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Archive for September, 2009

Lamar Odom on Getting Married

September 30th, 2009 27 comments

“I finally met the one that I knew if I had lost her, it would hurt the most.” -Lamar Odom on marrying Khloe Kardashian

I have not kept up with the gossip behind the marriage of Lakers Lamar Odom and sister-of-someone-more-famous, Khloe Kardashian. Nor will I start. But the above quote will resonate in my head long after the news stops following these two newlyweds.

Is what Odom described all I need to feel for someone in order to walk down the aisle? Someone break it down for me, because this is either the smartest thing I’ve ever heard or the dumbest. It’s so good, so bad, so surface, so deep, that I can’t even write right now. Maybe later today.

But until then, discuss in the c-section (aka comments) and please, no soapboxing on the gossip, just the quote at hand. Thanks.

Categories: on something, quick posts, quotables, women Tags:

On Toothbrushes

September 29th, 2009 5 comments

Today is a short post because I exhausted most of my creative energy on a more pressing matter.  Check out my article on, “The Beating of Derrion Albert Is Must-See TV”.

A quick thing about toothbrushes:

Beyoncé says, “If you liked her then you should’ve put a ring on it.” I say, If I like her, she’ll get her own toothbrush and if she likes me, she’ll give me one too.

The ring can wait.

Categories: quick posts, women Tags:

On Holding Hands

September 28th, 2009 40 comments

There is no public display of affection more intimate between two people than hand holding.

A woman and I can get caught having sex in a public place. We can make out on a street corner for all the world to see. We can hug so closely it looks like we’re dry-humping each others brains out. I can put my arm around her, grab her ass. She can lock her arm into mine, lick my neck. We can do anything we want to one another in front of people, or in places where people can see us, and none of it necessarily means we’re in a relationship. Sure it may be implied, but most of the acts I just mentioned prove my woman and I are nothing more than two lustful freaks who can’t find a room, or maybe don’t care to find one.

But holding hands? In public? That’s like Valentine’s Day — for couples only.

The truth is, holding hands is the ultimate semblance that two people are not only together, but happily so. Couples kiss mad, hug mad, have sex mad, but hold hands mad? Oh no, they don’t do that.

Holding hands is what we do with the person we like the most at the moment we’re happiest with them. To hold hands with my woman in private is to say, I’m here and I’m glad you’re here too. To hold her hand in public is to say to anyone who sees us, She’s with me, I’m with her, and yes, we’re getting along just fine.

I’ve believed this to be true since childhood.

When I was growing up, my Mom and Pop fought a lot with each other. In my house, screaming and yelling was the way we communicated and though there were a lot of good times, laughter always seemed to share a room with drama or tension. But when I think about those 11 years they were together, the times I look back and smile about the most were the times when the two of them were holding hands.

To this day, I remember all the drives in our family caravan; my sister and I in the back seat, Mom riding shotgun, and Pop handling the wheel. Everyone’s eyes on the road in front of us. And maybe it happened as we were all talking and laughing, mostly it happened when a song came on the radio or the car was quiet, but whenever it happened, it went a little something like this:

Mom, or Pop, in their respective seats, eyes straight ahead, not looking at one another. Mom, or Pop’s, forearm planted on their arm rest for support. Mom, or Pop’s, palm opens in the small space between the van’s two front seats. And then, Mom, or Pop, does the same thing with their forearm and places their hand into the other.

I’m here and I’m glad you’re here too.

Sometimes they would do this in public.

She’s with me, I’m with her, and yes, we’re getting along just fine.

Categories: dating, on something Tags:

Late Apologies: To My Readers

September 25th, 2009 3 comments

Dear UIGM Faithful,

I am so sorry I let the whole day go by without a fresh post. For once I had a full day away from the computer. It won’t happen again, and if it does, I will do my best to let you all know in advance.

Until Monday, here’s a fresh piece that ran on O.G. Henry Louis Gates’ Internet home,, entitled. “Jay-Z and Oprah Make Lemon Pie.” You should be seeing my name a lot more frequently over there, and I will definitely keep linking to the new pieces I contribute there as well as any other places my byline appears.

