not a castle, it’s a Mayan pyramid.” Oops, I forgot the nationalism is deep tonight. We exit the truck and for some reason the guys pop the hood. I ask “everything cool” and Fernando tells me that they don’t have an alarm on the truck. So they’re removing the battery connection and playing around with some other wires. I thought Cleveland was hood, but I haven’t seen anyone remove cables IN A GUARDED PARKING LOT.

We’re in the club and it’s similar to what I imagined. I figured it would be setup like the nightclubs in Scarface or at least Carlito’s Way. It’s exactly that, stadium style seating with tables everywhere and a dance floor in the center. I can almost see Carlito telling Billy Blanco from the Bronx “You think you like me, you ain’t like me muthafucka, you a punk.” Anyway, we grab our table and commence to drinking. Call me an arrogant American, but I don’t drink anything with ice in Mexico. My stomach isn’t built for Mexican water so I’m having whiskey and warm ass coke. I want ice really bad, but continuing my track record of never taking a dump in the club is more important. Just in case you’re wondering I try to avoid public defecation at all costs, although I really look forward to the bathrooms at Nordstrom. Nordstrom bathrooms are nicer than my living room. Sometimes I hold it in at home until I can make it to the mall. Call me crazy, but treating yourself to a rich man’s dump is something we should all try.

We’re standing around our table drinking when a young women with braces approaches. I spotted her earlier with what appeared to be her boyfriend, so I figure she just wants to give an intoxicated hello. We speak briefly and she then wants to introduce me to her friend. From the end of the table comes a tall, brown woman with a curly fro and big ol’ smile. In short, we could be brother and sister. Her left arm catches my eye, as it’s filled with silver bracelets that look more elegant than cheap. We talk for a bit and then head to the dance floor. But there’s one problem, my jeans are too damn tight. They’re so tight I no longer consider them jeans…I have on blue leggings.

Look, it’s not my fault. I have one pair of club jeans and washed them in warm water that morning. I saw something on TV about the number of germs in public washers so I decided I should heat some shit up. I figured once I wore them they would stretch back to normal size. I was wrong and should have known from the time I was getting dressed. At first I had on boxer shorts underneath, but the tightness of the jeans kept moving my equipment over to my left leg. My Johnson was damn near wrapped around my thigh. My balls were much smarter though, they decided hide like they do during sex. So I decided to change into boxer briefs and do a few yoga stretches. It improved somewhat, but by the time I sat down in the car the leggings were back on me like some ’85 Wranglers.

So we’re on the dance floor and I’m trying my best. I figure if my leggings split I can wrap my shirt around my waist and wear my tank top 50 Cent style. Then I notice I can’t get my feet to move and she can’t either. The dance floor feels like someone spilled syrup everywhere. The soles of my shoes are actually getting stuck on the floor. I adjust and start doing a mixture of the cabbage patch and lean back. She starts shaking her shoulders like Cecilia Cruz. So there we are, I’m dancing like I just scored a touchdown and she’s doing the Spanish-Harlem Shake.

We eventually give up and go back to the tables. We speak some more and I find out she’s from Venezuela, but is now living in San Diego. Her English is only slightly better than my Spanish, which is made worse by the deafening music. I start typing questions in my phone and showing her, she does the same. It’s kind of fun because I can drink and communicate at the same time. She then asks if I’m 21 yet and is shocked to find I’m nine years her senior. I’m also a bit surprised, but don’t give a damn. She also can’t say my name right, so I tell her to call me “Juan” or “Baby D.” It’s not that I don’t like my name, but when around non-native speakers I like to make things easier. Sort of like when an Asian guy with a name like “Can Wu-Chen” immigrates to the States, watches a few Clint Eastwood movies and then goes by “Harry Wu.” I understand his reasoning. Anyway, we talk some more and she grabs my phone and types in her number. I like the aggression. So much that I text my Dad to let him know model chicks are out tonight.

I hang out with the guys some more when I’m accosted by a 4 foot 10 inch village woman. Ok, maybe she’s not from a village, but she’s tiny and I think of her carrying a pot of rice on her head while a suckling baby hangs near her bosom. She takes me out to the dance floor and does the Tijuana style “face down ass up” move. Of course I don’t have to move my feet so I’m cool with this. Even though I look like a Great Dane humping a Chihuahua. My ligaments, tendons, muscles and bones are sore so we say our goodbyes and I head back to the table.

The night continues and the club has a fire-dance show with women in cages attached to the ceiling. Without sounding too much like a serial killer the women in cages do something for me. Once again, it’s probably the Skinemax movies. You know the one where the dude works in the female prison. Presumably all the women there are confined for stealing breast implants and have to bang the guards for their freedom; that’s some creative shit.

I then try to find the guys, but one has already gone back to the truck to sleep and the others are on the dance floor. So it’s just me and Silent Bob. I look around for an out, away from the uncomfort zone and see a tall woman with stylish eye glasses. She’s sporting a low cut dress that she somehow manages to wear with modesty. I give her the Billy Dee Williams look from the old Colt 45 commercials. The half smile, head slightly titled, testosterone gleaming out the eyes. I approach and she’s somewhat receptive. Until she says “how old are you?” and asks to see my driver’s license. Again, she’s shocked to see we’re around the same age. Damn, I can only imagine what Andy Milonakis deals with. We dance and what I notice most is her smell. She smells of jasmine and the finest spices from the coast of Argentina. Ok, I’ve never smelled spices from the Argentinean Coast, but I bet they smell as she did. I want to tell her, but the night prior I told a friend she smelled like mango juice and papaya. For some reason it took her awhile to see it was a compliment. It’s not my fault my olfactory sense is on bloodhound level. The conversation goes on for a bit longer with the tall, chic woman. It’s nearing 3am and she leaves, giving me her email address to stay in touch.

I’m now nearly dead tired and ready to head home or at least somewhere else. I find most of the guys, but we can’t find my co-worker Fernando. We leave the club to wait outside and the gelled up Spanish speaking friend asks…no…he TELLS me to go find Fernando. I would have went if he asked respectfully or wanted to go in together, but he wants to be El Presidente and issue commands. He must have thought I was the flunky because I’m new to the group. Or maybe it’s because three girls are outside talking with us and he wants to look hard. I look at him like he’s crazy and say “you’re the one driving you go find him and tell him you’re leaving, I’m not running around passing messages.” He tries to look tough and says something smart in Spanish. So there we are arguing in Spanish and English, not understanding most of what we’re saying. I end the conversation with “alright man, I’ll just wait out here I don’t have anywhere to go, you go find him.” He finally relents and I realize I might be catching a cab back to the border. When keeping it real goes wrong. My co-worker eventually comes out and the tension is relieved, mainly because the three girls are still waiting.

