Tatted Up! Lloyd Banks
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Arts
If I was a member of G-Unit and wrote lyrics like “Slow down punk nigga don’t exceed your speed/Cus I’ll put G’s on your fitted like the Negro leagues/I got connects/I don’t need no weed/I been in LA for a year now, so I don’t see no seeds” I supposed I could have a cool tat like the one below. But I’m not, so instead I’ll occasionally post others who do such as MC, Lloyd Banks. BTW check out his V5 mixtape, one of my favorites of the past year on hiphopdx.com. (NOTE: I’ve featured mass dudes on this blog for the past two weeks or so. I hope to have a new Dewan’s Top Model very soon. But right now, my shit is played out so I’ve had nan submissions).
Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
Complex Magazine Mentioned Me?
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Arts
Well something like that. I was browsing through Complex Magazine’s website and got to the street detail section, where the editors choose hipsters and hypebeasts to discuss their style. “Flo-Writer,” one of the guys chosen in Oct/Nov, mentioned that the last book he read was The Imperfect Enjoyment by you know, that one skinny looking big head kid. The guy who also writes this blog that a few special people read, the guy who once wrote about luxurious benefits of using the bathroom in Nordstrom’s. Damn man! I’m talking about me! The pic from magazine is below and you can read the Complex piece here. NOW IF COMPLEX WOULD JUST FINALLY REVIEW MY BOOK!!!
Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
Tired of People Being Against Abortion, But For Lower Taxes. Somebody Gotta Pay for Those Babies!
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Social Comm
Dude, Where’s My Camera?
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Arts
I was walking into the grocery store when I met this interesting young man named Johannes. Though some would find it a bit strange I struck a conversation and then said “Hey man, fro looks cool. Mind if I get a pic?” I just figured if you have a camera why not take pictures of people besides yourself and inner circle. And no, there was no need to end my question with “no homo” or “exit only.” Geez people!
The pic below is called “Try it This Way” by Morning Breath, who judging by his name is the Ol’ Dirty Bastard of the art world. I saw this print on the website of Juxtapoz magazine, www.juxtapoz.com, and figured it would look cool in my boring, yet comfortable apartment. So I copped it for about $40! (Obviously not an original). Peace.
Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
A Dirty, Dirty Death
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Social Comm
1980s: Marcus Perry showed it to me and I waved myself calm with a Japanese hand fan. Prince told Apollonia to purify herself in Lake Minnetoka; she did just that and polluted my mind. Mom and Dad left it in the VCR. Big brother Wayne said “When the guy gonna get on top.”
1990s: Crazy Nick had the largest collection in the Midwest. The whole crew went to his place and watched. Everyone pretended not to be a virgin. I couldn’t lie cus my voice was still high. Still everything was cool till Nick asked “I wonder what that taste like?” He was talking about him.
2000s: Found out it’s not like the movies. Found out I’m not like the movies. Dialup died, DSL was born. Redtube, Xtube, Pornotube. Fake amateurs, phony actors. Too easy, too available, girls gone too wild, too often. Internet lives, porn is dead.
Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
Wu-Tang Clan & Beatles Mashup
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Arts
Wu-Tang Clan + Beatles=A mashup/mixtape that gets press in the New York Times. I just listened to it all 23 tracks and interludes and it’s easily one of the top mixtapes of 2009-10. You can listen and/or download at Tea Sea Records and read an interview with the producer here (who happens to be a 28 year old music teach. Man, to be honest I would have definitely paid for this CD if it was out in stores. The magic of free music! Enjoy.
Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
The Simple Relationship Guide For People That Text and IM Dewan Gibson (aka D-Weezy aka Bruce Leroy) With Relationship Questions and Shit Like That
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor
People are always asking me for relationship advice. While I appreciate the honor I find myself saying the same things over and over again. So here you go: “The Simple Relationship Guide For People That Text and IM Dewan Gibson (aka D-Weezy aka Bruce Leroy) With Relationship Questions and Shit Like That.”
Tip #1: NO GAME NEEDED, JUST SAY…
If you see someone you are interested in simply say “Hello. How’s your day going?” Look at that! A five word open ended question. If the person responds with an evasive “It’s going well” ask for details. It’s actually no different than holding a regular and comfortable conversation with a friend. Let me show you. Here’s an actual conversation with a friend via a Facebook wall posting.
Rachel Kai Samonne
Whadup Bruce Leroy ;)
Dewan W. Gibson
I’m doing well. Got this leave in conditioner that has my hair glistening 12 hours a day. It makes my forehead shiny, but that’s OK as long as I remember to wipe it at 8am and 1pm. I’ll be in Cincy on 2/20 to shoot the s**t with a bookclub. If u know any book clubs in Cleveland please send the word. If they read my book I’ll come in town for a Q&A , I even bring my own liquor. Besides that I’m working on a rendition of “Fair Eastside” cus I hear BET has a fake American Idol show about to start. Oh yeah, I’m co-authoring a book w/Joe Clair from Rap City! Guess we’ll get started at some point. BTW tell my mama I said hi if u see her at the bar, she don’t return my calls that often. Guess she figures I might ask her for money. How are you doing? Kickin ass and taking names? Just wondering, are you wearing a fur since its cold in Cleveland? I know PETA is always trippin’ about that, but I figure there’s too many damn raccoons anyway. All up in Mama’s trashcans! U ever see that transsexual mayor from East Cleveland? I bet he wears fur. Well, let me know how you’re doing. Hope to make home around prom time. Nothing makes me warm and fuzzy like seeing young peoples in tuxes, chopper suits and “damn she can’t just be 17!” prom dresses. Well holla back. And remember you don’t have to do nothin’ in this world but stay black and die.
Isn’t that just magical? Do you see how I engaged her in conversation? Well, she has yet to respond, but that’s just because it takes times to process the richness of my comments. Imagine saying that to someone in person. Damn son!
Tip #2 BE YOURSELF
You’ve probably heard this since kindergarten and likely forgot as soon as you saw the cool kid with the Michael Jackson jacket and karate shoes get all the girls. Well fuck him. He peaked too early and he’s probably pushing carts at Target as we speak. Anyway, whether for good or bad just give a quick overview of your current life. For example, if I were engaged in an introductory conversation with someone I’d say something like the following:
“Hi I’m Dewan, but if you have trouble pronouncing black names you can call me Wayne. I enjoy watching Judge Judy and spelunking. Actually I’ve never been spelunking, I just like how the word sounds. I also enjoy writing semi-explicit stories with titles like “Virgin in the Bootyhole.” If we end up dating please be forewarned that I do atypical boyfriend things like disappear overseas for a month. So if this is going to work spontaneity is a must. Also, I’m not extremely good in bed, but I try hard and no matter what that whore told her friends, that’s all that matters.”
Dope huh? Short, to the point, and it sets realistic expectations. Besides, you’ll never have to worry about being someone else during the course of the relationship. Damn, with communication skills like that I might be able to get married by the time I’m 40.
Tip #3 READ BETWEEN THE LINES
Here are a few things people that are no longer interested in you will say, along with their translations. When faced with bullshit like this, cut your losses and post that person’s contact information on the “Casual Encounters” section of Craigslist.
-“I think we should take a break and see if we’re really meant to be. I just feel we’re both still growing and when I get to a stage where I can really be the man you deserve, maybe the time will be right.” Translation: I want to fuck other people. But if during these next few months I have trouble doing so, I will be sure to contact you.
-“These past few months have been hard and I’ve started to see things differently. I think I should move on and focus on myself.” Translation: I already started fucking someone else.
-“When we first got into this relationship we were so happy. Remember how it used to be? Now things have changed. I don’t know if we can ever get that feeling back.” Translation: I’m tired of fucking you.
Tip #4 JUST SHUT THE HELL UP SOMETIMES
I’m sure people with actual degrees in relationship therapy will talk about the need to communicate. Fuck that. Sometimes you need to shut the hell up. Imagine being with someone for a few years. You’ve heard all her stories and know what she’s going to say before she opens her big ass trap. And half of what she says in a complaint about something you’ve argued about fifty ‘leven times (that’s Ying Ying Twins talk, sorry).
