My White Castle Romance

I wrote an essay about my "White Castle Valentine" and read some of it for my appearance at Gelf Magazine's Non-Motivational Speaker series. Here is that excerpt ...

It started very innocently. I read a post about a White Castle Valentine’s Day promotion on Gawker, a NYC media and gossip blog I was contributing to, and left a comment indicating how the news caused me to experience a small orgasm in my mouth. I subsequently blogged about it on my own site and figured that would be the end of it. But not long after posting I got an email saying, "If you have a contest to win a White Castle date with T.A.N., I’m so there.”

Hmmm. My mind raced with possibilities, but I knew I’d need reinforcements. So I passed the email on to one of the Gawker editors and told them if they were interested, I was game. They jumped on it; and next thing I knew a couple photos, setup posts and days later I was choosing the “Win A Date with TAN” contest winner. Her name was Rachel: white, graphic designer, and according to her, in possession of a booty that made guys stop on the basketball court. And yes, she had me at "booty that makes guys stop on the basketball court."

Now who knew you’d be able to use the words “media buzz” about an ironic White Castle Valentine, but over the next couple days the promotion and contest were mentioned in the NY Times amongst other papers and websites. On Valentine’s Day I was getting text messages and phone calls from people I hadn’t heard from in years, all wishing me good luck with the “White Castle chick.” It was surreal.

But at that point in my online life, Surreal and I were good friends. We met in the fall of 2005, soon after I started blogging, and quickly became close. Fact was my whole dating life had transformed into some type of new media reality show — one with no producers, cameras, or television slot mind you — but all based on the premise of me exclusively dating people I met through my blog for about a year and a half. I imagine Mark Burnett would call it “Beauty and The Blogger,” or “Romancing The Blog,” or “For Negro or Love.” Some such thing.

Now this wasn’t a conscious decision mind you, I never solicited for dates, or posted about my personal romantic life. I was coming out of a long-term live-in relationship and had zero experience with online dating. So who knows how it began; maybe it was my oft-mentioned prep school pedigree; or the avid peppering of prose with parenthetical “hollas”; maybe it was because I showed more than a little love for alliteration; or maybe this was just status quo for a new blogger on the scene. Whatever the reason, somehow or another, my site had become a chick-magnet. An incredibly weak chick-magnet, that barely stays on the refrigerator without help from other magnets, but a magnet nonetheless.

My series premiere was a rousing success. A couple months after starting TAN I was invited to the 30th birthday party for a local sex columnist, and at the bar I could hardly mask my snickering as I got my first taste of people complimenting “The Assimilated Negro.” “Haha!” I thought. “They just used the word ‘negro’ with a straight face. Victory is mine!”

A few hours later, episode one would close with me making out on the street with the girl who invited me. The critics — who also freelanced as my friends — raved. The season looked promising.

But the bloom fell off the rose in the next episode when an otherwise average evening on the town would devolve into an unexpected one-night stand with a psycho-blogger. During a display of coital schizophrenia that would make Norman Bates grab his meds, and other guys grab a meat cleaver, she manic-depressively pulled me in and placed my hands on her body, before turning her head and telling me to “please, go away.”

When I then backed off she’d plead, “No, wait! Come back. I want you.” I almost wished I had viewers to text message in and tell me to “Go for it!” or “Get the hell out of there!” I didn’t know what I was doing.

But only a couple weeks after checking out of the Psycho-Chick motel, I found myself downtown in a writer’s apartment discreetly fingering the fishnet stockings of the femme-blogger sitting next to me. We had just met in person for the first time earlier that evening, but our numerous prior IM flirt sessions provided a more-than-adequate comfort level. There we were sitting on the floor in a circle of six people — four girls, two guys — when my hand decided to go confidently in the direction of its dreams. And I can only imagine her shock when five minutes later, I was lying down on the kitchen floor with two other girls on top of me; one kissing me, the other doing something that would probably be pulled down from youtube.

Now there had been some drunken talk about orgies earlier, and I distinctly remember using the word “girth” in an inappropriate way (is there any other?). But I thought those were jokes. And I thought these were all-talk-no-action bloggers. Who knew they were so ready to make it happen in the real world? Where was this going to lead? I remember the image of me waking up in a ditch somewhere with my laptop and the word “Fidelio” spray-painted all over it briefly flashing across my mind.

But for better or worse, the orgy never actually came to pass; the mood shattered when Fishnet-Girl would announce she was leaving. As everyone sobered up and sheepishly acknowledged they didn’t really want to participate in an orgy with relative strangers, Fishnet-Girl pulled me aside and asked, “what are you doing?” The question felt so familiar.

"What are we doing?

Rachel was asking me what we were going to do after White Castle.

The dinner had gone about as well as $10 Valentine dinners for two go, and Rachel was as advertised. Face: cute and smiley; Personality: charming and bubbly; Dress: short and clingy. My kind of girl. But I couldn’t quite tell if we were really connecting, or just getting along out of obligation.

After getting random emails and text messages throughout the day, it felt like me, Rachel and everyone we know were rooting for this zany rom-com sequel to Harold and Kumar go to White Castle. We couldn’t disappoint and do something like not like each other. Every laugh we shared premised a question: Were we just acting for our invisible audience? Was this a one-off publicity stunt, or did this Blind Date 2.0 have legs?

Well when in doubt, I always consult my own personal Oracle: alcohol!

“I thought we’d go to this wine bar I know a little further downtown.”

I lived nearby in East Harlem (or SpaHa, as I like to say the kids like to say), so further downtown meant the Upper East Side, where ambience and atmosphere go to die. A little risky, but I knew I’d receive points for knowing the one oasis of downtown style yet to be smothered by the stench of generic beer and interminable “Now That’s What I Call Music!” soundtracks.

Sure enough as Rachel and I loosened up over a bottle of Pinot, the specter of the contest began to loosen its grip on us. During a typical work day you take in a healthy dose of cynical “Valentine’s-Day-is-for-suckers” talk; but that chilly night we basked amongst couples who were as earnest as sunshine in july. And as our glasses filled with red, our hearts filled with romance; and slowly but surely Rachel and I transformed from "The White Castle Couple," to just another boy and girl looking for a connection— with sliders on our breath.

And our connection, like the tension, was building by the glass. When we stepped outside in the freezing cold to share a bummed cigarette (neither of us "smoked"), we had that wonderful moment when bodies hover over each other, still respecting that last vestige of personal space, yet bracing like a sea captain for the imminent breach. Kisses never lie. And ours was the kind that booked a second date without saying a word.

But before the second date, came the Inferno….. and The Inferno was the challenge that lurked in every episode when weird internet life and dating life intermingle....

(to be continued ...)

WIth This Orgasm I Thee Wed

It recently dawned on me that I don’t like girls. I like girls cumming.

Don't get me wrong, girls are awesome. I don't dislike them. They're all hot and stuff. And it's cute to see them laughing. But as smoking as you may be, every girl goes up a notch when she's cumming. 

Whenever I'm on a date or something it's sort of like yeah, blah blah, you like the museum, you like shopping, you like poetry, blahbity blah. And I'm always rocking the sly smile, and thinking, yeah you might like those things .... but you ain't gonna be talkin' about none of that ish when you're cumming tonight. The only spoken words for this evening are: Oh. My. God. 

It's the ultimate equalizer. If you can get them all flushed and winded and out of control and trembling and just ..... mmmmm. You feel like the Lebron James of labias who just went baseline and dunked on her dome, and you want to stand there and taunt, “Take that!! What say your years of feminist empowerment theory now, beeotch???” 

Cause that's when it's most satisfying, with these haughty you-can't-do-nothing-for-me girls. Pffft. Although young girls are nice also. Like under 30. I almost think young girls getting the business is something that demands federal regulation. It's like legal slavery. You break off a good one and you can go ahead and hook the plow up around her neck and have her till the fields or whatever. I got my 40 Acres and A Girl I made cum last night.

Of course this is a lot of tough talk and bravado, and I know there are a couple girls reading this thinking, naaaahhhh TAN, I know you, you ain't no Lebron James son. I've certainly had my fair share of depressing nights where I've had nothing to work with but two cold eyes staring at me while I jigger-jigger away, “um, yeah, your little wrap-around-and-diddling-my-doodle thing might have worked on that virgin, but I need less limp noodle and more beef in my Lo Mein, nah mean.” Or at least, that's what the asian chicks say. 

Fact is, if you're an alcoholic and blessed with an Okey Dokey Pokey, some swings-and misses are inevitable. But it doesn't change the point. Come to think of it, I don't think I'm friends with any girls who I've swung-and-missed with. Strictly enemies. No love. No emails. Just spit in my face if I happen to cross their path. So again, it just goes to show, it's not about the girl, it's about her orgasm. The rest is all blahbity-blah. 

I think that's all I have to say. Now .... bring on the weekend!!!

Overcompensating at the Condom Factory

(Even post-rapture the lord continues to forsake me when I'm drunk. and has yet to weigh in on the proper size of condoms)

ORIGINAL:

From the BBC:
"A survey of more than 1,000 men in India has concluded that condoms made according to international sizes are too large for a majority of Indian men."

awwww. Gives a whole new meaning to "Slumdog Millionaire", doesn't it? Oh wait, actually it doesn't do that at all.

It does mean, though, that the "majority of Indian men" don't have enough burger for comely Indian-American model/meat-eater Padma Lakshmi.



AnyHardee, yeah, maybe that's not true either, but it turns out getting the specs on these "condoms" the kids are all raving about is a tricky business. In India they're too small, but over in South Africa, *cough*, they have a different problem. All of this is racist, but apparently true!

Also, it makes me think that maybe average-size isn't so bad. Also also reminds me of that poem, "footprints in the sand". I had a similar experience, you see, where I dreamed of walking the beach with the Lord, and all the love-scenes from my life flash across the sky, and I notice footprints, sometimes one pair, sometimes two. And seeing that saddened me because I noticed that I'd see two footprints when i was sober, or when i had a girlfriend, but whenever I'd get drunk and out of control i'd only see one. And I asked the Lord, "why do you forsake me when I'm drunk??! that's when i need you most" And he/she replied, "it's true, I do get the f out of dodge when you get drunk. You're sort of an insufferable knowitall. But look again at the sand, because when I leave you i give you a little extra to work with in my absence."


footsteps image: via

If It Looks Like a Duck, And Quacks Like a Duck, Then Maybe It Has a Spiraling Maze-Like Vagina

Sometimes you come across things on the internet and you're like, how did this not result in an intergalactic media extravaganza, the likes of which a leaked Michael Jackson-Sarah Palin sex tape could only hope to muster, ... or at least land a Time magazine cover story or something:

Female ducks have evolved "maze-like" genitals with many twists, pouches and dead ends, in a bid to prevent rape and retain control of who fathers their offspring – while male ducks have evolved equally convoluted penises to keep up.