We head to “La Cantina” with the three girls trailing. I think we’re going to a fast food spot, but instead it’s a bar with old school Mexican music. One of the girls asks me if I’m black, in Spanish. I grab her hand and hold her dark tan forearm next to mine and say “we’re black.” They all start cracking up; I guess we all have our two minutes of fame. Her friend holds her hand out and we start to do some sort of Mexican folk dance. This isn’t fair; I didn’t get any practice time. I wouldn’t ask her to come to San Diego and do the “Soulja Boy.” I don’t know what I’m doing and whatever rhythm and soul I had is leaving with each near step on her foot. We bounce around in circles while holding each other tightly. It sounds like fun for a couple songs, but imagine doing that at 4am for 15 minutes, to what seems to be the same song.

We hang out a bit longer and a round, heavily made up woman of about 45 years asks if I want to see her girls. Apparently, she’s a pimp, excuse me a madam, and she has a few hookers near. I laugh and tell her my cable bill is past due. She lurks around for about 15 more minutes hoping I change my mind. I’m glad I’m sober, so I don’t wind up participating in the international sex trade. As a matter of fact thank God I’m sober because a lot of prostitutes in Tijuana are actually men. You might be in a strip club with some ass shaking in your face and see some nads come untucked. Or he-she might try to touch your hardware and you notice “her” hands are big enough to palm a basketball. How do I know? Well, the same way you know Michael Jackson gave those kids Jesus Juice and took their innocence. Some things you just know.

We head back to the gelled guy’s house for a nap and a return trip across the border. We get to his home, but can’t park the car because the gate is padlocked. Another friend hops the fence and goes inside to grab a key. The German Shepard does not even wake…old ass dog. I have another look at the license plates and I recognize the Ohio plate as my own from my car that was stolen years back. Psych! That would be some crazy shit though. I only wrote that because I felt like saying “psych!” It used to be one of my favorite words and I don’t think people use it enough like the old days. Anyhow, I sit on the couch and drift off to sleep. I awake and its almost 9am. I head back home with my impression of Tijuana changed once again. I Love TJ!

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

My dating life—The Imperfect Enjoyment—has been somewhat tragic and painful, but always eventful. Yet, despite all my buckwild behavior I have never taken (for lack of a better term) a COCK PIC.

Perhaps I have been subconsciously afraid that my self-proclaimed “third leg” looks more like a third nipple. After all, I have few cocks to compare it with. As a child I once saw my dad’s member when he, ass naked and fresh out the shower, jumped on my mom as she lay reading a magazine and yelled “Boy this how you do it!” (Hey, my parents had us at a very young age…and you wonder why I have the audacity to write some of this crazy shit).

Other than that I’ve only seen the cock of an intoxicated friend while he was passed out in the bathtub (a terrifying experience, see the “Rico Purple” chapter of my book). Well of course I’ve seen a number of porno films and free clips on bangbros.com, but those guys don’t count.

Those porno muthafuckas are Centaurs, i.e. half man/half horse for those not into Roman mythology. The erect cock of a porno star looks like it’s intended for industrial use, as if he could actually push it downward, make quick up-and-down gyrations and have it function as a jackhammer. Thick, veiny, and ugly, it’s a mismatched companion for a woman’s soft and gentle vagina. No way in hell would I trade my sleek and shapely cock for a Mandingo dick.

But back to the goddamn point. Today I decided to take a cock picture. I just felt some things you should do by the time you turn 30. Plus I’ve been reading The Sun Always Rises by Hemingway, which features a horny character who got his cock and balls blown off in the war and is therefore stuck in a lustful quagmire. Shit. If that ever happens to me at least I’ll have a pic of my past pride.

I thought to setup a photo shoot—complete with young, adventurous photographers skilled in lighting and image enhancement—but decided my Blackberry would be more than suitable. But the first few shots were terrible. My johnson looked alien-like and the three megapixel camera could not catch the full glory of my shy but potent member. I was disheartened with my lame attempt.

So, as I usually do when faced with a dilemma, I contacted my inner circle of friends for advice. I sent my brother and best friends a text message reading “I wanna send a cock pic to my girl. Wats the best angle to take the pic? I wanna maximize length and girth.”

And who could ask for a better group of friends? The detailed responses came pouring in. The first one read, “Nigga! Lol. Hold it in your hand. Take the pic from the top. Good luck lol. But don’t make ur boy too hard. It gives it away. That’s my trick.”

I likes that! Very detailed instructions, yet to the point and easy to follow. Maybe I should steal his trick. You know, show it at half-mass and then pull out the big, fully erect jawn in person.

Then the next response vibrated in “I don’t know! Experiment!”

Buzzkill. What the fuck? Ah man. That sucked. Help a brotha out. But ok, ok. Pause, no homo. I can understand that a lot of men don’t like giving out cock advice.

But the final respondent was the best. He wrote “Take it laying down, sitting with it in the air, or angle it from the northeast, on your side.”

What? This muthafucka actually gave out GPS navigation instructions. But wait he wasn’t finished. Our conversation continued.

He said “It’s ur lucky day. I got my laptop. Let me scan my pics.”

Hold the fuck on. Nah man, I don’t need to see your personal example. Exit only, man. Give a negro a inch, he’ll take a mile. Too-too-too much detail. So I replied, “Oh no lol. I’m cool. I’ll take your word for it.”

He then explained further “I’m not sending a pic dummy, just checking mine. Ok. Laying down with dick in air, or flat on stomach. Or sit on sofa with it hanging between legs. The latter is better. Just sit up and let it fall to ur knee or in ur case high thigh lol.”

Damn! I was now more than ready. All I had to do was think wet thoughts, stand to attention and snap the pic.

So I tried. I thought of Basic Instinct when Sharon Stone rode the hell out of Michael Douglas. Didn’t work, that pussy is too old. Next I pictured Halle Berry in Monster’s Ball, giving up that Oscar award winning ass to that Billy Bob character. Ok, I’m halfway up. Probably enough to penetrate some cooch assuming I had on a condom (hell naw!) or at least lubrication. Then I pictured a clip from Redtube.com that I have bookmarked on my internet browser titled “Buela rides him wild.” Man, that girl can do inhuman thangs that start at her waist and lead to an extraordinary amount of ass jiggle as she drops it like its hot.

Yes!!! I was now camera ready. I positioned the Blackberry at a northeast angle as instructed. I thrusted my hips just a little. Why? Cause I’m used to doing shit like that when I’m naked. I took the pic.

Wow. Glorious and shapely. Though a bit ashy, the head looked proud and elegant, as if he was a prince walking into a king’s ball. The slight curve near the tip did nothing but enhances what was already grand. It’s as if my cock leaped into the shot and took space from the unfortunate background images of my room. He was a commanding presence.

Feeling haughty as Jude Law I sent out the picture. She responded “OMG. Yum! I love chocolate! Did you put soap on it first?”

I reply, “Lol. Yeah. That’s why it’s ashy. Freak!”

Damn, Dad would be proud.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

BUT WE’RE IN LOVE. Not a love like Mexican Americans feel for Tapatio or “conscious”African Americans feel for
poetry jams, but a love in which we hope and think of a future, our future. So the shooting threat bounces weakly off my naïve armor. What does some pampered Middle Eastern boy know about gunplay? I assume he does not know much more than me, a sheltered suburbanite who has always stayed at least three streets away from the hood. Amir is a fake. He is as dangerous as your favorite ex-correctional officer turned gangster rapper, or R&B singer who plays up misdemeanorcharges for the false honor of being an ex-convict. Amir is only words. Words that become much stronger when spoken to Haniyah’s mother.

Soon after the threats Haniyah returns to Bahrain for winter vacation. Her mother is disgusted by news of our illicit relationship. “You don’t even know what ghetto he’s from. What kind of family do you think he was raised in?” she says, her mind obviously corrupted by satellite episodes of Cops and The Maury Povich Show. Yes, maybe a few of my extended family members did graduate from the Ohio School of Alcohol and Drug Abuse and maybe some male relatives did a few short bids (really,they just went in to hang with cousins and old neighborhood friends), but we are a hardworking family. More importantly we are a family that is open to others regardless of pigmentation.

It wasn’t a big issue when my divorced grandmother married a younger white man—besides, he loved to eat collard greens. It was never an issue when most of my uncles dated white women, even rural white women who wore 1980s big bangs and resembled Guns N’ Roses groupies. Perhaps they had wild interracial sex, with their taboo prizes yelling “Fuck me like an NBA all-star!” and my uncles grunting “Free Mumia now bitch,” unknowingly healing centuries of racial strife through the powers invested in their loins. No one cared! Bottom line: we are a fair and open family. But this is of no concern to Haniyah’s mother. Her orders are clear: Lose all contact with the infidel or be disowned. If she does not do so immediately, her father will be told. Even in her livid state, Haniyah’s mother is rational enough to keep this secret from him.

During the six weeks of vacation I rarely hear from Haniyah. With her mom, who is retired and able to be constantly
near, supervising her every move, we’re unable to talk over the phone. Every now and then we communicate via instant messenger, but even that is unsteady as she is forced to log off without notice. What I do gather from our erratic conversations is that Haniyah might not be allowed to return to San Diego. There is even talk of her being sent off to study in Scotland.

I am confused, but undeterred. I want this relationship, and I want it even more after being told it cannot be. I couldn’t care less about cultural understanding or the notion of “that’s how we do things.” They are wrong. How can her mother expect her to study in the United States and not develop significant relationships? Does she see Haniyah as some sort of academic machine whose sole purpose is to obtain a degree from an American university? Are the Americans who provide Haniyah this education not good enough to hold her hand and kiss her neck? Who is her mother to decide when we should end? I am realistic enough not to predict a lifetime together based on a few months, but if the relationship shall end, let it run its own course.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

I no longer trust my local news and I’m fed up. You see, at around 7am a charming young anchorwoman promised to show breaking news, but there was a catch; I had to wait until the 6pm telecast. So after the morning news ended I passed the time by watching four episodes of Judge Judy—during which I learned that they don’t keep Judy there because she’s beautiful, they keep her there because she’s smart—and I fully agree.

Later I watched Judge Pirro, Judge Joe Brown and Judge Mathis. Then at around 4pm I realized that even though I’m a stay at home father without any children, I should probably find a better way to spend my day.

And that’s when it hit me: If the local news needed to tell something important, why not just tell me at 7am? More so, how could they have possibly known they’d have breaking news at 6pm? After all, shouldn’t breaking news shown at 6pm discuss something that happens at around…say 5:55pm? I understand they can predict the weather with their fancy Doppler equipment, but I’m less confident in their ability to predict water outages and muggings by randomly described assailants (A tall, black male—sorry I meant to say advanced in height, African American and possibly of male gender…but you never know these days).

I didn’t end up leaving the house, but I did dose off and miss the 6pm news. Luckily I woke a few hours later and saw another commercial promising more breaking news at 10pm. But the newscaster in this commercial looked a little different than the cheerful young lady I watched this morning. The evening newscaster had salt and pepper hair and a serious look on his face that gave way to a slight glimpse of a smile as the commercial ended. He appeared to possess the rare ability to convey a message of, I know something you don’t know and it’s really important. Turn the channel at your own peril.

So I lay back on the couch and waited around for a few more hours. Surprisingly there more shows on about law. But these shows were about detectives who wear extremely nice clothes and use fancy techniques to investigate some of the most intelligent lawbreakers around.

They obviously had a lot of investigating to do because they seemed to go all across the country. On one show they were in Miami. I turned the channel and saw similar good looking detectives in New York. Then I turned back again and found that the original detectives had been replaced by even fancier detectives in Los Angeles. It all seemed like a waste of time. Perhaps if they focused on a single city it wouldn’t take so long to solve those crimes. But I guess they like to leave you waiting and wondering like the morning news.

The 10pm news finally started and it turned out the handsome evening newsman with the slight smile was not as serious as he first appeared. In fact, he stood in front of an electronic map (probably that damn Doppler again) and pointed to Santa Claus’ current location somewhere between the United Arab Emirates and Saudi Arabia. The newsman then said, Santa’s making a quick stop right over here. But based on his flying speed of about 200 miles per hour he and Rudolph will arrive in San Diego just in time for Christmas Eve!

I couldn’t believe my local news had the audacity to broadcast such blatant lies. I figured that I had probably heard the news wrong; we all know Santa wouldn’t dare drop off gifts in Saudi Arabia and risk religious persecution. Then, at 11pm another newscast aired and they repeated the same exact story. Perhaps the law should be involved in this matter.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

Community college is the best bargain around, especially during the summer semester. For less than fifty bucks per course you have the opportunity to gawk at lotion-glazed coeds and learn from an instructor who has a life outside of academia. Well, let me go into a bit more detail about the coeds. They are tanned, sweaty and you can actually see their ass cheeks smile—do you know that semi-circle crease located where a woman’s thigh morphs into her ass? This work of God is revealed at least once every class period, usually by a shameless student wearing single striped short-shorts popularized years ago by Chrissy on Three’s Company…fucking unbelievable.

But to be honest I am not necessarily taking classes for the girls or the lectures. I’m here taking French II because I don’t have shit else to do. I’m broke and unemployed.