Once again, apologies for no post today, but enjoy the article and thank you for all your support.


Categories: late apologies Tags:

These Guys

September 24th, 2009 53 comments

These guys who go on and on about how they can’t find a woman? Where are they? If anyone knows them, please make sure they get this.

These guys. What’s wrong with them? A good woman is hard to find, my ass. If I hear one more guy complain about not being able to find a good woman, I’m going to open a store where men can order balls because obviously they haven’t grown a pair of their own. The idea that a man, in today’s society, actually has a problem with finding a good woman is not only ridiculous and short-sighted, it’s dare I say, a bold-faced lie men deploy to get the sympathy of more women.

These guys, who complain about not finding a good woman, just aren’t trying hard enough. Too much talking not enough action. Women are everywhere, high and low, big cities and small towns, clubs and bookstores, outside and inside. Everywhere. Unfortunately, these guys,  who say, “Man, where are all the good women at?” are probably screaming this question from their mother’s basement. They live in the same place where they grew up all their lives, and all the women they want have either left or aren’t interested anymore, because they already tried to get together in high school once and it didn’t work out.

These guys, who complain they can’t find a good woman, are lames. Yeah, I said it. Lames. Not because they can’t find a good woman, but because they can, and they have, but only have done so by lying to women about how they haven’t found any good ones. They’re lame because they want to place the blame on women as to why they aren’t in a relationship, when really it’s their own fault. Their problem is not being unable to find a good woman, their problem is finding too many good women — at the same time.

These guys need to stop sounding like these women who complain about how they can’t find a good man, because when push comes to shove, the women have a much stronger case. I have always said, there are a lot of women out there, no matter what type of woman a man likes. Asian, Black, Brown, White, it doesn’t matter, the world has more women than men, so by default, these guys shouldn’t have a problem. I’ve seen guys with one arm, one leg, one eye, walking down the street with women who have two arms, two legs, and two eyes. Half a guy with a whole woman.

These guys are just like me but want to act like they aren’t. In my lifetime, I have found good women by accident, and trust me, I’m no rock star, no athlete, no model, no Obama-like man of prestige. But I am a social animal, who has traveled the world, lived on both coasts and visited cities in between and in my travels, women have been as constant as the sky above.

But I am not writing this post to help these guys. They don’t need it. What these guys need to do is stop complaining about not being able to find a good woman, because there are more good women then they can imagine and either they know it and front like they don’t or they don’t know it and need to step up.

As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what all of these guys need to do. Step up.

Categories: guys, women Tags:

On Liking A Girl

September 23rd, 2009 20 comments

Ever think about the difference between the person you like now and the first person you ever liked?


Her name started with an “R” and she was the only girl I liked the entire year of second grade. When I told my Pop about her, he just looked at me and said, “I’m gonna tell you this once. When you really like a girl, you can’t eat. You can’t sleep.” In other words, be careful. But I wasn’t.

I didn’t care.

She was pretty, with no makeup on, cause she probably wasn’t allowed to have any. No body to speak of because we’re in second grade. Who has a body in second grade?.  And her hair was always pulled back. Never really done. So really, it was all about the girl’s face, which was the complexion of the Cocoa Puffs I would eat every morning. Except her skin was shiny and my Cocoa Puffs weren’t.

We had the same class, and in that class, the students sat in groups of four. Her group was sitting at the table behind me, off to my left-hand side.

So what I used to do is get to class early and leave a picture I drew. I couldn’t even draw and I still can’t to this day, but I think I was just trying to make something nice for her since my allowance wasn’t enough to buy anything. Except for candy. But what kind of child buys candy and saves it for the next day?

I would scribble “From Jozen” on the pictures, put them face down on her desk and leave them there for her to see. When recess would come, she’d come up to me and say, “I saw the picture you left for me. I liked it.” And I’d say, “What picture? I didn’t leave a picture.” Then, I’d run, grab a basketball and go play  a game of 25.

Eventually, I copped to all the pictures I drew for the girl who’s name started with an “R”. Eventually, she said she liked me. Eventually, we held hands once. And eventually, one of the other girls who sat at the same table as the girl who’s name started with an “R” tapped me on my shoulder and when I turned around, she pointed to the girl who’s name started with an “R” and when I looked at her, she mouthed the words.

“I. Don’t. Like. You.”

For a while, I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat.


I’d like to think that being with one person for the rest of my life is a testament to my maturation as an adult, but really, anytime I have ever liked one woman and one woman only, I’m acting like my second grade self.

So I don’t draw pictures anymore.

Instead, I just walk up to her and say, “What’s up?” If she likes me too, she says, “Hi” and smiles. She has a great body. She has a great face. Her hair is done. Most of the time. She is waaaaaaaaaay smarter than a second grader.

Sometimes we like each other for a long time. But sometimes we like each other for one night. And she never mouths the words, “I. Don’t. Like. You.” Now, she texts them to me, or sends them to me in an email. Or, my favorite: Tells me straight up to my face, loud enough for anyone within earshot to hear.

Good thing I don’t  like her as much as the girl who’s name started with an “R”, which is not to say I like her less. It’s just that, well, speaking honestly, I’m not in second grade anymore.

I grew up. The naivete is gone. When I was young, in second grade, I only liked one girl. Now, I like a lot of girls, sometimes just one at a time. Sometimes at the same time.

Don’t get me wrong. There is nothing like the moment when you like someone. But now I’m careful like my Pop’s told me to be. There have just been too many nights where the only thing I want to eat is a sleeping pill so I can get to bed and not think about some woman who’s name starts with some letter.

So now when I like a girl, I eat. I sleep.

Categories: women Tags:

Things a Man Can't Do If He Gets Caught Cheating

September 22nd, 2009 25 comments

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I originally wrote this post a year or so ago, when I was at VIBE, but since then, I’ve gained a lot of new readers. Since I have writer’s block today, I decided to unearth this post originally titled, “It’s Like Moving Mountains.” Enjoy!

Let’s talk about cheating. Or even better, let’s talk about what happens when a man gets caught cheating.

Ideally, if a man gets caught cheating, the woman will leave him. But realistically, this won’t happen.

In my experience and the experiences of a few others with whom I’ve spoken, a woman done wrong doesn’t just up and leave. She wants to try to “make it work”, regain the trust they’ve lost. She loves him. She wants to forgive him. Or, worst case scenario, torture him with guilt.

Meanwhile, the man is stuck with a woman who no longer trusts him and rightfully so. Besides the constant worry of the woman flipping the script and doing us wrong like we did her, we must also adjust to the new rules of a relationship torn by infidelity. They are as follows:


This probably deserves a sub list filled with movies that can be accurately described as infidelity movies, but I’m not going to make that list because guys know them. What I will do is list the two genres of film where infidelity is most likely to occur. 

  • Feel-good Romantic Comedies: In order for their to be a happy ending in a romantic comedy, there must be a sad middle, which usually consists of a man doing something he shouldn’t be doing.
  • Movies Where the Woman Is Cheating: If you’re is still dating the woman youcheated on,never ever let her watch one of these wacked out films where the female character is feeling all liberated and wants to hit every dude in sight because she’s bored with her relationship or mad at her man or some other crazy reason. In other words, never let your woman see Unfaithful, because she probably already has, and if he’s lucky, she forgot all about it.

As a matter of fact, don’t ever even be on time. Be early. Just be early and ask her why she’s running late. This takes the attention away from you. The day you run late for something as small as dropping off a pair of socks she forgot at your place, your woman will start acting like Bill Duke in Menace II Society.

In the beginning, most women have a pretty good disposition towards us men making second glances at another woman. They understand that just because we’re on a diet doesn’t mean we won’t look at a menu. But once we’ve been caught doing some dirt, it’s best if we avoid all eye contact with another woman. Even if another woman is looking at you, don’t look back. Go tell on her to your woman.

Whether it’s your keyguard lock on your phone or your login password for one of these social networking websites, don’t even think of putting a password lock on your stuff or changing the old one. You should’ve thought of that the first time, homie. It’s too late now. Just live with the fact that your woman will always know your passwords for everything is your mother’s birth date backwards.

It used to be all you would have to do is check in with your lady and let her know, you’re going out with your boys. Then, as she became more and more possessive, you needed to do more than notify her, you needed to make sure you two didn’t have plans and she didn’t want to do anything. But ever since your woman found out what really goes down with your boys, you are now forced to invite her everywhere you go. This includes that bachelor party where the invite says in big neon letters, “Guys Only”. And there are no plus ones unless your woman is going with you. If not, it’s plus none, because neither of you are going.

Any other new rules, people? Leave them in the comments.

Categories: cheating, women Tags:

A Condom Dilemma

September 21st, 2009 16 comments

Last week, I had to make a quick run into my local CVS Drug Store.

There I was in the aisle where the condoms are, enclosed in a glass case right next to the pregnancy tests and right across from the pampers. As I was waiting for one of the store’s clerks to assist me, I looked in the case (why these stores always keep the condoms in a locked case in neighborhoods where the teenage pregnancy rate is out of control will always boggle my mind) and started to break down the choices:

I could get the three-pack of condoms for $4.99

Or I could get the 12-pack of condoms for $12.99

Or I could get the 36-pack of condoms for $18.99

Because I was in a CVS where bad service was the rule, not the exception, I had more than enough time to ponder which option was the best for me. But instead of using the price points to determine my decision, I was calculating the circumstances behind each purchase.


Best for the random hook-up, I thought. After all, who actually plans to only use three condoms? Nobody. That’s who.

The three-pack of condoms is the contraception equivalent of buying a loosie*. It’s for those of us who are not committed to the person we’re about to have sex with, nor do we have plans to be after the night is over. Much like the corner stores, 7-Elevens, and gas stations where three-packs are the preferred purchase, a three-pack of condoms are for those of us who want to be in and out, quickly. It should also be noted, I would never go to a drug store to buy a three-pack of condoms. The other stores I mentioned sell them at least a dollar cheaper.


Somehow, the girl with whom I only intended to use a three-pack, has managed to stay around longer than the weekend. Turns out, we actually enjoyed the random hook-up and we want to do it again, and again, and again, and again, and again. After buying my fifth three-pack, the math behind the 12-pack just made more sense.


Thirty-six dollars may not be a lot of money, but 36 condoms is a lot of sex with the same person if you’re not in a relationship with them. To wit:

I once told a woman I was sleeping with it was her turn to buy the condoms. We just ran out of our box of 12. When I went to her place that night and it was time for us to do what I came to do, I reached into the drawer where she kept the condoms.

Searching, with my hands, not with my eyes, I felt the condoms, but this time, they weren’t folded up in a small, manageable box of 12. My hands were feeling a sea of condoms, in a box the same size as one used to package old cell-phones. I thought, Damn, these are a lot of condoms. So many, in fact, when the girl and I were done using one of 36, I said to her, “Umm, are you planning on sleeping with someone else?”

“No,” she said. “Why?”

“Cause you bought 36-condoms, girl! Those can’t all be for me!”

We both laughed, but the truth in my jest was a box of 36 condoms is pressure. This is why only committed couples relationship should be buying the 36-pack of condoms, or as I like to call it, the Costco-sized pack.

Back at CVS, a sales clerk finally came over to me.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

Lost in thought, I didn’t answer.

“Did you need me to open the case?” she said to me.

“Umm, no,” I said, snapping out of my meditation on condoms. “My head hurts. Where’s your Tylenol?”


*For those who don’t know, click here for the definition of a loosie.

Categories: s#x, women Tags:

Foodie Calls

September 18th, 2009 40 comments

A few weeks ago, I was sitting in a coffee shop on a lazy Sunday afternoon, when out of nowhere a female friend of mine hit me up on Instant Messenger.

Female Friend: Whatchu doing

Me: Writing

Female Friend: How long are you going to be?

Me: I don’t know. Why?

Female Friend: Me and my girl are making some crab legs with Mac n’ Cheese. If you’d like, you can come over.

Me: Hell yeah. What time?

Female Friend: Umm, we’re still cooking, everything should be ready in like two hours.

Me: Cool. I’ll be there.