Just let the small things that you might feel the need to argue about pass. For example: You’re out and you catch your boyfriend looking at some chick’s camel toe. Chances are he just had a biological reaction to being within 15 feet of camel toe. In fact, he probably tried hard not to look and is not even attracted to her. For me, it’s like that time I saw an albino Asian dwarf. I didn’t want to stare, but my fight or flight reflexes kicked in and said “what the fuck is that!” So obviously I had no choice but to look. And if the albino Asian dwarf didn’t get upset, you shouldn’t get mad at little stuff that your partner is doing wrong.
Well, that’s it. I was going to write five tips, but I hate writing extra words to fulfill arbitrary limits. If you must, please continue to text or IM me with specific questions. I’ll be sure to make your complex problems seem incredibly simple, which will probably make you feel a bit silly for getting so emotionally invested in your relationship. Then you’ll listen to me for a couple days, but end up going back into your unfulfilling and tumultuous relationship. You will repeat this process for months and maybe even years. Then you die.
Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
Drinking Mountain Dew While Black
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Social Comm
Let’s get straight to the facts: An eighteen year old viola playing HONOR STUDENT was walking down a Pittsburgh street when three PLAIN CLOTHES cops jumped out of the car and tried to apprehend him for carrying a “heavy looking object,” which turned out to be a BOTTLE OF MOUNTAIN DEW! Not knowing who the three angry white men were, the teen attempted to run, at which point he was beaten so bad he had his locks pulled out.
Now, I’ve been in 2-3 scraps in my life and left one with a speed knot on my forehead (it was 5th grade, dude outweighed me by 50 pounds–tried to find him on Facebook so we can finish what we started but he’s not on there). That one speed knot left me a bit shook cus I was afraid the girls would no longer think I was short and cute like Webster if I had a second head growing. So I can only imagine the mental and physical pain this young man is going through. I say it’s at least 10-20 million dollars worth of pain. Better yet, let the thugs in blue doing a little time. See how much they like running up on people who won’t run away.
To read the full story click this link: CNN. BTW I had to add that pick of Halle Berry, cus the beating the police gave my boy is ruining the look of my blog.
Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
What’s A Wacka Flacka?
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Arts, Humor
When it comes to hip-hop newbies I’m more of an Emilio Rojas, Skent Dukes and Fashawn type of guy–you know, dudes that spend hours and hours crafting lyrics. But apparently Wacka Flacka is an up and coming new artist by way of Gucci Mane and OJ Da Juiceman (which has to be the most hilarious rap name ever cus it sounds like he’s selling a product on a late night paid program).
But what’s not so hilarious is that Wacka got shot this week. Thankfully he survived so the least I can do is give him the obligatory post-shooting press usually reserved for more established hip-hop stars.
I checked out his music on Youtube and I must say…I really admire how Wacka is able to squeeze every little drop of rap talent out his body to make a living for himself. And I really mean every little drop. “Shoot a nigga in the strip club and bone a hoe on stage” rap really ain’t for me, but he’s doing his thing so check out the vid below. Better yet, check out the pic above where he looks like a big ass tattooed deer/OJ Da Juiceman’s big uncle. HOLD ON, MY BAD! JUST FOUND OUT WACKA FLACKA’s name is actually Waka Flocka Flame. So this post should should actually be titled “What the fuck is a Wacka Flocka Flame?” (Special emphasis on “fuck” due to the silliness of his name). Peace y’all.
Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
Sasha Grey, PETA & Kelis=Dirty Thoughts While Watching Paid Programs
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Dewan's Top Models, Social Comm
I admire PETA’s passion, but sometimes they go a bit overboard. They fronted on R&B singer Kelis for wearing fur, she struck back with a hilarious yet common sense letter, and then they publicly called her a gold digger. Though I’m ultra liberal on a lot of issues, I’m a bit more moderate when it comes to the killing of animals. Without going to a lengthy discussion of my ill-formed policy I summarize it as: use what you need, but don’t go overboard. Obviously we haven’t yet show the propensity to do this, but I’d like to see some sort of happy medium between PETA and the fat ass who eats a cow a week at Mc’Donald’s. On another somewhat related note I saw Denzel “Black Jesus” Washington kill a cat in the Book of Eli and then read about the uproar from intellectual elites who were appalled that such a scene could be shown in a movie in which DENZEL’S CHARACTER IS LIVING OFF THE LAND AFTER A NEAR APOCALYPSE!
Anyway, back to my original reason for even bringing up PETA. They released an ad encouraging feline birth control featuring actress/porn star Sasha Grey whom I profiled in an earlier blog post. So after all that mouthing off I finally get to the point: Sasha Grey, the Lebron James of the porn industry, is in a new PETA ad. Damn, can’t believe that took so long. Enjoy the pic of Sasha above and check out my earlier post for a video of her on Tyra. Check out Redtube.com if you want to see her at work. Hold on, you know what…now that I’m looking at these PETA provoked pictures I’d have to say f**k Redtube and all that crazy ass porn, the picture below of Kelis is off the chain! Damn I sound like a perv, but it’s 1am on a Friday night and I’m sitting on the couch blogging/watching a paid program selling Dean Martin DVDs.
Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
Jodeci & Wu-Tang=Best Hip-Hop/R&B Collab EVER MAN!
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Arts
Before they were passing out on stage, getting cracked out and exposing themselves in front of middle school concertgoers, Jodeci was the shit. I still don’t know what Mr. Dalvin contributed to the group, but who cares, nothing wrong with a silent member. Anyway, put on your black Timbs and black jeans–no shirt needed and start your Friday night w/Jodeci featuring Rae and Ghost. Peace.
Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
Facebook Stalker Alert: Man in Spandex Tank Top
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor
A friend mentioned some guy in Spandex was trying to hit on her via Facebook. I didn’t believe her so I asked her to send his username, and voila! There he is, wearing a goddamn Spandex tank top. Problem number 1: Men should wear tank tops sparingly, maybe during a basketball game or when vacationing abroad cus amazingly that shits permitted in a few countries outside the US. But it should definitely not be worn in a Facebook default pic by a guy who looks like he should be singing lead in an O’Jays tribute band. Problem number 2: When tank top is worn, said tank top should only be made from cotton, not leather, Spandex or any combination of that sort. Problem number 3: Unless you are playing stick ball in the barrio never, ever wear a tight ass choker chain with a tank top. What the hell is this n***a thinking! Oh, in case you’re wondering he didn’t get the girl. Peace, and I hope I don’t get swung on for posting this pic. I have no idea who the dude is, but I’m sure he’s…interesting.
Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
Finger in Her Booty
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories
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
RZA’s Victory or Death + New Mona Lisa
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Arts, Humor
I’ve mentioned how Rza from Wu-Tang is one of my favorite artists. In addition to having one of the coolest accents/speech impediments in world history the man is arguably hip-hop’s number one producer OF ALL TIME . After branching out to acting he has now entered the arena of fine art. In collaboration with When Art Imitates Life RZA created a remake painting of Emanuel Leutze’s “Washington Crossing the Delaware.” To make a long story short he added Ol’ Dirty Bastard and Gza to the painting and retitled it “Victory or Death.” I hear there are hidden Wu symbols in the painting (Jay-Z/Rihanna conspiracy theorists don’t bring that bullshit over here), but I’m nursing a hangover and don’t have the will to look. Anyway, RZA’s entrance into the fine art world inspired me to create my own piece. Check out my remake of “Mona Lisa” titled “The Wild Gremlin.” It features some strange looking black dude.
Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
Tijuana Nights
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories
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
Favorite Facebook Updates
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor
Here are some of my favorite status updates from the past six months or something. OK, gotta get back to work on my free mixtape/mini-book coming soon. Peace.
Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
Watching the football game. Crazy that Omar Epps has time to star in ER and coach the Pittsburgh Steelers. Man I’m so proud of him for becoming the blackest coach to win the Super Bowl…he’s come a long way since “Juice.”
At a pool party. Some dude here has on a short sleeve turtleneck and huraches. Not Nike Air huraches, but sandle huraches.N***a are u hot or cold! Not that I can talk about style considering I’m growing a rat tail. Gotta run DJ playing George Michael.
Still in vegas:Just ran into Kendra an old friend from college at the mall. That was cool, but I hate running into ppl on hangover days wen I’m ashy, showerless, wearing beach trunks a XS tank and a murse, breath is just horrendous, hair dried up and in need of a conk, deodorant residue on my bicep, last nights buffett… btwn my teeth and taco meat on my chin. Time 4 a shower.
I hate the phrase “REAL TALK.” The term “FAREAL,” especially when spoken by a black person with a high-pitched voice, is more than sufficient.
The morning news just promised “breaking news” 2nite at 10pm. How do they know? Shouldn’t 10pm breaking news be something that happens at around 9:55pm? Pranksters…
Big time gig interview coming up, but this cold has made my powerful, hypersexual eyes red and teary. So, during the interview should i wear shades or go with the one eye patch and suit look? Walmart has a sale on the patches.
If I put as much effort into obtaining a traditonal career as I do towards having fun, I would prb go far. Maybe even become CEO of a black hair care company like Just For Me Gentle Relaxer for Girls. But life is 2 short to give The Man a third of ur day. “Invest, hustle, spread good vibes, play hard.” –Gandhi
Left Cleveland this morn. Had a chance to see my Great Grandma who’s about 122 years old and used to date Frederick Douglass. Just got to Vegas. Any recommendations for a Wed nite club? (preferably someplace that plays Das Efx and/or Fu Schinckens)
Two Xmas related events that I have never seen: A black family who actually celebrates Kwanzaa and a lucky person who gets a brand new Lexus wrapped in a giant bow on Xmas morning.
“Drive safe”=Good sensible advice, since we can control how we drive. “Have a safe flight”=Makes no sense, since we can’t control if the plane crashes. From now on I’ll say “I hope you chose a safe flight!”
Just seasoned up this pot roast. Gonna let it marinate and cook for a few hours. Then gonna make sweet love to it while listening to “Make it Last Forever” by Keith Sweat. After it digests I’m heading to the club smelling like the most powerful pheromones
I’ve found going commando does wonders for my man print. Now if I could only find those white linen pants! Off to the bar…lawd please let the DJ play some Keith Sweat.
Breakups are the worst! Was only able to sleep three hours…woke up buck naked in the fetal position. Mama said I was sensitive.
Reviewing proper eating etiquette for some fancy work dinner. Please don’t let them serve chicken wings as an appetizer…
Maury “Iceberg” Povich is a pimp. The man hires women to make out with men suspected of cheating and films it with a hidden camera! He calls thems “sexy decoys,” but only cus u can’t say “hoe” on daytime TV.
Nas has to pay 51k per month in child support for one kid! If that was me I’d put the little man to work like Joe did Michael and have him pay me back. BTW if ur rich just wear a condom all day. Put one on with ur draws in the morning. 51k to a mom that has her own job and “Milkshake” money. Crazy!
Just saw a brotha on the news that robbed somebody for a ham sandwich. Damn, we gotta stop going crazy over pork and white women.
Was handling business in the library bathroom when the dude in the next urinal said i look like Tevin Campbell. I hate the phrase “no homo” but he prob should’ve said it… or at least “exit only.”
Went to 50 Cent’s meet and greet at the mall, but turns out there was a catch. To meet him u had to buy a bottle of his cologne that costs $68! Come on man…we all know that ur cologne ain’t nothing but Johnson’s baby powder mixed with rubbing alcohol. Neeegro please!
Never be cheap when buying lotion. Instead of the usual Lubriderm Advanced Therapy Oatmeal Lotion, I bought a Wal-Mart bottle that just says “Lotion.” I tried to use it to de-ashinate my problem areas (ankles and feet) and it all it did was make my ash shiny. S**t left me with alligator feet! Guess I can 4get about wearing those huarache sandles.