I have a college education and I’m a few months away from an advanced degree, yet I cannot find work. I send resumes daily and even follow-up with a phone call in my white voice, but still no luck. Things have gotten so bad that I even did three hours of hard labor just to have money for a full meal and a DVD rental. Yep, I had my black ass in the hot sun helping the friend of a former professor load her moving truck…all for forty damn dollars.

Thankfully, a small monthly stipend from my work earlier in the year as a teaching assistant covers rent and utilities. But as far as luxuries like supersized McDonald’s value meals or two-ply tissue, I go without. Never mind extravagances of the rich such as a full tank of gas or a monthly haircut. Good to know afros are coming back in style.

Back to French class. This morning I have my first oral presentation with my study partner Clarissa. I “happened” to sit by her the first day of class and in the weeks since we’ve flirted through elementary French phrases and also talked of skipping class to hang out at the beach. I find her attractive, sexy even, though I cannot say she’s beautiful. But neither am I. We are just fives or sixes in the eyes of most. Both of us scrawny and flat, both of us capable of attracting others—just not the beautiful people we desire, both of us fairly smart—but not particularly gifted in anything, both of us waiting for the other to make a move.

I suppose I’d jump Clarissa’s bones if I did not have a girlfriend whom I believe to be The Girlfriend. I want to remain faithful, even though she and her unadulterated pussy went back home to Bahrain for summer vacation. So my fantasies about Clarissa, including the reoccurring mental porn where she rides me as only the thin girls can, cums first and then finishes me with her smallish mouth—will remain dreams unrealized.

The oral exam starts off well. We proceed through our rehearsed dialogue as the instructor, an elderly Lebanese woman, looks on in approval. Then Clarissa throws me off. She pulls some advanced level French sentence out her ass, leaving me unable to respond coherently. I say only “merci.” Then I say again, “merci.” After thanking her twice I realize she’s not giving me a compliment, but is asking a question. I panic under pressure and say the first sentence that comes to mind, “Clarissa est très chaude,” which in English translates to “Clarissa is very hot.” Actually, it’s not a direct translation from English to French and would probably mean Clarissa is literally hot, as if she is wearing a down jacket in the French Riviera. Besides, I bet the romantic Frenchmen tell women “your beauty is like of that of a sparkling puddle outside the Louvre museum” or some corny shit like that, anything to get that hairy European muff, anything besides the overused “you’re hot” line.

Clarissa loses her calm. She attempts to say something, but the students’ laughter overwhelms her voice. Defeated and afraid of what else I might say, I catch the instructor’s eye to let her know “no more” or for that matter “non plus.” Clarissa and I go to our desks. I say, “That wasn’t so bad, huh?” Red with laughter she says “You spoke well.”

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

THE JESUS FREAK This person posts a number of Bible verses, all of which pretty much say the same thing. “Jesus is cool, hell is hot—you choose where you want to go…bitch!” Well maybe not like that, but you get my drift. But what makes the Jesus Freaks cool is that the minute a storm comes, or better yet a natural disaster the “end of days” posts come one after another. And they get pumped up about it too! “Told y’all muthafuckas to pray, Jesus is coming back! SMH *speaking in tongues*” The next day when they find Jesus has delayed his return (He had some carpentry work to finish), they post a Gucci Mane video and commence plans for sin on Saturday and service on Sunday.

THE REGULAR FREAK A person with this Facebook persona has likely been banned from the site and had to register again under an assumed name. In fact they were also banned from Myspace. Yet they still post risqué pictures and status updates that read “You ever suck a man balls off?” Then horny people like me check the page out and see pics of her with her young children of various races, including big Tyrone Niggasaki, Darius DeWayne Horowitz and little Abdul-Abdul. Then, I admit, I try to hook up with her anyway.

THE BUSINESS MAN NIGGA I AIN’T BUYING NO GOD DAMN PREPAID LEGAL SERVICES! SHIT! I realize I have no room to talk regarding this category, considering I often try to sell my book on Facebook but damn…Listen, I haven’t been in trouble, but if I were to I don’t feel completely comfortable having a lawyer from Prepaid Legal Services show up. Something makes me think that he might come to court with a Chopper Suit on and start bragging about his online law degree. And that’s some shit Johnnie Cochran wouldn’t approve of.

THE 90’s CHILD Everyone has the friend that consistently post videos of 90’s music, alongside a status update of “Remember back in 1995…” When I first caught wind of this phenomenon I just thought “Oh yeah that’s cool. You can never hear enough Jodeci.” Then it started happening all the time and began to think “Shit I’m concerned. Maybe this man ain’t had a good day since 1992.” Then I finally got upset! Turns out I spent an hour watching all this person’s 1990s videos and ended up trying to dance like Bell, Biv, Devoe at the club…alone. Yep, I was out there drunk, trying to do a three person dance routine by myself—like a damn fool.

Well I’m sure there are at least a few more Facebook personas out there. But in the interest of time (party about to start in the Wal-Mart electronics section), I should go. Feel free to comment and add something else. Most importantly, don’t get mad and try to beat my ass. I am just an internet gangster who would not dare say this to anyone’s face. Much Wal-Mart love to you. Holla.

-Dewan W. Gibson aka The Wild Gremlin: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

Told that cat not to drink Henny!

I tend to adopt a “try anything once” attitude when bored. Past exploits have included sticking my hand in a ceiling fan and adding voiceover play-by-play to my favorite porn clips. But recently I decided to grab life by the elephant tusks and attend a Tax Enough Already (TEA) protest in Oceanside, California.

I arrived at the event and nearly chickened out minutes after parking my car. Something about integrating a sea of angry white people felt dangerous. Not to say I’d be completely comfortable around a couple thousand angry black people, but I could at least be sure the police would be there—ready and willing to use excessive force at the slightest provocation.

After a long 15 minutes I decided to step out the car, albeit with precautions. I gathered my digital camera to identify potential attackers, a mobile phone to call 911 and tied my trainers extra tight. I figured if all else failed I’d Usain Bolt away from the ruckus. After all, you never know when chants of “NO MORE TAXES!” can morph into “NO MORE NEGROS!”

I finally made it down to the amphitheater and felt relieved. Yes the crowd was all white, but they were all middle to Larry King age white people. Basically the Walker, Texas Ranger demographic.

I approached the various booths staffed by political candidates and t-shirt salespeople hoping to strike a friendly conversation with someone. The future leaders and political hacks occasionally smiled my way, but after a quick scan of my black and gasp—young Barack Obama like appearance—they quickly turned away.

In fact Christine Rubin and her staff, who is a candidate for California’s 77^th Assembly District, flat-out ignored me whenever I came within five feet of them. What a shame considering that as my potential district state representative I wanted to hear her ideas. Now I will forever know her as the candidate with Social African-American Anxiety Disorder (Full Disclosure/Update: Mrs. Rubin did send an excuse and gracious apology after my rambling email criticizing the snub).

Conservative radio host Rick Roberts kicked off the event with an enthusiastic welcome. While I do not share his views, I must admit that Roberts has a great voice for radio and television voiceovers. Somebody get this man a gig on Family Guy! Now I wish I could remember more of what he actually said, but the surrounding anti-Obama posters stole my attention. Right-wing artistic creativity was on full display with effigies of President Obama that included the term “thug” or the more descriptive term of “Chicago thug.”

Outside of being offended it also struck me how “thug” has become a 21^st century euphemism for “nigger” among closet racists. Have a look at any online message board that features a controversial black athlete or entertainer and you are bound to see the new “it word.” In fact, ESPN no longer allows the term on its website. Interestingly enough it is also the term that TEA Party founder Mark Williams used to describe President Obama in the video below. Sorry I forgot, he actually said “an Indonesian Muslim turned welfare thug and a racist-in-chief.”

Even the First Lady was posterized. I can handle the lampooning of Barack, but Michelle should be off limits. Her main job is to hug foreign dignitaries and make sure Barack doesn’t wear those high-waist Jessica Simpson jeans again. Leave her out of the political shenanigans.

The event continued with an appearance by Congressman Darrell Issa. Representative Issa, a pudgy shiny-haired man of Lebanese descent and just a couple shades lighter than our “socialist leader,” seemed hurried in his statements. Actually, he seemed a bit like the occasional weed smoker who accidentally stumbles into a meth party. Getting high is a thing many of us know and maybe even enjoy, but smoking your teeth out is a bit too far over the line of innocent youthful discretion.

Issa simply couldn’t match the amount of hate in the crowd. He tried to raise his voice to drive home a few points—he even threw in a joke that’s not a joke about Obama—but when it came time to put his mouth on pipe and suck, the man bitched out. And I think he knew it. Minutes after Issa left the stage I spotted him making a near sprint for the exits.

The event dragged on with a very detailed health care speech from Dr. Gary Gonsalves, founder of Stop Taxing Us. Outside of audience banter by host Rick Roberts and a rotund lady next to me who kept yelling “Stay away from my children!” in response to Obama’s plan to address the nation’s schools, the crowd’s energy seemed to drift.

California gubernatorial candidate Chelene Nightingale tried to add energy with screams about “losing our freedom,” but she was outshined by an even angrier audience member. Apparently he did not agree with Nightingale’s claim that she was the American Independent Party’s pick to run for governor and he let her know. Sounding like Apostle E.F., the heavy man with the sweaty beard shouted “That’s a lie! You were not picked by AIP!” Eventually the police took his big ass away without force.

The event was soon over without a major ruckus. While a significant portion of the attendees seemed outright racist, most of the attendees’ views seemed typical of a party out of power—conspiracy theories and unsubstantiated rants about losing their country. They never said what specific freedoms have been taken away under President Obama or put a dollar amount on their alleged higher taxes, simply because the data does not exist.

As the evening ended I even began to understand the frustration that arises when your party is not in power. I thought back to my anger with George W. Bush and remembered wishing that he had choked on a slightly larger pretzel. I even fantasized about Condeleeza Rice wearing those thigh-high boots in front of Vice President Cheney, hoping she’d disrupt his unreliable ticker and take out evil doer number two.

Yet, I never ever actually wanted them dead and I believe the overwhelming majority of conservatives feel the same way about President Obama. Well, at least until he proposes immigration reform.

-Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

This is the stringy taco meat I mentioned, yeah chest needs a little work.

Last week I began my quest to become an internationally known underwear model featured in the JcPenney catalog. Though it has only been seven days since I committed to this goal I have already completed four intensive workout sessions and eaten obscene amounts of colorful foods. I understand I have a long road to travel, and at times I might get distracted by hookers at rest stops, but I can see that my destiny is near. Not “see” as in literally “see,” but I can kind of visualize like that blind guy that was on American Idol.

Obviously a goal of this magnitude will take more than working out and eating healthy. In fact this process may include laser tattoo removal and a scrotum lift, in addition to networking with industry snobs. Yet, just as Jesus turned water into a gallon of Carlo Rossi I know that with faith all things are possible.

I am fully aware that I am not the best looking man. I give myself a 6.5/10. Let’s start with my positives: a bushel of soft taco meat on my chest and an ass like Prince (exit only). As for my negatives: a crooked hairline that can’t seem to recover, a skinny face that messes up an otherwise strong jawline and eyes that are extra tiny and only open if I have some ass in my face. Still I have written a book without being a particularly talented writer and managed to teach at the university level without any actual teaching experience. In short, I have a history of overachieving and doing things that are way out of my league.

I know a person or two (only 5-10 people read my blog) might say “Why the JcPenney catalog?” My reasoning is simple, yet profound. JcPenney represents classic Americana, and like the nation as a whole JcPenney’s is a bit down right now. So in my own creative way I am making a contribution to my country, albeit while wearing tight fitting (BUT VERY MASCULINE) underwear.

I assume the three people that bought my book are wondering if I’ll continue to write, despite being an internationally known underwear model featured in the JcPenney catalog. Of course I will. Writing is like an ex-girlfriend who you had a rocky relationship with, perhaps you even gave her gonorrhea and stood her up at prom because at 28 you felt too old to attend. Still, she is always there for you.

Lastly, I would appreciate your well-wishes (save your prayers for those nut-jobs protesting healthcare reform). I will be sure to post continual updates on my blog, including pictures of me bench pressing Asian women. Take care and always remember “The world would be a much better place if ignorant people learned to pull out in time.” Best wishes.

-Dewan W. Gibson

Trying at least to start the move-on process, I relocate from the drab sliding-door-entrance apartment to a proper bachelor pad equipped with air conditioning and a balcony. Then after receiving a promotion at the community health center, I, like many young black men who focus on image instead of building wealth, decide to purchase an expensive depreciating asset as soon as possible. After having my eye on a Chrysler Crossfire for almost a year, a two-door, futuristic poor man’s Porsche, I take the plunge.

Calling around to a few car dealerships in search of my dream ride, I find a year-old Crossfire at a large suburban dealership. Within thirty minutes I’m there in my beaten-down Nissan sedan with the Tijuana paint job and the stereo that shuts itself off and on when the road gets too rough. Armed with a blank check from a reckless financier, I test drive the two-seater and feel my potential for new women grow exponentially.
While not a Ferrari, which offers a cash-back warranty to drivers who don’t see a marked increase in the number of available sex partners, it is a fitting car for a now single and somewhat successful young man.

After an hour of refusing special paint protection and unlimited warranties, I hand the check over to the dealership and progress begins. The college degrees I earned in the easy
majors and the moderately hard work I’ve done over the past few years have come to fruition in the form of a V6 engine and angular styling. Never mind that it does not have back seats and is designed in a such way that the driver can’t see out the rear-view mirror, or that it once flipped over as the dealer was exiting the highway, leaving a slight nick on the roof. This car is change.

Finally, I drive my new ride off the lot. I recklessly coast down Interstate 15, disregarding the danger inherent in speeding over one hundred miles per hour. I pull off and onto the
highway, strolling through mini-malls and shopping plazas, hoping someone sees me cruising in my self-importance.

Considering that in my family, the purchase of a new car has the importance of the birth of a first-born son, I pull over and call my dad to tell him the good news. His enthusiasm
approaches that of an overpaid twelfth man whose team just made a comeback in game seven of the NBA finals. “What! They let you drive it off the lot already! You gotz to be kidding me. Damn!”

After a month of enjoying my new ride, I take a quick getaway trip to Phoenix. The driving portion of the trip lives upto my expectations. The early morning desert highway is empty, giving me the chance to speed past tumbleweeds and peculiar roadrunners. I pass through parched and impoverished towns surrounded by decaying nothingness and I wonder how people live in such conditions, until I see a Super Wal-Mart that could probably feed much of sub-Saharan Africa.

Five hours later I’m in Phoenix. While trying to find my hotel, I stop at a fundraising car wash held by evangelical teens. The female disciples flirtatiously admire my worldly asset as they wash and shine. One girl says, “Are you from Los Angeles
or something?” “Nah, just down from San Diego. L.A. can be a little too much sometimes.”

I want to continue the conversation, not out of law-breaking lust, but out of curiosity of how she supposedly found God at such an early age. But my questions and criticisms could keep me there for hours, so I move on. The hotel is actually more of a resort. Typical of hotels in the Phoenix and Scottsdale areas, it includes golf, tennis and
enough old white people to fill a Wayne Newton concert.

Browsing the grounds, I find a bike trail and other amenities I couldn’t care less about. But the room has a Jacuzzi bathtub and a bed much softer than my IKEA mattress. Compared to the hostels and living-rooms I’ve slept in, this is a five-star resort. I call up a female friend who lives in the area, in the hopes that she’s able to hang out. I met Andrea a few weeks earlier when she was in San Diego for her sorority’s conference. Since then we’ve had at least two long phone conversations per week. She’s recently out of long-term relationship that left her with a young daughter, so we’re able to discuss our ex-partners without the usual apprehension.

She is not a typical sorority girl: a blonde who refers to oral sex as a “BJ” and sees a lesbian experience as a college rite of passage. Andrea is actually a thick Latina who works full-time as a correctional officer to put herself through school and raise her young daughter. She sounds startled that I actually drove down as I said I might. I ask her to dinner, but she’s scheduled to work most of the night and probably can’t find a babysitter on such short notice.I don’t force the issue, considering my spontaneity could be her inconvenience. I tell her, “Don’t worry about it. I’m only a few hours away; we can catch up some other time.” But she gives her word that she’ll try to trade shifts. If she can’t, she’ll try to see me the following morning before I hit the highway back to San Diego.

In the meantime, with nothing planned, I drive around the city and go to the mall, where I sit around and have lunch while watching a diverse mixture of Mexican cowboys and
hip yuppies browse the stores. I try to brave the scorching heat to visit the outdoor shops, but even with the sidewalk mist fans, it’s unbearable. Somehow the native Arizonians carry on as if their breath isn’t being sucked away by the triple- digit temperatures.

I go back to the resort and while I’m taking a short nap, Andrea calls. She’s at work, but is getting off early. Not knowing my way around the area, I ask her to meet me at one of the restaurants I found at the mall. I dig through my book bag for an outfit that’s hip and weather appropriate. I find nothing. Foolishly expecting cool nights similar to those in San Diego, I packed The Blazer, an army of button-down shirts and an old dressy t-shirt I was planning to sleep in. In desperation, I iron the shirt and discover that it looks less worn than I thought, so I throw it on with a pair of dark blue jeans. I’m back at the mall with an hour to spare to find a nice restaurant that won’t break my brittle bank.

Thankfully, when Andrea arrives, there’s no she-beast surprise. Just as I remember, she’s of average height with a round playful face. Her child-bearing hips easily allow one to guess at what’s behind. A tribal tattoo stretches from the small of her back to her waist.

I try to appear as confident as I did the night we met and greet her with a strong hug. We walk to our table and I nudge her chair a bit even though it’s already pulled out. She says,
“Ah, thanks. You’re so nice,” as an older sister would to her little brother.

We order drinks before selecting a fancy Mexican dish. During dinner, we talk just like we have on the telephone. With the stress of school, a busy workday and raising a child, it seems she never has a chance to vent. Seemingly impressed with my listening skills, she goes on about her daughter and her job. I put on my interested look, nod my head and say “Whaaaatttt” every thirty to forty-five seconds.

Enjoying the ease of drinking beer and listening, I try to deflect questions back to her whenever the conversation turns to me. But she continues to probe. “So do you always just travel around alone and just show up places?”

Sounding much more interesting than I really am, I answer, “Yeah, you know, sometimes you just feel like getting up and seeing something different. If you wait for friends you’ll be waiting forever.”

She then asks, “Are you only staying here for the night?”

Instantly reevaluating my travel plans I say, “Well, it depends. The resort is nice and it seems cool here. I wouldn’t mind staying an extra night.”

After nearly two hours at the restaurant we reach that awkward moment when someone, usually the woman, decides to extend or end the date. I make the offer.

“The resort place I’m staying at has a bar. There’s mostly old people staying there, but it looks nice.” Obviously, after seven years of studying communication, my persuasive skills still are not refined.

“There might be a bar near here, but I’m not sure.”

“Okay. You want to try to find it?”

“No, let’s just go back to your place.”

My place? I don’t own a thing here and got the room on a priceline.com discount, but tonight it is, in fact, my place. Andrea leaves her car at the mall and rides with me to the resort. I get the door for her and watch her sink with surprise into the almost-floor-level passenger seat. As I get in the cockpit, she says, “Wow, this is really … it’s a really cute car.”

I want to tell her that “cute” does not accurately describe a car with a powerful V6 engine and an automatic retracting spoiler. How about calling it “dangerous,” “sexually aggressive” or just plain old “off the chain?” Instead I answer, “Yeah, I like it. It’s cool because it’s strong and it rides pretty good.”

She just nods her head in agreement.

Sitting close in the compact car, we are quiet on the ride to the resort. Well versed in easing tension through alcohol, I tell Andrea, “I think I brought a bottle of wine in my bag. It’s not the best stuff. Well, it was on sale at the grocery store, but I’m sure its okay.”

Laughing, she says, “Let’s just drink that instead of trying to kick it with the old people.” The room has few seating options so we both end up sitting on the king-size bed. Over-enthused with the way things are turning out, I break the cork in half while trying to open
the bottle. She laughs at my lack of dexterity and soon we’re drinking sediment-filled wine out of plastic hotel cups. Between sips she moves closer to me and I return the favor to take up the last six inches that separate us. I sit there for at least five minutes, frozen and unsure if her hints are really hints. Thinking “The hell with it,” I make my move.

The hints were real. Andrea’s kisses move from my lips to my neck. She bites near my shoulder and I jump at the pain that doesn’t feel as good as the movies make it appear. I toughen up and come even closer for more.

She whispers in my ear, “I wanted to fuck you as soon as I met you.”

What the hell? Occasionally women have told me I’m “cute.” But as far as wanting to have sex with someone as soon as they’ve met, that’s reserved for the too-cool muscular guys who speak in hushed tones. Women are more likely to date me for a while, laugh at me when we finally get undressed and look for that previously mentioned muscular guy when they get tired of bumping against a sack of bones. But I don’t argue with Andrea.
We continue kissing and move across the bed so her legs hang off, spread and folded at the knee. I struggle to remove her jeans and she starts pushing and kicking playfully as I pull.
After a few strong tugs her underwear comes off with the jeans. Bush…lots of bush. She could cornrow that shit if she wanted.

I do a three second condom on penis maneuver and I’m soon inside. Less than a minute passes and I already know I can’t last. To regain my composure I withdraw and let her
ride on top. I still can’t hang. I grip her waist tightly to stop her movement and try for another change of position. I say “I wanna get behind you.” She replies, “You might hurt me with that.”

She’s lying her ass off, but at least she knows how to boost my ego. She stays on top and I release in a fit a spasms. Sorry, but that’s how I get down, short and intense. I’ll leave
the marathon sex to the porn stars. Afterwards we lie and watch television in uncomfortable embraces. She tells me that she has to pick up her daughter from the babysitter and should be on her way. I let her know that I’m staying an extra day and hope to see her before or after work tomorrow.

After driving her back to her car, I contemplate finding a bar to hang out at, but decide to take full advantage of a long sleep on the comfortable bed. On the way back from the mall I notice that the dashboard lights are dim. I turn off the radio and air conditioning and speed back to the resort, thinking that my battery is being drained by the extreme temperatures. I sleep for a few hours, but keep waking up with the hunch that something is wrong.

Thinking the car might have overheated, I go out to check on it in the slightly cooler late night. It powers on without a struggle, but the dashboard lights are still dim. Knowing little about cars besides how to drive them to the mechanic for service, I panic. Afraid to drive in the daytime temperatures and of the possible risks of overheating, I decide to make a run for it. It’s around 5:00 a.m. I pack my stuff, check out of the hotel and get straight onto the highway, hoping to make it back to California’s cooler weather before I end up stuck in Arizona. After about three hours on the road, the car is still running smoothly. I get a call from Andrea to meet for breakfast. I casually break the news to her that I’ve left. “I’m on the highway not too far from San Diego. I ended up leaving early…”

She doesn’t even give me time to explain. Click.

Thinking I lost the signal, I try to call her back, but there’s no answer. Well, I fucked that up big time. So much for weekend trips to Phoenix once a month. In my anxiety over the whole situation, I start to fool around with the numerous knobs and buttons in my car. I come across a rotating lever near the headlight switch. I turn it one way, but it seems to have no effect. I play around with it some more and see the stereo faceplate brightening and then dimming. Oops, I’m a dumbass.

I guess it’s cool that my car has an inside-light dimmer. But it’s not so cool that it ruined things with Andrea. I try to call her back once again, but I don’t even get a ring this time. The call goes straight to voicemail. I start to leave a message. “This probably looks bad, but my car …” Sounding dumber by the second, I hang up before going through the details. Shit.

Alright, I’ll stop lying. Maybe I did look at a few emails I shouldn’t have while at work. But what working man doesn’t have at least a few titties and a couple of asses on his hard drive? It’s not like I’m running wild and banging my co-workers. Well, I’m not anymore.

I go upstairs to meet the HR director. I try to walk in calmly, as if I don’t have a care in the world, but nervousness causesme to scratch the top of my head. I take a seat and the woman in charge greets me with a smile. This could be trouble. I’ve seen her enough times to know that she turns red when she smiles for real, and right now she’s Nordic white. She leans forward in her executive chair, preparing to throw a verbal dart. I blank out, as I often do at work, and stare at her short hairdo. It’s extremely well kept, without the use of product. She has great Afro potential. If she were black, she could be on a level reached only by Julius Erving and Angela Davis.

“So, how are things? Are things with your staff going alright?” she asks. Shit. I need to snap out of it and say something semi-intelligent. “Oh, yeah. Things are going fine. Recently I’ve been trying to develop a more focused outreach strategy for staff, so we’re targeting areas that are most likely to come to us for services.” “Well, that’s good you’re able to provide them with direction.…Well, Dewan, the reason I wanted to meet is to discuss Karina, the medical assistant at the East County clinic. Are you familiar with her?”

I think, “Hell, yeah, I’m familiar with Karina. I hit that a few times.” Instead, trying not to smile, I say, “Yeah, I know Karina.”

“Well, are you aware that she’s expecting a baby really soon?”

“Yeah, well she was definitely pregnant the last time I saw her … the last time I saw her in the office.”

“Well she has said that … apparently, you are the father of her child and are refusing to acknowledge this. She’s talked to quite a few of her co-workers and the word has gotten around. I was just wondering if everything is okay with you.”

That bitch. Not that it’s right to hit a woman, but Karina deserves at least a chop to the throat.

I try to keep my response short, sweet and not to the point. I reply, “I’m doing fine.”

“But as far as the situation with Karina …”

“I’ll be honest. Karina and I had a relationship. We just kind of knew each other from the office and it went from there.”

“Well, it’s not against our policy for employees to date, but when the relationship starts to affect the workplace, it becomes a problem—for everyone involved. So what’s this matter about a baby?”

“Well, I’m not the father of her child.” Talk about sounding like a stereotypical Negro.

“So is she just making all this up?”

“Yeah. She even told me herself that I’m not the father. Look, I don’t want to talk bad about her, but she lives with some other guy in Tijuana. She even said that he’s the father.”

“Well, then, why would she go around saying all this?”

“I guess she just feels bad because we were kind of dating. Or maybe she really did think that before. I don’t know. She’s says a whole lot of things. We don’t really talk anymore, so I can’t really say what she’s thinking.”

I’m not sure that HR is buying this. Any second I expect to get that speech where they tell you that even though you do great work, you’ll need to pack your office and be escorted out the building.

I continue, “I’m just trying to move on now. I’m seeing someone and I want that to work out. I’m not mad at Karina about anything, but I just wish she’d stop saying things that aren’t true.”

“Okay. I’ve heard about this sort of thing happening before. You have to realize that as a successful young man you’ll attract a lot of attention, sometimes from people who don’t have the best intentions. I mean, look at this place; for the most part it’s only women who work here. ”

I think, “Yep, I’m well aware of that.”

Feeling overly sorry for myself I say, “Yeah, I know. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Obviously I was thinking about that ass and those titties and the chance to lose my born-again virginity. But I don’t need to say all that.

“Well, okay. I just wanted to see what exactly was going on.

I’ll still need to let Brenda [the CEO] know. We’ll need to keep a record of this in your file.”

“Okay, well, I guess there’s not much I can do about that.”

Hallelujah—and I’m not even saved. Never mind retaliating against Karina, I just need to forget this mess before I end up broke again. I’m sure to some extremely horny or tragically lonely people sex is worth forty thousand dollars a year, but losing my job over Karina—hell to the no!

I hit the highway from San Diego and arrive in Los Angeles about two hours early for my interview. With time to spare I hang out in Little Ethiopia and have lunch; lamb chunks and brown curry to be eaten East African style, without the aid of utensils.

The dish is well worth the $12. It tastes rich, even a bit sweet. However, five minutes into the meal my guts begin to get upset. I don’t feel as if I’ll immediately need to go to the bathroom, but I know if I continue to eat I’ll set myself up for a boo-boo burn. In case you’re unaware, it’s when you eat the wrong foods, do a number two and afterwards your asshole feels like its on fire. I mean it’s a real burning sensation, as if you just wiped with a cayenne pepper. Anyway, back to the story. I pack up the meal and leave.

Since “The Young Turks” is taped within walking distance of Little Ethiopia I end up roaming the streets in search of a beer to settle my stomach. Unable to find a bar open at 2pm I stop in the Sizzler. I stay for about 90 seconds, too many old people here. While seniors are cool and I like how they always appear to be chewing despite not having food in their mouths, I’m ashamed to get an afternoon buzz in front of them.

I finally end up at a Mexican restaurant surrounded by worker bees and a few tourists. With an hour to spare before the interview I grab a table and throw back three Newcastles. Despite the discouraging statement from the waitress who after the second beer says “You no get food?” I enjoy the time to get mentally prepared for my internet television debut.

I make my way to the studio slightly buzzed where I am greeted by Associate Producer Ana K, and her tits. Believe me man, her cleavage is impeccable. Between her breasts is an open space of only 6.5 centimeters. If the space was any wider it would set off my silicone alert, any narrower and it would seem she’s trying too hard. Who knows…perhaps she does fiddle with her bosom before work, placing her gifts in the perfect position, sort of like the great Aaliyah would do when she wanted her bangs to cover her left eye.

Wake up man! Ana opens the studio fridge and asks if I’d like some water. I happen to spot a few MGDs looking cold and lonely, so I say “Oh is it okay if I have a beer?” Yep I know…give a Negro an inch and he’ll take a mile. Why? Because we’re still waiting on those god damn 40 acres.

Kind as can be, Ana obliges and leads me into the waiting room. I sit here sending texts to friends and asking them to log on and watch the show. I’m then called to set (for my people in Cleveland that’s Hollywood talk) and quickly make myself comfortable in the chair. I think “make sure you speak up.’ During an earlier radio interview my voice was too quiet and soft; I ended up sounding like a white-washed Snoop Dogg.

I take a seat behind the news desk with the host Cenk Uygur. Apparently he is in the running for a hosting job at MSNBC. Confident, possessing a booming voice and skilled in rhetoric I’m sure he has a more than good chance. Besides he has what all television personalities must have to achieve stardom…a large head. I thought my cranium was huge, but god damn! His shit made mine look like Bettlejuice from the Howard Stern Show. For a second he was rocking side-to-side in his chair while trying to organize papers and I thought “Come on man watch the dome, that boulder is dangerous!”

We start the interview and it flows much like a normal conversation. But keep in mind a normal conversation with me is full of giggles, stutters and space outs.

Nearly 15 minutes later my interview IS over (you can check out the video below). I walk off the set, met a good brotha named Jayar who’s also a producer on the show and make the two mile walk back to my car.

Outside of not plugging the book enough I feel good. Definitely had fun, host was easy going and everyone laid-back and polite. A post-show happy hour would cap the afternoon off right, but of course they have to work to do.

But evidently some the viewers don’t feel the same about my interview. Weeks later, after it was posted on The Young Turks Youtube channel it received a couple thousand views…and about 40 not so kind, but still hilarious comments. One guy called me Urkel, another questioned my heterosexuality, while someone else said I had no life experiences and lacked substance.

I guess my childish features led them to believe I’m not capable of partaking in stereotypical Negro acts, namely seeking revenge for the slightest disrespect. So what did I do? I sent a select few of the haters a personal email via Youtube. Not to talk shit, but just to let them know I actually read book reviews, interview comments and miscellaneous internet bullshit. My messages varied from “I’m the sexiest Urkel ever” to “If you call getting a lot pf pussy gay, then I’m guilty” and of course I plugged my book.

The following morning I get a Youtube message back from one of the culprits. He wrote something like “No disrespect brotha. You gotta have a lot of brain power to start teaching at 22. But you still got that Urkel look.” I got to give it to him that was a pretty good joke. Now if I find a picture of him…

And get this, another one of the haters replied with a fairly long email listing six reasons why he KNOWS I’m secretly gay, including: The title of my book, because I left a smiley emoticon in the earlier email, because I have a nervous giggle and some other stuff I’d expect to hear from Ms. California. Then he proceeded to talk about how in communities of color there are a lot of down low men in churches and so on. (He must be a big Oprah fan). Finally he ended his message by saying it’s “probably not really you writing me anyway.”

My responses remain calm as we go back and forth for a couple emails. Eventually he quasi-apologizes and wishes he would have “pressed delete instead of send.” I plug my book to him and explain that if I were gay I’d be out the closet and extra fabulous. I close the message by writing “purple is my favorite color, Coldplay is my favorite band, I happen to like fashion and I even leave J in my emails…this doesn’t mean I like men.”

Educate, educate, educate. Everyone reading this please do me a favor and take the time to NOT ignore the ignorant. Well, with that said…a girl has to run. Oh my God! I need to get my toes did after yoga class and make sure I get home in time to watch “Dancing with the Stars!” And the Lady Gaga concert is this weekend!!! Chow!!!