Female Friend: See you then

My God, I thought. This is better than getting invited over for sex.

What I would like these days, more than a woman to invite me over for sex is a woman to invite me over for a good meal. One that she made. Just for me. Sort of like my friend did a few weeks ago.

I want to get a phone call, at like 6:00 p.m. Not 11:00 p.m. I want the person’s voice on the other end of the phone to be a woman. I want her to say, “Hey, what are you doing right now?” When I say, “Umm, nothing. Chilling. Watching SportsCenter.” I want her to say, “You hungry?”And when I say, “Yeah, I was actually about to eat right now.” I want her to say, “Don’t. Come over. I’m cooking dinner.”

Now that right there is sexy.

To be clear, I still covet the random, out-of-nowhere booty call. Love them, as a matter of fact. So this is not to say the booty calls should stop. They should keep coming.

I repeat. The booty calls should keep coming.

But a phone call to cook for me? A foodie call? If you ask me, women aren’t doing this enough.

There needs to be balance. If a woman is down to share her body with me, she should be down to share a  cooked meal with me. And forget that rhetoric about how cooking is something reserved for boyfriends. Technically, so is sex. So why can’t I have both?

Most men would still prefer the booty call over the foodie call, but for me, most booty calls I receive nowadays get the Ignore button. Why? Because I’m hungry. A foodie call on the other hand, will not only be picked up on the first ring, but before she hangs up, I will be sitting at her table, fork and knife in hand. We can have sex for dessert.

Categories: s#x, things a woman should do, women Tags:

Stories: "She's A Virgin"

September 17th, 2009 45 comments

Tonight, I’m driving to the bar because my brother plans on getting shit-faced. Me? I don’t need to do any drinking. My internship is the next day and  I have the alcohol tolerance of a baby so with me behind the wheel, it’s best if I stick to my one can of Red Bull. Let the caffeine work its magic on me.

We get to the bar, see my brother’s friends, and he  immediately goes into everyone’s-best-friend mode at the bar, buying shots for anyone who so much as smiles at him. I’m playing my position, quietly scoping out the scene, sitting on a stool with a glass of Red Bull in my hand when out of nowhere, a girl walks up to me. I don’t know anyone in Queens, besides my brother, but I can tell by the way this girl is looking at me, I’m about to know her.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” I say back.

She then introduces herself, and I can’t remember her name, but I think Ms. Leading is proper. So Ms. Leading and I strike up the type of conversation two people have for the sake of feeling better about what they’re going to do later.

Meanwhile, my brother is doing a great job of getting drunk. Actually, he’s doing a superb job, mixing his clear liquors with the dark ones, accepting drinks from other people and not caring in the least bit what’s in them. He has, on his hands, the perfect storm brewing.

As I float back and forth between Ms. Leading and other random people at the bar, I hear a loud thud outside on the back patio. I run outside. My brother is passed out on the cold concrete of the patio, done for the night. Time to get out of dodge and get him home. Ms. Leading follows me outside. I turn to her and say, “Looks like it’s time for me to go. Want to come with me to get my car?”

“Sure,” she says.

I tell my brother’s friends to get him to the front door while I go get the car. Ms. Leading walks lock-step with me to the car, which is about two blocks away from the bar. On our way, Ms. Leading and I say little, because we know what’s about to happen when we get to the car, and sure enough, before I can even turn the keys into the ignition, Ms. Leading leaps onto me, and starts tonguing me down. Ten minutes go by, windows fogged, but because my brother is inebriated to the point where he actually might get arrested, I pump the brakes.

“We have to stop,” I tell her as she’s biting my bottom lip. “But look, just come back to my place.”

“I can’t ” she says. “I’m here with my best friend and the rest of our girls celebrating a birthday.”

“So,” I say. “You’re not here with your mom, I’m sure they’ll let you go.”

“Yeah, but they talk, and I don’t want to hear it from them.”

Frustrated and annoyed, I stop Ms. Leading from unbuckling my belt. “I need to go get my brother,” I say. I pull out of my parking space and drive over to the front of the bar where my brother is standing on a wall outside, near the entrance, with his head down. Is he taking a piss in public? No. Okay, he’s letting the wall hold him up. Ms. Leading gives me her number, which I toss in the ashtray soon as she walks back inside, and I get out of the car to help my brother, who I throw in the back of my car.