Talk about no regrets, Tyler Perry’s dad said this to him abt past abuse:”If I had beat your a** one more time you probably would have been Barack Obama.” LOL, well not LOL cus that’s messed up. But SMH with a slight grin.
Camping out at KFC 2nite, they’re giving out one free grilled chicken leg in the morn. First come, first serve. If anyone cuts me in line we’re fighting like Tupac and Clarence So Fine in that episode of A Different World. Come join me, line getting long already.
Working in a group and I’m the one with the laptop that takes 10 mins to start up. Screen is full of lint and fried chicken crumbs/hairs (pubes?) are btwn the keys.
Difference btwn today’s R&B artists and the old school singers: Usher’s ex keys his car–he calls 911. Al Green’s ex throws hot grits on his bare ass and kills herself–he just puts on a little cocoa butter.
Man, that Dr. Oz show sure is something special. At first I didn’t trust him cus he looks a bit like Jeff Goldblum in “The Fly,” but then he did a testicles segment with such grace that u would’ve thought he was discussing the common cold. If u care about ur balls watch his show.
Age can be hard on us men. At 30 we finally get r lives straightened out but then our schlong goes crooked. I’m cool being a lil to the left, but I hear u get a full on U-turn at age 60.
Bad day so far. Put my hands in the ceiling fan out of curiousity and bruised my ashy knuckles. Then had to drop a load at the grocery store, but the physically retarded guy (disabled is so 90′s) had the good stall. Man its hard being black.
Had a great workout today–mainly just abs. Gonna finish it off by bench pressing Asian women. Man I’m feeling real strong right now, just might fly to ATL and go 12 rounds with NeNe.
Sexting: I’ll Show You How to Do This Man!
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories
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
Broke Man Thangs
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Social Comm
Six months ago I quit my 8-5 “real job” as HNIC at a health care organization to…well, I don’t think I actually had a plan, but it had something to do with “focus on writing.” Since that time I’ve traveled a bit (blunts and brownies in Amsterdam, tracksuits and beer in England), watched a lot of daytime TV (don’t fuck with Steve Wilkos), written some cool stuff (blogged and guest blogged), promoted my book (cheap ass negroes always wanna borrow and not BUY a copy), masturbated in three hour intervals, argued with and choked my girlfriend, visited bars thrice weekly, did a little consulting work and started writing a free mixtape style book to be released when I damn well get ready to put it out. However, for about the past two months a brotha has been broke. But surprisingly it has not been that bad. Why? Because I’ve adjusted to doing “broke man thangs” such as:
- Using earwax as face moisturizer
- Asking friends if they need a ride and then charging their asses gas money once we get there
- Calling my old job and saying “Merry Christmas. When are the W-2s being mailed?”
- Calling my old job and saying “Happy New Year. Where the fuck my W-2 at?”
- Mixing ramen noodle seasoning with water to create salad dressing
- Choosing a different bartender with every drink in order to spread the pain from my no tip policy
- Wiping my ass with cotton balls after running out of toilet tissue
- Turning movie and dinner dates into Redbox and go to sleep with hunger pangs dates
- Washing dishes with hand soap
- Putting black tape on my car dash so I don’t see the engine light, the gas light, or the broken blinker light come on
I’m sure I’m not the only one struggling out here. Well, I guess I should hit up Craigslist for a new job or to sell some ass. Be easy, let’s get this money man!
Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
A Big Ass Welcome Back
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Dewan's Top Models
I’ve been out for the past week with the flu and a slight case of the Monkeypox. I’m a still a bit high off the meds so I figured I could use a pick me up. Thankfully, a friend sent this vid courtesy of Worldstarhiphop.com. If left me thinking, when seeking a woman a pretty face is really not that big of a deal if said woman has an abundant amount of jiggle. In fact, not only is a pretty face unimportant, but having a face at all also now seems of little significance. Damn, I know my former Women’s Studies profs are gonna hate me if they read this, but you get my drift. Check out the video below.
Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