OK then!

You win everything, ducks. Congratulations.

Duck genitals locked in arms race [Cosmos]

image: via

Premature Ejaculator Editions of 'COPS' and 'America's Most Wanted' Can't Be Far Behind

This is an ad featuring "The Bedroom Police" catching a prejaculator at the scene of the crime:



Frankly, I'm a lil bored by the "whoops, i came too fast" angle on interpersono-sexual relations. Can't we get on the girl's case a little bit more? It feels sexist to not be sensitive about a guy's need to get off in under a minute and take a nap sometimes. is that a crime now?!!?! How would Sotomayor rule on this? I say dudes should picket this commercial and take it to the highest court.

via: The Awl

Jizz-Puke In My Pants and Mouth

Always nice when creative funny people go tit for tat. Or dick for twat. I don't know, but here are two viral video sensations worth peeping, now being screened TOGETHER.






via: Jezinist

Do Lions Cry?

Another broken dream ...
Do lions cry?
They’re so iconic, y'know.
Such powerful symbols.
And we watch them fight,
and hunt,
and f*ck.
Very primal.
The women actually do all the work. They raise the cub.
They also hunt the food. The males eat
And f*ck
Why is this coming out like a poem? I don’t like poems.
Stop breaking,
Lines
LINES!
Stop breaking now please I want you to stop breaking this instant
Please
You never hear on discovery channel,
“here is the lion, king of the jungle, weeping”
“Here are the alpha male’s shoulders
bowed from the weight of eternity”
that interminable weight
Does the lion’s heart not break?
When he sleeps with the whole pride of females
His whole pride
His pride

Ok, but seriously.... in terms of the traditional gender roles thing, I don't hear enough sympathy for the torment of the alpha male. Tragically programmed to spread his seed. What if Sisyphus had to have sex, not roll a boulder? Would that hell be any less depressing?

I submit The Myth of Sisyphus as the tragedy of the male species: every bedroom tryst condemned to roll our balls up some girl's hill[s], only to see them come back down ... still hairy, wrinkly, and generally smelling worse for wear. Like Camus says, "The struggle itself is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."

next time you girls are complaining about some dude, think about that, and maybe cut a tortured lion some slack ...

image

White Capsule: Dude Love Letters

So I read this recent Crap Email From A Dude on jezebel, and then I read some more, and I wonder about them. Aside from being impressive windows into the bowels -- to borrow a word from one of these love letters -- of the male soul, and cringe-worth moments of insanity, I'm thinking these letters also cut right to the heart of ethnic-as-cultural differences. I mean read this one, here's some excerpts:

What I was trying to convey — obviously very inartfully — was the depth of my hurt at your decision to marry Jonathan [ed: this marriage was apparently 5 years ago]. I have tried almost every way I know besides doing sign language while standing on my head yodeling the national anthem to explain to you why the entire situation is so painful for me and why I take it so personally. It seems manifestly obvious and glaringly self-evident to me why being rejected for another man is hurtful and why it would cause tension in our relationship. But there still seems to be some confusion here, so in the interest of disambiguation I will do my best to explain further.

Let me stipulate first, just for the record, what you have already alluded to: My ignorance of the details of your relationship with Jonathan is pretty much comprehensive. As you suggest, this is by design. For reasons that I think should be (but apparently aren't) obvious, your marriage is a source of constant hurt for me. And because my personal predilections do not tend toward the masochistic, I prefer to spend as little time thinking about it as possible. I would rather not dwell on the particulars of a relationship that feels to me like a personal affront, a slap in the face and a complete negation and mockery of my feelings. So yes, I will readily plead guilty to ignorance.

I know that despite that tough veneer, you are an exceedingly sensitive soul. Surely somewhere in your heart of hearts, my profession of love means *something* to you or touches you in some way. But that apparently didn't register at all when you made your decision. Seems to me like a pretty big thing not to take into account when considering something so major and life-altering.

Yeah. So, um ... white guy right? I wonder if that's false/faulty logic and we're being racist, or if with matters of the heart you truly bleed and show a little more of your DNA. We know there's some Myspace Missives that are definitely a "black guy". Or at least, black-guy-as-white-girl.

Anylove, this is going in the White Capsule. It has a certain cultural code methinks worth saving...


Crap Email: White Man Overboard [Jezebel]

Ladies Guide to Faking It For Super Bowl XLII

On Fanhouse today, I do a little guide to Faking it For Super Bowl XLII. Here's the lead:

Problem: Your guy has been reading Fanhouse all week, filling his head up with all sorts of talking points and analysis that he will use to annoyingly pepper you with all throughout Super Bowl Sunday. He's busy pounding his chest and asserting himself as king of the Super Bowl castle, meanwhile all you wanna do is get pregnant. LADIES, MY MERCEDES!

Solution: Here's the guide with all the counter-intelligence you need to reverse the momentum and set him back on his heels. Plus, I'm going to give you a couple extra lines that will either leave him all hot, bothered and unable to high-five his boys cause he has a boner, or flaccid and depressed because he knows his post-game will consist of nothing but a cold shower and a night alone with his Super Bowl wisdom. Here's how it breaks down:

The Boast: Guys are just regurgitating the stuff they see on ESPN or read online. We give you 4 likely sound bytes of Football Intelligence you'll hear for the Pats/Giants game.

The Reverse: What they haven't considered, but you have. Now. The only football knowledge you'll need to turn the tables on Mr. Stupid.

Weird Look: Obviously the guy is going to be taken aback when you up the ante. Here's what to say to make him comfortable in his manhood again.

Following the initial kick-off and return you have two options: One leads to hot sex at halftime. The other leads to his public embarrassment. The choice is up to you:

The Whisper: Every woman's trump card. Here's the line to whisper in his ear if you want to derail his one-track football mind.

The Glare: The other trump card. Say this while giving him the glare-eyes and he'll know you're the Tom Brady to his Eli Manning.

So now you know the formation. We've got some plays after the jump. Ready, break!

Ladies Guide to Faking It For Super Bowl XLII [AOL Fanhouse]

Mediocre Black Chick Reconditioning Program

So a few days ago I was out with a black girl and as is wont to happen when black guys hang out with black girls the conversation turned to the subject of interracial relations, and specifically about my (and my TAN-kind) presumed hearting of white girls.

I was taken aback because my presumed pedestalizing of caucasian women was under attack before I even had the chance to raise my usual defenses, like my Quest for Claire Huxtable post, and ummm ... that's it. Sans any legit evidence, I was already labeled: Guilty. Granted the "White Girls #1" gold chain around my neck (I made the switch from African medallions in the late 90s) serves as a little bit of a cue, but I still think in these murky racial waters benefit of the doubt should at least be offered like a life preserver, before you deflate it with your socio-political darts.

CONTINUED IN NEGROPEDIA

UPDATE: when I posed this "MBC Reconditioning Program" as a response to her gripe with black guys and MWCs I was told there's no such thing as a mediocre black chick. Truuue. So, oh well, back to she-males for me.

If It's Bad For This Dude, Then I Am Definitely Sh*t Out Of Luck

So this research programmer scientist dude does some math to figure out the pool of eligible smart, beautiful women for him to date/wife-up is 18, 726. This is in the world. Now this is an old link, he made the calculations circa 2000, so figure on population growth alone he's at least up to 20,000. I'm also presuming this is a white guy cause I'm pretty sure there were no black research/programmer/scientist dudes online before 2000. Could be Asian, but his name is Tristan Miller.

So if I start with his dating pool of 20K. Then for me as a black guy we have to cut that in half to account for all the white chicks who don't date black guys. So we have 10,000. Then we have to cut it in half again for the black chicks who won't date a black guy who would date the white girls who do go out with him. So now we're at 5,000. Then lop off another 50% for all assorted chicks who won't touch a guy willing to byline as "The Assimilated Negro." Now we're at 2,500. Blogger, 1,250. Penis-size, 625. Misogynist, 312.5 (that half is a she-male). Figure I've dated 100 girls, and they've all passed... so looks like I'm left with 212 girls and a she-male to try out in the next 50 years of my life or so. And I haven't even gotten into Mets-hating Yankee fans, alcoholism, or my other personal personality quirks, all of which suck.

So yeah, it's not looking good. Might as well cut to the chase and bring on the she-male to see if we get along.

(she-males: please don't e-male me to complain about me being a transgenderist or transvestitist or whatever .... I get it, you'll pass too. Thanks.)

cheers!

via: NYTimes Laughlines

It's A Thin Line Between Love & Misogyny

So I got railed on my orgasm post, and I wanted to respond and defend myself:

Getting In Touch With Your Masculine Side: funny, my first thought is i can't help but think a lot of these Jezebel ladies are acting like dudes. "Oh, he still thinks all we need is an orgasm." Grunt. "Oh, he doesn't know about vibrators." Grunt Grunt. "Woman-hater!" Farrrrt. The whole guy-cliche is they don't care enough to think beneath the surface. Which I can only presume is as silly as me broadly painting all women as feminists-who-don't-want-to-cum. So yeah, maybe the post has a cliché spirit (TGIF!), but i would think you'd want to avoid being cliché in your criticism of it.

My Mama Is Dead: Moe astutely points out I have mama issues. The only thing is it feels more like a "gotcha" than a commiseration on an issue we both realize. Any digging into my blog reveals a crazy person. and not the crazy I'd like to be, all incredibly compelling and artistic with monumental feats of insane expression. just crazy ... like, everyone just back away from the computer slowly.

When I was a young school boy and I got the usual "Your mama ...." attacks, my response was always "I don't care. You can talk about my mama." or I'd go the "my mama is dead" route. My mother gave me up when I was 5 by putting me in a cab by myself and sending me to the father she had to that point brainwashed me to hate. My next three hang-out seshes with her were all instances of me being kidnapped, twice off the street, once out of my classroom; sometimes I think i hold on to love like the leg of the school table I grabbed on to as she and her new boyfriend yanked me out of the classroom. So, um, yeah, "mommy issues" ... maybe.

For the record, I usually put all that out there on a first date. Maybe even after the first drink or air-kiss. Cause I'm crazy raw like that. So, y'know, yeah ...... bummer cause it's true. But it's cool because I use your orgasm to medicate and make you heart me. win-win!

When is an Orgasm more than an Orgasm : Ok, yes, vibrators. Woo hoo! i get it. If it were really all about the orgasm, women would marry their vibrators. Brilliant. thanks girls. So smart ... YOU.

Here's my thing: if you're in a traditional, loving, *wifed-up* relationship and you're not cumming, or not able to cum via your partner ..... then I don't know, everyone's free to do what they want, but I'm definitely looking squinty-eyed if you try and tell me how satisfying your relationship is.

As far as I'm concerned, we need to eat, drink, shit and oooooooooooo. So if you're not getting that from your partner, you have to get it from somewhere. a machine, another person, shampoo, blogging .... whatever. but you have to get it. the release is not negotiable. How you release, maybe. Now is there anything else in life this, uh, rigid? this permanent? Whether something has power is determined by your need/reliance on it. If there's one supplier of food, they hold power. If there's one toilet bowl, it holds power as well. And if you value your orgasm, then the Orgasm Distributor holds power. That's me. What time do I punch in?

Orgasm Stock Market: Related to the above, sexual compatibility is fundamental to a healthy relationship. To a healthy Human Corporation. And the bottom line of sexual compatibility is Orgasms. That's the primary currency. If I get a few female analysts reporting that I'm investing a lot of funds in orgasm research and development, does that make me a buy or sell? How hot is my IPO (Initial Penis Offering) in that situation? If the financial market analogy holds, then I'd think 'm heading for a nice market valuation. Like maybe even more than Facebook.

Hate is a Four-Letter Word, Like F*ck, But It Doesn't Provide Orgasms: I'm a women-hater? Well you must be a man-hater. So there. Hrrrumph! ..... Yay! Productive! I'm not even going to belabor this too much because I just saw Stevie Wonder in concert last night and as his disciple it makes me want to cry to even have women-hating suggested as part of my character. I think this is the reason I wrote a response at all. In Stevie's words, as eloquently sung to "Vision in my Mind" Sat. night, hate is unacceptable. So, I don't hate you, but fuck you for saying it. I've shed toooooooooooooooo many tears, and my heart has been slammed into the turnbuckle too many times to even consider such ludicrosity. Honestly, it's just mean. My post wasn't mean. Orgasms are not mean.

The Black Blogger Always Rings Twice: Look, maybe some guys can stand it. And I'm not totally balding with a mid-life crisis yet, so maybe I still have too much alpha-pride about this. But O's are so pleasurable and vital, how could I deal with not being able to provide some women I like with that? it's the ultimate heartbreak. I don't think I could be the impotent guy whose wife loves him but he has to let her go bang the black blogger who's dealing crack orgasms to deal with his mommy/abandonment issues. That's too much of a head-trip for me. And I'm too proud. I never say never, and maybe with time and therapy you can wrap your head around it and figure out coping mechanisms, but my ideal relationship only needs the two parties involved to figure things out. I don't want to need meds and professionals so i can get your kitty wet. Feel me? I mean maybe we bring in meds and professionals just to spice things up .... but by default? F that. it's a pain in the ass, and I don't have time for it. Don't forget I'm also trying to give you the world, or at least as much of the internet version of it as i can.


soooooo ..... now ........ do you understand me a little bit better? Hmmmmm babydoll[s]? xxxxoxoxoxoxoxo?

If so, good. Now how about that orgasm? And just for me being crude the other day we'll make it all about you tonight. But ... I still want to stand up and taunt after I f the shit out of you? Is that cool? Can I be a man again?

Great. Now how do you like it .......what makes you cum? Tell me ... I want to know. Didn't a woman come up with the whole "knowledge is power" thing anyways? hollllerrrrrrrr.

The Sweet Smell of Chemistry

What is this "chemistry?" Dogs seem to demonstrate "chemistry" well. It's like, yeah, you might smell every arsehole that walks by, just to get some perspective or something, but the act of pressing nose to sphincter feels more intimate that it is. It's really just a function of your survival instinct. Do you think your booty smells honest? Is it an aroma rich with integrity and character? Life would be so much easier if we could just give a sniff and know whether the people around us were on the up-and-up.

But then, some dogs smell each other's arses and immediately start playing. A game they've played a million times before, and could play a million and one times more. And they don't need to get married or anything. They just smell and play. Now that's a special smell.

I like when i see dogs that have chemistry. It gives me hope that i'm not out here sniffing lady's behinds for nothing. It also gives me something to think about when I'm being reported to the police again for inappropriate conduct.

Miss Information Hooks You Up With Bacon & Loving

One of the staples over at Nerve is Miss Information's dating advice column. And this week she's celebrating National Pork Month by helping single "best friends" and "bartenders" get "porked."

Now all those words are in quotes because I think ideally she'd hook up someone's best friend, who's also a bartender, and they'd end up getting some porking on, nationally, for a month, or more. But nothing is being held to the letter of the law here; its all in good fun so long as you're wearing your bacon deodorant.

In any case the guidelines for the contest are listed on her myspace blog, along with a couple of the contestants posted this week. So if you want to submit a single friend (or bartender), or yourself, email her at: erin@nerve.com

In addition to finding love and a bacon wallet (really!), you'll also be featured in a Miss Info column ... and we all know what that means. I dare not speak anymore on the subject.

So once again: Miss Info! Looking for singles! Good times to follow! So go get some action in your (or your friend's) life, and check her out.

Help Your Single Friends Get Porked [Miss Info Myspace]

NY Times Doles Out Good Advice for Bums Looking for Love and Money; Mostly Money

Attention all male bums, deadbeats, and freeloaders starving artists, musicians, and writers! This weekend's NY Times Sunday Styles section has a wonderful profile on your ideal soulmate – aka woman pulling crazy bank. Seems they are a growing legion:

For the first time, women in their 20s who work full time in several American cities — New York, Chicago, Boston and Minneapolis — are earning higher wages than men in the same age range, according to a recent analysis of 2005 census data by Andrew Beveridge, a sociology professor at Queens College in New York.

Holla! Of course us true artists know this is nothing but a cause for celebration. But whenever the issue of women making more than men is brought up, you know someone is going to try and sell you on the whole “men have a tough time not being the bread winner” idea. I don’t know if it’s a race thing — it’s more likely a class thing — but I know if you’re like me, and you came up fairly poor, you have NO, ZERO, ZILCH problem with your babycakes making more money than you. Especially if she’s sharing. I know in my case its like, sheeit, every female panhandler I try and kick it to on the street, and her slovenly intern, is making more money than me, let alone that totally out-of-my-league queen with a J-O-B at Duane Reade. So how am I gonna get mad?

Psychology aside, I haven’t done any surveys, but I do feel this trend is real. I see it. I have more and more friends, who are couples, where the guy is the flunky trying to do ... whatever, and the woman is the only one who sees his potential. And GOD, how I ENVY those guys.

Anymooch, back to the Times. The article profiles some of these beautiful women, and their mixed bag of thoughts on these issues:

Women are encountering forms of hostility they weren’t prepared to meet, and are trying to figure out how to balance pride in their accomplishments against their perceived need to bolster the egos of the men they date.

Hmmm, how to bolster a man's ego? This shouldn’t be difficult. Here’s a tip ladies, and you should write this one down in period blood because it’s pretty much permanent: Ego = Penis. Swell the penis up via blowjobs, sexy lingerie, nice sex, etc. And you swell the ego. Very simple. Works every time! How can a guy feel not feel like a king while you diligently polish The Pulverizer?

(Before proceeding with the analysis, I have to make an aside about the Times inclusion of a girl who has just fast-tracked to the top of my "I Want Her" list. Peep this snippet:

Hilary Rowland, 28, bought her first condominium when she was 18, using money she had earned from an online business started when she was 15.

Ummm, Hel-LO?? First condo when she was 18? Started her first online business when she was 15? Can I get YOUR number please? After reading that I immediately dropped everything (priorities people!) and looked up Hilary Rowland online. Upon further review, turns out the "business" was an online magazine, or what we call them now… blogs. Which means I have one too! But still, that's cool. She’s a hottie. And if she needs a kept-negro to add to her portfolio I'll call anything she wants a "business.")

Moving on, at this point in the article I start getting nervous cause I swear the Times is tracking my dating maneuvers:

“When we broke up,” she added, “he was upset that I gave my ‘ex’ more gifts than I gave him. Meanwhile, the only gift I’d gotten from him was a small notepad.”

OMG! That’s soooo me! I stay blessing my mamis and mamacitas with notepads. Pens too! It’s good to write and get it out of you, baby. Go ahead and write down how you can’t believe you gave up the drawers to a blogger who crashes and burns on NPR and gives you a notepad while you give him an iPhone (please?). Get it all out. Merry Xmas. Also, Happy Birthday!

Next up:

Ms. Rowland, like some other women interviewed, said that she has come to the conclusion that it would be easier to date someone in the same economic bracket.

Yikes! And this is my soon-to-be Miss Assimilated Negro talking. Oh no! I'm glad the Times buried this little nugget of rational sensibility in the middle of the article. If all the ladies adopted this mantra some of us would have no one to date. Here in America, the land of excess and opportunity, there ain’t NO ONE in my economic bracket. I’d have to move to Africa and kick it to starving babies before they get adopted.

On a first date at a lounge in Hell’s Kitchen, Thrupthi Reddy, 28, a brand strategist in Manhattan, watched her date down several cocktails to her one, then not even flinch when she handed the waitress her credit card.

Hey! There’s me again! Big fan of the several cocktails-to-one ratio. Proves you're a man!

But really, this article is funny because it's basically a bunch of girls trying to reconcile in their head why they don’t care about having a "good guy" if he's not doing anything with his life. Sounds like "no duh" simple evolutionary theory to me, but I guess we need the Times to help work it out in our heads.

So more bits like this:

Michael R. Cunningham, a psychologist who teaches in the communication department at the University of Louisville, conducted a survey of college women to see if, upon graduation, they would prefer to settle down with a high school teacher who has short workdays, summers off and spare energy to help raise children, or with a surgeon who earns eight times as much but works brutal hours. Three-quarters of the women said they would choose the teacher.

Ok. Talk about a survey that proves nothing. A teacher is easy. That’s still a regular salary and just about the most endearing, gratifying heartwarming job anyone can have. No matter what they earn, you can't hate on a teacher. Especially if you're pulling down good money.

But how about a blogger? We too can have short workdays, summers off and perhaps even muster a little energy for the kids (or at least live-blog it when they fall down the stairs). Only thing is the teacher makes eight times as much as you, and a surgeon might as well be a sultan who lives on a pile of gold. Tougher call now? Hmmm, probably not.

But is there anything worse than a blogger?

Jade Wannell, 25, a producer at a Chicago ad agency who lives in a high-rise apartment building, started dating a 29-year-old administrator at a trucking company last year...

“I have to say that I didn’t like his career, I didn’t think he had the goals of someone I would eventually like to be with or have respect for,” she said, adding, “It wasn’t the job, it was the passion.”

Oh? What's that? The 29-year-old SECRETARY for a TRUCKING COMPANY wasn't getting all the red carpet invites you were expecting? That's sooo weird.

Memo to Jade: It was the job.

Finally,

The point, Professor Cunningham said, was that young professionally oriented women have no problem dating down if the man is secure, motivated in his own field and emotionally supportive.

At least, that’s what their responses are in surveys. Talk about the subject with women a bit older — those who have been out of college long enough to be more hardened — and what you hear is ambivalence, if not downright hostility, about the income disparity.

Ahhh … finally a breakthrough we can work with. Get 'em while they’re young! Fresh out of college! Of course us PROFESSIONAL Starving Artist types have long known about this axiom of freelance living. A 22-25 year old, making bank? Yeah, sign me up.

Which leads to my big takeaway from this article. I'm going to give up this sweet writing-for-pennies and embarrassing-myself-on-the-radio gig I've got and start a BUSINESS!! It's going to be a relationship matchmaker type deal. E-Harmony meets Deadbeats. I might call it E-Bum. Or E-Mooch. Or maybe somebodywithtwooboobiesandacleanvijayjaycomesavemeplease.com ... something like that.

But it's gonna be a service where young, hot, smart women with dough in the bank can peruse through a whole database of non-profit n'er-do-wells in search of their perfect co-dependent. All of the arts will be represented. And all of the variations of scruffy facial-hair stylings as well! All YOU have to do is find the one that's willing to walk the dog and bang your brains out after work every day.

Of course, now I need a woman with a dog and a dormant sex life to see the upside and help me finance this venture. Are you out there babycakes? Check my profile, I make a lovely pet! All you have to worry about is if Hilary Rowland comes along, or someone else younger, smarter, hotter and with more money. Because, you know, I'm ambitious like that.

But beside that, yeah ... come and get it! I'll even get the tough emotional stuff out the way early. Look:

I Love You ...

smooches!

Putting Money on the Table [NY Times]

Pervy Plants, Flirty Flora, and Ribald Redwoods! Oh My!

I don't know, for some reason I get out in nature and feel like making love ...













hat tip: encantada

Watch What You Put In Your Mouth Ladies

There's probably something to be said here about various forms of meat and misogyny, and how it's all bad for women. But whatever ...

What doesn't work here is the teeth situation. The slightly open lips are supposed to be sexy, but teeth scraping has to be top 3 guys-worst-nightmare torture tactics, so I don't know... less toothy please.

Also, I'm surely among the biggest suckers for caucasian female imagery -- I'd eat okra-flavored flan if a cute light-skin tells me it's hot and delicious (actually that's not true, but I will spray some Axe into the air and pause just to see if something really happens) -- but for some reason I don't think this girl is going to be hot.

I'm curious what the ladies think. Jezebel found a generational gap (amongst the editors) in their responses ...


via Jezebel

You Make Me Touch Your Hands For Stupid Reasons

All hilarious breakup emails should be read dramatically, like this. It's a wonderful thing.

Breakup Letter, Dramatic Reading [ytmnd.com]

The Quest For Claire Huxtable

Does the title not say it all? Are there any black guys who don't immediately know what I'm talking about? Are there any people who are unfamiliar with this aspect of the post-80s human condition?

If you're of the Huxtable generation -- which I'd say is anyone who tuned in when The Cosby Show reigned over the earth -- then you know the power of Claire. A few years ago, she was voted best tv mom (not a great picture there, but we know that second chin is made of love.)

There are middle-aged white mothers having nightmares about her gold standard.

And every night millions of TANs go to bed dreaming they will someday run into their own.

Here's how I came upon the Claire Huxtable epiphany:

After dating a string of caucasian ladies through this very site, I started seeing a black girl. And quite frankly, it opened up a whole can of whoop-ass on my dome. After years of reprogramming in prep school and college, I didn't realize how out of touch I was with the delicious taboo of black-on-black crime love like. (Plus the girl was going to Harvard for grad school, so I could imagine her becoming a Doctor or Lawyer, and I could be a, um, Prolific Blogger. And she'd buy me a laptop for Xmas. And I'd buy her Monopoly and teach her a valuable lesson about economics and savings. On my blog. It would be perfect!)

Soon everywhere I looked I was seeing little Rudys and Theos walking around being bratty and dealing with very solvable life issues. I purchased a three-cushion sofa and conducted all my affairs on it, or in the kitchen. And I even made her some of TAN's Special Homemade Chili. But alas, the theme song never played.

I've since acquired some perspective, and reverted back to my ritual of weekly sacrifice to the gods of white women for date prospecting (every Sunday I prick my finger and feed the blood to a Coach bag that lives in my closet). And while I still cling to Claire, being of a different race isn't a dealbreaker for me (little Lisa Bonets running around can work also). I might equate intra-racial dating with a Tivo level of importance. It can play a big role in my life, but it's not what I would call an "apocalyptic-necessity." It's a nice luxury item. It can make things easier. It brings a certain sense of smoothness and efficiency. There's less to think about. But you certainly don't NEED it.

(although many folks swear by their tivo, soooo, I guess that works also...)

This is all to say that the links above, and my own story make a case that Claire Huxtable, the perfect professional black woman, transcends race. And maybe white (or other non-black) guys quest for her as well? I know we don't want to give her up, but I honestly can't think of a more iconic wife/mother-figure for any race.

It may be that Mrs. Huxtable also transcends generations. There aren't any contemporary Claire Huxtables out there. What mother is hot right now? Carmela Soprano? In the "best tv-mom" contest that Claire won, Marge Simpson came in third. And as far as the strong-black-woman type, they either have too much focus on their career, or too much forehead ... or both!

So if she transcends everything, I wonder: Is Claire Huxtable a ghost? Should I give up the dream? Is she dead? Like God? And hip hop? Must all our heroes perish never to be born again?

(maybe she died and was reborn as Rudy?? That would be hot!)

Where are you Claire? I need you to shush me. And to snatch those fattening hoagies out of my mouth. And to raise our children with sound morals and integrity. And to raise your eyebrow in that PG13-sexy kind of way.

Where are you? Are you out on the town right now, dancing to Umbrella? I can't imagine it, but maybe ... be ... be?

Well if you're out there, Claire, please come quick. This chili is getting cold, and they don't take Monopoly money at the corner bodega.

Claire Huxtable T-Shirts? [I Want A Claire Huxtable]
Or Here? [Shad myspace]

Sex: A Story in Three Dates

Ever wonder why it typically takes three dates to get it? It's because the road to sex is a narrative unto itself, and thusly incorporates the traditional three act structure of storytelling:

Act I

We start with our opening. On a FIRST DATE we establish the main characters of the story. Most productions of "Sex" have only two characters, unless we're experiencing a popular offshoot called THE LOVE TRIANGLE, or the indie-alternative ORGY.

In establishing our characters the basic reconnaissance should reveal things like: name, age, what you do for fun, what you do for boredom, favorite books/movies/music, positions on celebrity/pop culture, are you smarter than a 5th grader, etc. Once the information has been received for processing, the characters will now begin to evaluate their feelings about each other based on this basic outline.

At some point during the opening someone needs to do something out of sort. In screenplay writing this is called the INCITING INCIDENT. It leads to the second act. If you don't get this inciting incident you don't have a story. Instead you have a sucky first date and no follow-up. Either character can spark the inciting incident, but traditionally the male character will do something that puts himself on the line. The cliché (and TAN favorite!) means of doing this is to make some sexually provocative remark. This comment will necessitate a prompt response from the other character creating an incident or dialogue that leads us into the second act.

ACT II

We now have an inciting incident, and with the basic outline of the characters in place we can now establish a DYNAMIC STORYLINE. An original phrase I just concocted, the dynamic storyline begins when both characters have finished PRELIMINARY JUDGINGS and established the balance of power. This is usually determined soon after the inciting incident, i.e. the guy stumbles and now the girl is in command, or the guy nails it and now the female is playing catch-up. The bulk of the second act is created by this balance of power swinging back-and-forth. The more swings, the more dynamic, the better the story, the more compelling the relationship. This all has to be done within the confines of the characters we've established (i.e. that nerdy pansy-ass white guy can't up and change into a cool assimilated negro on a whim) The second act can be of varying lengths, but it usually represents the bulk of the narrative.

Act III

The third act begins when you have an incident more compelling than the first, that creates a MOMENT OF CHOICE. The choice is whether you’ll be proceeding to sex, or determining the story thus far has been insufficiently entertaining and to be abandoned. Anyone can instigate this moment, but whoever sparks it determines the balance of power leading into the GRAND FINALE.

At this point the story has either been abandoned or will close with EPIC SEX SCENE. This grand finale will either disappoint or have everyone eager to see what happens in the sequel. The sequels can take the form of any genre. You may get a XXX story, where the characters just have sex all the time. Or you may end up with a nice romantic comedy, with dates and love and emotions rising and falling. Those sequels usually suck, but sometimes you hit upon a classic. XXX movies, on the other hand, don't have the same upside, but at least you know you can watch it and get off.

Happy Storytelling!