About to pull off, when I hear Ms. Leading yell, “Wait!” I roll down my passenger side window and she leans in with a smile. “Hey,” she says. “I can’t find my friends, so is your offer still good?”

“Get in,” I say.

Ms. Leading gets into the seat and we’re off to my brother’s apartment. My brother passed out in the back, and Ms. Leading in the front, this time, free to unbuckle my belt for the short drive back to our destination.

When we pull up to the apartment, I need Ms. Leading’s help carrying my brother up to the apartment, which is on the third floor of a walk-up. Once inside, I throw my brother on his bed and go into the living room to set up the fold-out bed. With the bed set, I toss Ms. Leading one of the big rap t-shirts I got for free at my internship.

“This is for you,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says. “You wanna help me change?”

At this point, I know exactly what’s about to happen, so I turn out the light, close the door behind me, and climb right on top of Ms. Leading. Everything is going exactly as planned. The kissing is intense, the grinding is even more intense, and my goodness, her moans. I remember those like the last song I listened to on my iPod. They were loud, real loud, to the point where I was actually concerned my brother, passed out from numerous shots of 151, would actually wake up. Nowhere else we can go but all the way, so I pull out the condom I slid in the pocket of my basketball shorts.

“Wait,” she says. “I can’t.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“We can’t go there,” she says.

I go back to kissing her. On her neck. On her shoulders. On her breasts. The kisses  being planted on her body like if I applied just the right amount of pressure in just the right spot, I’d unlock her legs. I’m kissing. I’m hoping and now…I’m stopping.

“I’m a virgin,” she says.

Now, I’ve heard some reasons from women. Some good. Some not so good and this one was neither of those. This was either a bold-faced lie or the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.

“Hey,” I say. “You know, nothing is going to happen that you don’t want to happen. We can stop right now, but don’t lie. Why would you say that?”

“No, really, I am,” she says. “I’ve never even done this much. But I really am.”

Now I’m disgusted.

“Okay, first, I don’t believe you.” I tell her. “Second, even if what you are saying is the truth why the hell would you come to the apartment with two guys you don’t even know if you weren’t planning on losing your virginity tonight?”

Ms. Leading looks at me like I just asked her what’s the meaning to life. “I don’t know,” she says shrugging shoulders.

“Well, I’m sorry, I still don’t believe you,” I say to her. “But like I said, that’s just dumb and I’m just going to go to sleep, you should too. It’s late.”

The next morning, I hear my brother in the kitchen and with Ms. Leading still asleep, I get out of bed and see him cooking up a storm. There’s sliced apples, cinnamon sticks, and a bowl of pancake batter. My brother, who has an uncanny ability to recover from drinking binges like Wolverine recovers from injuries, is making apple-cinnamon pancakes from scratch and wearing a toothy grin.

“Well, look who it is?” my brother says as he reached out his fist to give me some dap. I knock it away.

My brother stops mixing his batter and says, “No, what happened?”

“Nothing,” I say, leaning against the counter.

“Bro, get out of here. Nothing?”

“Nothing. She’s a virgin!” I whisper.

Just as I say this, the door is opening. My brother, with the reflexes of a cat throws the apples and cinammon sticks in the refrigerator and the bowl of pancake batter in the oven then runs back into his room. Ms. Leading comes out, changed into the same clothes she was wearing last night.

“You ready to go?” I ask.

Ms. Leading smiling, kisses me and says, “Yeah, let’s go.” On our way out the door, she asks me, “Is somebody cooking breakfast?”

“Not here,” I say. “Must be the neighbors.”

On the way to her place, she’s at it again, this time, grabbing at the elastic of my basketball shorts. “Stop,” I say.When we pull up to her complex, she kisses me again, on my cheek, and says, “Call me.”

Ms. Leading’s number never left the ashtray and I drove back home to eat my brother’s apple-cinnamon pancakes.

Categories: Uncategorized Tags: