Dayum, Dayum, Dayum James

Over the past few weeks, part of my after-work ritual has become watching Good Times on TVOne. I’m actually surprised at the number of times I’ve laughed and also at the amount of social issues it attempted to cover. But there is just one thing so distracting that it sullies the experience of the Evans family in Cabrini Green

This is My Confession… (no E.Lynn)*

I have an admission to make that has been weighing on me lately and I’ve finally decided to come out of the closet address it publicly. I have watched Dancing With The Stars on 4 occasions this year. Pray for me. Jesus be a Nielsen box.

Do men actually watch this show? Let me rephrase that…. do STRAIGHT men actually watch this show? Hey, I know dancing is not a feminine activity. Hell, I just wrote about missing the slow dance a few entries ago. I am an appreciator of the fine art of dancing. I will have you know that I can’t even count the number of times I’ve watched Nelly’s “Tip Drill” video or the amount of money I’ve spent watching a terpsichorean move about a shiny metallic pole… I think her name was Mocha Delight. I have even promised my lady that I’d take salsa lessons with her on three conditions:

An Ode to my Foreman Grill

Imagine my surprise a few years back when I learned that the money George Foremen received to sponsor the now infamous Foreman Grill was one of the largest sponsorship deals in history. Yes, larger than Tiger Woods with Buick or Gatorade. Even larger than his Airness received with Nike. The only deal larger than Foreman’s is David Beckham’s deal with Adidas… ain’t it amazing what a symmetrical face will get one nowadays?? Though, I suppose it should surprise no one since he married a Spice Girl – whom every white man wanted to bone and every white woman wanted to be – and even Black women who vow to never date outside their race often caveat such assertions with “But that Beckham could get it. I’ll show that Brit how to bend it…”

Naturally, like all things that have an enduring popularity, I swore never to

Those Poor, Poor Pirates

While on Facebook the other day, I came across a couple status messages referencing the recent kidnapping and rescue of an American from Somali pirates water thugs. While seeing such rubbish on Facebook in and of itself isn’t necessarily a surprising development, what was surprising was the ridiculous, pervasive sentiment that can be summed up as “yeah yeah, but think of the pirates.” And to that I say, think of deez nuts.

Much like unicorns and soul mates, pirates are fantastical creatures. They conjure up an image of

The Obamas Made Me Do It

The way our new President has blitzed all forms of media with his message is an action unrivaled in scope by anything, except perhaps the p@rn industry on the Internet. He has been omnipresent like Rick Ross in MTV Jams videos, and as such, none have had to fill in knowledge gaps when it comes to what direction Obama is attempting to move the country. You turn on YouTube? Obama. You turn on your TV to catch your favorite primetime sitcom? Obama in an evening press conference. You go on Facebook? Message from Obama n’em. Hell, even my cell phone was getting hit up with text messages from the Obama. He’s working off the old tried and true adage that if you say it enough times, people will believe it.

My quandary is that the media blitz has hit overdrive with nitrous oxide boosters like an Asian kid’s car in a Fast & Furious remake. And since reaching these heights,

Slow Dance

My brother, who is ten years my junior, has often heard my laments about how present-day R&B music has gone the way of the dodo bird – South; like so far south it’s in China or Hell, depending on your view of China. More specifically, the death of the “quiet storm” R&B song has caused the death of one of a teenage boy’s tried and true wooing tactics – the slow dance. It has fallen out of vogue just like the use of the word “woo” to explain the courting of a girl. By the way, “court” is out of vogue too.

So imagine my surprise when

4 Degrees of Separation

The number of social networking sites out there makes for some interesting interactions with people you’ve long forgotten about or who’ve long forgotten about you. I will admit to succumbing to occasional fits of boredom or curiosity to Google or Facebook some person from my past, like the girl in my 9th grade math class whose friends laughed at me when I gave her a Valentine’s Day “will you be my girl?” note (she’s married, no kids, and has a body like a bag of bowling balls – thank God she rejected my offer) . Quite honestly, I have yet to reconnect with someone that resulted in us being fast friends all over again. It usually results in playing the

Legumes and Fibers and Pears, Oh My!

Recently, the news, magazines, and talk shows have been replete with warnings against the dangers of foods high in trans fat and LDL. These ominous declarations have us all looking at the back of boxes and containers assessing just how bad those Oreos are, how much sodium is in Kung Pao chicken, and how much saturated fat is in Fergie’s Botox’d bottom lip. I’ll even admit that I’ve gone online to check the calories in my favorite beers, and cringed like a gay dude at mismatched drapes when I discovered

I’m In Love with My Wii Fit Instructor

I know, I know. It seems odd. But ’tis true nonetheless. I am in love with my Wii Fit instructor. Hey, I’m just as shocked as you are; it happened so unexpectedly. I bought the Wii Fit because my lady heard it was all the rage and was actually beneficial from a fitness standpoint. It has those yoga poses that she’s been dying to try, but too self-conscious to

Puzzled

I recently encountered a situation that left me a bit speechless. It’s not so much that it happened, but it’s the HOW it happened that leaves me puzzled like a 1000 piece picture of a rain forest.

So what happened? “I got hollered at.” Now, that in and of itself isn’t all that dumbfounding because it’s not as if I look like Jimmie Walker. But it is out of the ordinary for three reasons: