Across the Aisle #3: Principles and Practices of a Bobby Browned Childhood

WARNING: Across the Aisle features a weekly helping of extraordinary, yet exploratory, writing, gratuitous pop culture abuse, and complimentary Funyons. Due to our conscious decision to explore familiar themes in an inimitable, though inherently divisive, manner, such brilliance is solely intended for mature reading audiences. This is Hive Mind 101. That glorious moment when Wonder Twin powers activate. Jay Connor. Alex Hardy. The triumphant return of Voltron. These ain’t no studio tricks. Enjoy.

Episode 03

 Principles and Practices of a Bobby Browned Childhood

Jay Connor: Once upon a time I was Black. And young. And unkempt. Many a comb ascended to the afterlife after futile attempts to tame the matted crown of chaos atop my head were met with categorical failure. There were no coffins, no eulogies. Simply a rallying cry of “For Sparta!” as King Leonidas led his valiant band of plastic teeth to their imminent doom.  But this tragedy isn’t my own, it’s a shared shame. A plight indigenous to households with swollen Kool-Aid pitchers. Where the likes of Otis Williams and Patti Labelle are exalted as deities. Where Momma’s wig (and makeup) serve as refuge from the struggles of adolescence. Where the Mayan calendar endowed you with a longer lifespan than “Wait till your Father finds out…” Where picking a switch from the yard made any Choose Your Own Adventure book pale in comparison. This is the environment of which I’m a product of. This is Black life. This is Black childhood.

Alex Hardy: I, too, in the words of Black Dynamite, used to be a children. Twas a simpler time. Then, the heftiest decision was whether I would use cheat codes for Golden Eye (or Donkey Kong Country, or Super Mario Kart) or go the honest route. Now, I can look back on that era with a smile, but I took my juvenile manipulation, kickball tournaments, and covert defiance quite fucking seriously. I never went up against a comb or pick, but I did have many a meeting with Mama’s “wide leather belt” thanks to my propensity for firing back surly responses, sucking my teeth, rolling my eyes, and muttering smack-worthy bullshit all before considering the hot fire that would surely be slapped from my mouth. I learned to toe the line, dancing on that boundary between encouraged freethinking and “This hurts me more than it hurts you.” My Black Childhood: omnipresent Kool-Aid and miniature Negroidian figurines in every room. And rice. Lots of rice. Twas the best of times (except when I was getting whipped).

JC: As a child I was naive enough to think we were rich. I mean sure, we lived on the same haggard block as everyone else, but do you not see those matching Chrysler New Yorkers in our driveway? Extravagant vases and crystal chandeliers would eavesdrop on Martin and Gina’s scripted quarrels. I mean shit, we even had a maid for a minute. And a big ass sculpture of some creepy White guy (No, not Lance Bass) in our living room. And a pool. And a trampoline big enough to be mistaken for Gabourey Sidibe. But as I got older, and I upgraded from crushing on Idalis to wifing Rachel from Caribbean Rhythms, I learned the difference between gold and gold spray paint. Moms went through more aerosol than the 80’s trying to resuscitate her pride and keep the facade alive. We were royalty as long as the cameras were on, but nobody ever rummages through the behind the scenes footage.

AH: Was your maid sassy and witty and Black? A trampoline? Y’all must have thought you were the Huxtables. Wait. Those kids never drank Kool-Aid on camera, so The Blacks decided that they weren’t realistic enough. Haters. We didn’t have much fancy Black flashiness going on in my home. My grandmother’s house was essentially the Gaudy AfroPanamanian Museum of White Sofas and Gold things, Neither of Which Your Black Ass Can Touch, Bitch. A fountain. A Grandfather clock. Gold candlestick holders, flatware, and mirrors. A stuffed armadillo and a stiff monkey immortalized with look of horror upon its face. Must have seen the hammer coming. And food. So. Much. Food. It was there at my grandmother’s dining room table in front of a heaping bowl of arroz con pollo, in The Age of You Better Empty That Bowl or You’ll Sleep Right There, that I honed my skills as lifelong overeater and plate cleaner. Good things do happen in Virginia.

JC: At least you ate good. I guess The Clipse said it best: “I’m from Virginia, where ain’t shit to do but cook”. Sure, they were extolling the virtues of cocaine, but I’d much rather indulge in a heaping bowl of Lamar Odom’s credit card residue than the spoonfuls of dreck and strife Moms heaped on my plate. I drudged through a Negroidian adolescence in which my breakfast routinely squawked and cawed at me. My primary food group was There Is No God. The United States Fish and Wildlife Service even declared my taste buds an endangered species. But when your Mother can’t cook for shit, you take a step back and learn to appreciate the finer things in life. Like Zoloft.

Thanksgiving dinner at Jay's

AH: You know, I’m always fascinated by people who made it to adulthood with a mother whose idea of nice breakfast is fish sticks, and toaster strudels. And Fanta. Can you fully be trusted? Are you comfortable eating on actual plates? Do you know how to wash dishes? My childhood best friend was raised on boxed cereal, microwaved hot dogs, and wheat bread. And Sunny Delight. No, he wasn’t a boxcar kid. They were a military family and his mother apparently prioritized maintaining her flattop over feeding her offspring as if she wanted him to live to adulthood. His mother never encountered a piece of okra she didn’t batter and toss in the Fry Daddy to be served with either French fries or mushy rice and liver. The devil went down to Georgia [and taught this woman to cook], indeed. But you seem pretty unscathed. Do you live off of chicken nuggets and applesauce? What’s your fucking life about?

JC: It’s a new day. Much like waning temperatures on a brisk summer morning, I make dew do. Though my culinary expertise is limited to the likes of baked tilapia and frozen vegetables, it’s a much healthier alternative than the troughs I foraged through in my youth. However, food and I will always have a contentious relationship. Post Traumatic Stomach Disorder will do that to a person. I’m assuming the copious amounts of culinary divinity that permeated your childhood are why you eat like a pregnant shrew?

AH: I am single and am eating my feelings. Or, I’m eating for all the sex I’m not having. Or, I have no self-control and am unable to stop eating when “full” because delicious food is the greatest invention next to ejaculation. Or, I’m paying homage to my inner Terio, my Spirit Animal Glutton. Or, E: all of the above. Blame the fact that my sister, cousins, and I occasionally fell asleep with our head in bowls of motherfucking fried rice or arroz con pollo because Grandma didn’t believe in throwing food away and required that we make every. single. grain. of. rice. disappear…and I am genetically opposed to turning down food.

JC: Or, “it’s a Black thing, you wouldn’t understand”? But who needed sustenance when I had toys? Much like a steady diet of snark and acerbic wit keeps me spry and vibrant today, toys (and Negro spirituals) imbued my broken spirit with hope for a brighter tomorrow. Where a generous portion of Asshole Casserole wouldn’t entail the risk of radiation poisoning. Those toys were my reprieve, my salvation. I was a proponent of the usual suspects: Legos, water guns, remote control Dodge Neons. But there were two realms that nobody on the block could see me in: video games and G.I. Joes. I had helicopters, carrying cases, motorcycles. Beach cruisers, minesweepers. I had the motherfucking Rolling Thunder AND the Defiant Space Shuttle. Does this look like a fucking game to you? I was about that life for real. Kids on the block used to clique up, bring their little piddling army over to the crib, and get laughed out my house. My Storm Shadow alone caught more bodies than a seat belt. Are these problems you really want, nigga? Don’t fuck around, don’t fuck around, don’t fuck around and get smoked. Word to Lil’ Mouse.

AH: Look, famlay. I was the Original Lego Don, The Rooter and the Tooter The Alpha And The Omega, from about 1992 until 1996. You didn’t want any motherfucking problems with me or my homeslice Shaun, my very first friend in those days when I told time according to the shadow cast by a box of Star Crunches and grilled cheese sammiches were a form of currency. We built Lego (capital L as a sign of motherfucking respect, broham) communities. Our Lego people had roles, names, and backstories. We would occasionally cross storylines by having other toy characters (Spiderman, Batman, etc.) make cameos, disrupting—momentarily—the order of things. There were romances and story arcs. And main players who, with the swapping of a hat, went from policeman to spaceship captain. It was deep. But once I crossed over into the Jungle of Mongrel Children From Unsavory Backgrounds (sixth grade), my extracurricular activity of choice shifted to video games. Well, that, and masturbation. Donkey Kong, Killer Instinct, Super Mario World, anything. Neighborhood kids would come over and we’d spend hours, afternoons, weekends trying to outdo one another. If you found a secret door, a bonus level, or a hidden character, you were The Man on the block. That was usually me, probably because I had the best eyelashes that everyone else’s Mama routinely asked to “borrow.” Being exceptional, intellectually and video gamingly, came at a price: I earned my first enemy after this ditch-mouthed swampdonkey from two houses down unpaused Goldeneye while I was in the bathroom and killed me when we were in two-player battle mode. The motherfucking nerve. I reckon this dearth of character is why one eye was right-aligned while the other was centered. I suppose it all worked out in the end.

AH: Wait. Remote control Dodge Neons?! I officially feel cheated in life. Carry on.

JC: Since when did Legos have romances and story arcs? Stop perpetuating stereotypes. Jason Collins has carried enough crosses this year. Had we been neighbors, General Hawk would’ve sent the goons over and turned your precious little soap operas into a Rambo prequel. But thankfully, video games are the ties that bind. Before eventually upgrading to Ultimate Electronics, Pops held shit down lovely at this retail chain called Silo. When he wasn’t slangin’ dishwashers and vibrators, he was smuggling home Nintendo cartridges from the J.O. weeks before their release date. Napster ain’t have shit on my Pops. Anytime that nigga came home with a nervous twitch, an elevated disdain for White people and a black plastic bag, I already knew what time it was. Yes, Virginia. There IS a Santa Claus. Pops had that work early and often. Who you think put niggas up on Double Dribble? Who had the Sega Genesis Six Button Arcade Stick with the programmable buttons before that shit even left the factory? My video game library had more titles than the fucking Wu-Tang Clan. Ask Eddie and Shabba, I was a KING.

[Tolerate] thy sister.

AH: I didn’t have that luxury. I grew my collection the traditional way: convincing kids with doper games that a few handfuls of toys I was tired of was a great exchange for a handful of their video games. It worked surprisingly well. Video games were important for my sister and I graduating from sworn enemies to People Who Don’t Want to Smother One Another. As a miniature Black person, I would decapitate my sister’s Barbies and find new, inventive ways to basically fuck up all of her shit. FUN. But when I waltzed into her room and saw Lil Mario jump off those bricks and land at the top of that flagpole at the end of the first level of Super Mario Brother?!?!?!??!?!?!?!?!?!! Instant Besties.

JC: See, that’s heartwarming. Really. However, “sister” is far too endearing a term for the woolly mongrel my parents brought home that ill-fated morning oh so long ago. With my despotic reign imperiled by her conception, I channeled my inner Lupe Fiasco and kick pushed her black ass off the bed while my parents were off dousing their jheri curls. Subsequent attempts on her life were thwarted by budget constraints and Darkwing Duck, but we’ve set aside our differences and her leg even grew back. But onto more pressing matters, like MC Hammer. Don’t let revisionist history sell you fruit cake and falsehoods. Hammer was that nigga fifteen times over, yo. That “2 Legit 2 Quit” video was as seminal as skinny Luther’s debut. Complete game changer. I got on that school bus the next morning and every time somebody brought it up they’d start speaking in tongues then fall out from the Holy Ghost.

AH: Ah. Yes. Hammer was unmatched. I used to wonder what type of drug kept him on 234 million percent at all times. Lines of Lawry’s before videos shoots? There was a brief moment in elementary school where not being able to execute the 2 Legit 2 Quit hand jive was social suicide. It was equal to wearing “LA Knights,” aka fake ass LA Lights that had no lights, which were briefly worn by a classmate who later majored in Creative Arrest Techniques with a minor in Life Squandering. On top of wearing those shoes and being ridiculed daily for it, he was unable to do the 2 Legit 2 Quit hand jive which I’m sure was the cause for his parents’ divorce when we were in third grade. Anyhow, watching Hammer in 2014 is like seeing what came of one of the kids who found a home in Rhythm Nation's outreach program for chilluns with ADD who were encouraged to channel their angst into high-energy, militaristic dance routines featuring every Black person they had ever met...AFTER they had all joined the Fruit of Islam.

JC: So yes. All these wondrous moments combined forces and formed Captain Planet made me the bourgeois bastion of Bugle Boy Jeans I am today. Long live French rolls and stone wash, nigga.

AH: If I had to summarize my childhood: rice, Electric Slide, and pushing the boundaries of surliness while avoiding Mom’s judo chop. And grits. Thank the gods of mystery meat that I can see past your years living in a food desert and focus on your less repugnant side.

Read Episode 02: "Posture and Promiscuity"
Read Episode 01: "Fundamentals of Separation Anxiety"

___________________________________________
A million thanks to my partner in crime:

Jay Connor is a prized pupil of the esteemed Professor Xavier and a Los Angeles based freelance writer. When he’s not preoccupied with accruing overdraft fees while chasing the dream, he can be found disseminating terrorist threats on Facebook. Direct all business inquiries, sexual innuendo and Nigerian email scams to deathtoadverbs@gmail.com.


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On Being A Less Terrible Whiteperson

Recently, an Alabama veteran hired KKK hitmen to kill his neighbor.

"He allegedly told an undercover agent that “I want this man hung from a tree like he is an animal. I want his penis cut off and I want him cut. You’re a hunting man right? I want him hung from a tree and gutted.” 

Post-racial America, ladies and gents.

Look.

Anyone who attempts to convince you that racism is dead, or isn't an overwhelming problem anymore should not be trusted or taken seriously. They are insane, detached from reality, and are viewing the world through a privilege-stained lens with their heads securely installed up their asses.

Anyone who believes, despite stories like this and the dozens that drip down my social media timelines daily, that "we're all the same" and that talking about race only exacerbates the problem, in my Black ass opinion, is to be viewed as a threat. You are a danger to my sanity and, as news reports show daily, my ability to make it through the day unmurdered.

That's not real life. That's not what my daily life tells me. That's not what the daily experiences of people who look like me signifies.

A reader sent me a lengthy email essentially telling me that, while my writing is enjoyable enough, my speaking so frequently on race and highlighting the bad in the world does nothing to improve things. He felt that I need to focus on the latest advancements in race relations (as if it's an iPhone update) and look for the good in people. Because it's "awkward and paints you as aggressive and pessimistic."

Hi.

Your categorizing me, or us, as aggressive means as much to me as the price of high grade pussy in downtown Los Angeles on any given day. So with that said:

Fuck you and fuck that shit from the bottom of my Nigger ass heart.

I'm a good person. I know good people. I love myself. I love, look out for, and look for the good in my people and that's enough for me. But you? You're a threat. And fuck your need for a pat on the back for having a Black friend or liking Black titties.

I don't believe in babysitting the emotions of bigots.

I don't believe in skirting difficult conversations or opting for a rosier view of things when every single Chocolate Wonder I know is intimately familiar with your 50 Shades of Bullshit.

I don't believe in sweeping my gripes under the rug or tucking in my concerns because it makes you uncomfortable, or because perhaps you personally have never lynched a man and therefore consider yourself a "good person," ESPECIALLY when we are never ever ever ever ever ever ever afforded that same consideration. We scream until we're hoarse that we are worthy of love and respect and look where that has gotten us.

Racism isn't my problem to fix. I can call you people out on your fuckshit day in and day out, correct you at every turn, hit you with #WellActually at every instance of White Misinformation, White Fear Mongering and White Terribleness, and it's still ultimately up to you, Horrible Whiteperson, to do better. It's up to you to separate yourself from the supremacy, the delusion, that insatiable need for victimization and desire to be oppressed (finally!!) and try to be a slightly less abysmal fucking human being. That, and it's up to you to take responsibility for the Mileys and other White Niggers whose ancestor-shaming antics we are forced to suffer.

Don't police my anger.

Don't tell me that things are better. For every colorblind optimist with an octaroon great grandbaby there are a metric fucktonne of Zimmerman apologists, kindhearted bigots and nice old White Grandmas who peel off a piece of their weekly Bingo winnings for faceless African babies with distended bellies yet believe in their heart of hearts that a White man was justified in robbing a Black child of his future adulthood by firing into a car because he felt sassed. Fuck you, ya hear?

Your skinfolk still, in 2014, bust nuts while fantasizing of cutting off our Black ears and Black dicks as souvenirs when you feel your Little Shop of White Horrors is under attack. Just because I can call a White woman out on her awful personhood and not immediately fear for my life doesn't mean that MLK's naïve ass dream of Katie and Keisha joining hands in chicken-eating harmony is a reality.

A Black figurehead in the White House of the United States of America does little to affect the daily lives of Black girls who may one day seek help and be greeted with a bullet to her dome. A Beyoncé and an Oprah don't mean much for the thousands of Black and brown children affected when 50 schools were shuttered in Chicago. It's not about a lack of hard work. A handful of successes don't offset the strife of the dark masses. It's bigger than our individual efforts.

Basically: save your anecdotes. Spare me your tales of that one time when you fucked a Black guy and propelled humanity forward. That does little for me and the terror people who look like me face at the hands of people who look like you.

Don't preach to the dark masses about your plight and a perceived encroachment upon your superiority rights.

Don't preach to the dark masses about our threatening sagging pants or our incriminating hoodies or our frightening thug music or our usage of THE N-WORD or any other thing that is, from your enlightened view as Oppressor, impeding our collective advancement or marking us as killable.

That lip flapping is better directed at you cohorts. They are who need words of encouragement from Benevolent Whitepersons such as yourself.

There's a reason I don't have an opinion on things like womb decoration or anti-aging techniques for the modern White woman's skin in frigid Midwestern climates: It has absolutely nothing to do with me. My opinion is not necessary or valid and adds nothing to the conversation. Most importantly, I don't know shit about it. As my good friend Michael Arceneaux said recently:

Sometimes it's okay to shut the fuck up and let the folks directly being affected by something talk it out amongst themselves.
— Michael Arceneaux (@youngsinick) February 26, 2014

This may come as a shock to you, but there are instances, places, rooms, countries, and debates where you and your opinion are not welcome. Pro tip: Black life is one of those things.

Now, go stop your children from shooting up my niece's high school and learn your motherfucking place.

But you don't have to listen to me.

Read "The Worst of White Folks" by Kiese Laymon
Read "No Words Available" by Jamilah Lemieux
Read "How To Be a White Person On Halloween" by Rembert Browne
Read "The history white people need to learn" by Mary-Alice Daniel

Do better.

Black and wonderfully,

Alexander Hardy

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Across the Aisle #2: Posture and Promiscuity

WARNING: Across the Aisle features a weekly helping of extraordinary, yet exploratory, writing, gratuitous pop culture abuse, and complimentary Funyons. Due to our conscious decision to explore familiar themes in an inimitable, though inherently divisive, manner, such brilliance is solely intended for mature reading audiences. This is Hive Mind 101. That glorious moment when Wonder Twin powers activate. Jay Connor. Alex Hardy. The triumphant return of Voltron. These ain’t no studio tricks. Enjoy.

Episode 02

Posture and Promiscuity

Alex Hardy: Weeks ago while [less than sober], I pondered whether condom companies should be responsible for preparing users for the many possible outcomes of one’s journey to burrow his penis in a nice cozy lovecave. I know, I know. But I reasoned that if McDonalds can be sued once you burn your tongue with their hot coffee, and gun manufacturers can be found at fault for White coworker’s unfortunate, explainable murderous rampage that doesn’t reflect on a greater failure within his family or community and was certainly not triggered by the absence of his father or a mother on drugs, there must be some recourse y recompense for instances when I row, row, row my boat up inside someone and wind up starring in a telenovela sponsored by Goya. I want to speak to a manager.

Jay Connor: There are levels to this shit. Tiers of Privilege if you will. I ain’t one to gossip, but if you insist on thrusting your nostrils in the fridge, the food pyramid goes as such: Michelle Obama, Wifey, Girlfriend With Facebook Relationship Status Annuity, Girlfriend Without Facebook Relationship Status Annuity, Amigo Con Beneficios, We Don’t Go Dutch Anymore, We’re Dating But Haven’t Had Sex Yet, She Cool But…, Kat Stacks, and lastly but not leastly, About Last Night.  Yes, the hierarchy is extensive, and you are more than welcome to scratch and sniff the omnipresent “You Are Here” sticker until your name magically appears, but if the glove compartment in your Kia is permeated with a bevy of unceremoniously divorced heels and a toothbrush with more stamps than a passport, that sound you hear is the Affordable Health Care Act hurdling right over you. Because surprise! Part-time employees don’t get benefits.

AH: So, basically, we each have to figure this out for ourselves? But what if you’re not ready for your Michelle Obama. Or your Idris Elba. What if you are somewhere between Part-Time Partner in Crime and What’s Your Name Again? Is there a manual to this one can find on a torrent somewhere?

JC: Manuals are for bras and IKEA furniture. The logistics behind sexual impropriety are far too intricate to be confined to the Self Help section of Barnes & Nobles. Thankfully, however, we have The Coition Commandments *bangs gong* that pertain strictly to those who, either by choice, circumstance or venereal disease, are trapped in the Bermuda Tryst Triangle and have accepted their fate as practitioners of serial promiscuity. One Night Stand land, if you will. As such, the First Commandment is quite curt: “Thou shalt not catch feelings.” Simple, right? This is a business transaction, not the gateway to marital bliss. Moses and his friendly neighborhood Israelites might part your Red Sea, but the only person you’ll ever share a joint bank account with is the IRS. So kindly leave your panties and emotions on the floor over there, next to Joey Lawrence’s glory days and Memphis Bleek’s rap career.

AH: Ah yes. The oh-so-important Separation of Heart and Hole(s). Very, very important shit right there. I try not to get in the habit of forecasting a few years of lovingly pooting on each other based on a night/dawn of lust, sweat, and tears of joy. I have come close to failing here, but because I respect myself, I remember, “Be cool. Ice cold.” Even if you are overcome with passion like Kanye while sketching the Spring 2015 line of velveteen sundresses for fashionable and progressive rappity rap dudes and let the L word (“love,” not “lube”) slip from your lips, it must be immediately stricken from the record. It never happened. What never happened? Exactly. If mentioned once body fluids have been rinsed away, you’re allowed to plead the fifth, question their sanity and status as a terrorist, and/or report them to Homeland Security. Whichever.

JC: So what’s the second Coition Commandment? Glad you asked: “Thou shalt not apologize”. After all the fanfare and inebriated foreplay, was your heavily anticipated blockbuster a dud at the box office? Despite a valiant effort on your part, did you finally stumble upon her g-spot hiding behind a cackling Waldo? If ever there was a moment in life when it’s perfectly fine to be a shriveling speck in the peripheral view of society, and an unrepentant, unmitigated failure of the flesh, this is it. Bask in your coitus catastrophe.  Smile in the face of your intercourse ineptitude. Because in the long list of charitable donations, not a single solitary fuck shall be given this day. Try as you may, such philanthropic endeavors won’t quell the groundswell of awkwardness, so why even bother? You have more important things to worry about. Like AIDS. Or not sleeping in the wet spot.  

AH: Precisely. If you’re truly living up to the ancient Igbo proverb, “Meet. Greet. Skeet. Street,” then there is no need to apologize to someone you’ll likely never see again. Everyone has had a clumsy hump or two in their day. How else would you explain the existence of Trinidad James? It happens, for we are (mostly) human. But as the illustrious Helen Keller once said, it is the sum of a man’s contributions to the art of orifice-stretching that shall determine his street value in the valley of the shadow of Superior Ho Shit High Priests, or something thereabouts, no?

JC: “Thou shalt prepare accordingly.” So sayeth our Third Commandment.  After an exhaustive game of Extortion By Bartender and successfully averting the sea of shame and cellulite on the dance floor, congratulations are in order. Because that lure you dropped behind the toilet somehow managed to snag a fish. She ain’t a Bluefin Tuna, but if Hawaiians can extol the virtues of mystery meat, you can make the most of your sultry sardine. Once rid of soybean oil and wire taps, the nookie negotiations conclude favorably (all praise due to Ciroc, the Greek Goddess of Compromised Principles). Now all you gotta do is get her home and—OH SHIT. You didn’t clean your apartment before you left? Hold up, hold up. Calm down, be cool. Her crib will fill in wonderfully as our substitute teacher. Slight problem though: Upon your arrival, once you get it crackin’, you realize you left your condoms in your dingy ass domicile. The same domicile in which A&E just filmed a season marathon of “Hoarders”. Which makes you 0 for 2 and suspended indefinitely from the party in her panties. Tragic, really.

AH: Just because you don’t get to declare war upon her (or his) soft and gushies, you aren’t completely out of the race yet. There are countless ways to cross the finish line. How strong are your jaw muscles?

JC: Which brings us to the Fourth Commandment for your close encounter of the frisky kind: “Thou shalt be cognizant of karma.” Just because you can do something, and successfully avert criminal charges in the process, doesn’t translate into free reign to do so. Who do you think you are? White America? (What? Too soon?) Drunken selfie of the two of you sucking face in the club? Siskel and Ebert give it two Instagrams up. Drunken selfie with her desecrated, unconscious nether regions sprawled out behind you? Oh, sure. Your hipster friends might mistake it for a Kandinsky, but you know better. So don’t be like Brittney Murphy. Have a heart.

Worst case scenario.

AH: One would hope that opting against self-incrimination via public oversharing falls within the charter of Decent Human Beingness. Broadcasting your H[o]story to the world only provides ammo to trolls and haterbitches and making their job easier would be woefully unfortunate. Speaking of graphic confirmation of your G-Spot Bingo, is it mandatory, from your perspective, to destroy any and all audiovisual souvenirs of that time you bungee jumped into someone’s love canal? Or is it permissible to arrive home the next day in last night’s outfit with a digital momento of the occasion? What sayeth ye?

JC: As long as said memento won’t have the Karma Police trying to park taser electrodes on your throat, you should be aiight. Which brings us to the fifth and final commandment: “Thou shalt minimize acquaintances.” Remember, your work visa has an expiration date. You aren’t a citizen, you’re a tourist in a foreign, mammaried land. So reserve some fucking dignity and conduct yourself as such. Exchanging Twitter handles with her roommate will only lead to civil unrest and bloodshed, and we’ve all heard horror stories about what happens if you rub her dog’s belly. For all intents and purposes, you’re a ninja. Like the back of Flavor Flav’s neck, be one with the night. This includes your exit strategy, so stop making debauchery so difficult. ST_Y IN YO_R F_CK_NG L_NE. Would you like to buy a vowel?

AH: Ah yes. Knowing thine role. No need for exchanging email addresses and having vision board parties together. There shall be no intermingling of friends. Don’t hold your breath for that HEYBOO morning text. If this is to be a proper, off the record, Martin Luther da WhiteNookie Hunter, Jr-approved passing of two ships in the night, keep it cute and don’t drown in your feelings when I don’t ask you to join my friends and me for dinner. Anything else would be uncivilized.

JC: “Let me hold you tight, if only for one night...” Sing that shit, Loofa. So in closing, abide by these five simple decrees and all will be well in your quest for breast domination. With puberty in your rear view mirror, there’s no excuse for a grown ass man to drop the ball(s).  This concludes our public service announcement. Shalom.

___________________________________________
A million thanks to my partner in crime:

Jay Connor is a prized pupil of the esteemed Professor Xavier and a Los Angeles based freelance writer. When he’s not preoccupied with accruing overdraft fees while chasing the dream, he can be found disseminating terrorist threats on Facebook. Direct all business inquiries, sexual innuendo and Nigerian email scams to deathtoadverbs@gmail.com.



Follow me on Twitter: @chrisalexander_
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On Michael Sam and Babysitting the Emotions of Bigots

I was asked to expand upon my previous thoughts on Michael Sam or Gawker. (!!!) Have a gander.

Photo: Gawker

On Michael Sam and Babysitting the Emotions of Bigots

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Across The Aisle #1: Fundamentals of Separation Anxiety

WARNING: Across the Aisle features a weekly helping of extraordinary, yet exploratory, writing, gratuitous pop culture abuse, and complimentary Funyons. Due to our conscious decision to explore familiar themes in an inimitable, though inherently divisive, manner, such brilliance is solely intended for mature reading audiences. This is Hive Mind 101. That glorious moment when Wonder Twin powers activate. Jay Connor. Alex Hardy. The triumphant return of Voltron. These ain’t no studio tricks. Enjoy.

Fundamentals of Separation Anxiety

Jay Connor: Atrophy. Atrophy? Say it with me: A-truh-fee. “The degeneration, decline, or decrease, as from disuse.” An odious manifestation of sexual dormancy and undesirability. A distinction traditionally reserved for niggas much more aesthetically heinous than I, and synonymous with either possession of a Christian Mingle account or a collossal dearth in human companionship. Atrophy. Yes, that sounds about right. My penis is slowly dying for all of our sins.

Alex Hardy: You too? Atrophy is quite the succinct descriptor. It is strangely refreshing to see that even across the aisle, there’s also a gorge between Desirables and Desireds. Oddly encouraging that we who consider ourselves The Bomb have the same romantic woes, regardless of where we fall on the HomoHetero Spectrum. Loneliness, like Dennis Rodman I reckon, does not discriminate where making itself at home up inside someone is concerned. I wonder if this is like watching a lunatic on reality television who is convinced that everyone else is the source of their despair, when, in reality….

JC: Okay, fine. Fine. You might be onto something. Track 7 on MJ’s Bad much? I’m not one to point fingers and name names, but some of us are actually trying to break the sanity-deprived cycle here and ward off these beautifully broken evil spirits. What’s your excuse?

AH: Me? I am human. I recognize that I'm too scatterbrained to pursue dating on a level above Regular Bed Buddy of Proven Quality right now. Or something. "I'm working on myself," I believe the saying is, yes? But this human need for companionship often means placeholders. Attractive ones. People who would not be acknowledged in more lucid times. Was that the right answer? Or do you prefer to go it completely alone and underfucked until finding the new and improved wind beneath your wings?

JC: Nah, that should suffice. Provided that’s what you’re actually doing. In The Wonderful World of Hetero, however, “I’m working on myself” is rejection speak for “thanks, but you seem to be missing your pinky toes.” Women don’t handle rejection well. Those “Snapped” episodes don’t manufacture themselves. 

AH: So, what’s the fix? How do we make the cycle a little less maddening? Serial dating? Skeet and repeat until someone tolerable comes along? We can’t all sit around and lament the poor pickings. Can we agree that this solves nothing?

JC: I won’t agree to shit. Contractual obligations give me hives. However, I will counter offer. That being to, at the very least, poke my toe in the shallow pools of courtship. Though I’m not entirely sure how that works on your end of the spectrum. Let’s say someone catches your eye in the grits aisle at your friendly neighborhood Panamanian grocer. Are you traditionally the hunter, the prey or the Stevie J?

AH: Well, as I venture closer to thirty than twenty, I have found myself more open to approaching people I’m interested in. Since being here, I’ve actually taken the next step and initiated a conversation after that moment where I look back and you look back and then someone has to do something. But I do often let my nerves get the best of me, even when it’s established that interest is mutual. Being here in Panama, where gents of a level deserving of much other than a good old fashion Christian Hump and Dump aren’t exactly falling from the sky, it’s not normal to flirt with strangers. Add into that the affect of nerves on my ability to spit game in Spanish and I wind up lusting silently more often than not. I’m totally open to courtship, as I’ve barely dipped my ankle in here so far, having spent months dating someone who apparently was not dating me. Upside: My ho shit Spanish is now unfuckwitable, which is a highly transferrable life skill, no? Do you tend to admire, creepily, from afar? Or do you make your interest known when someone less than terrible reveals herself?

JC: This is one of those fleeting moments where I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free………. to flirt with strangers. But to answer the question, I think my fatal flaw is I’m not thirsty enough. Wait. Lemmie ‘splain. SPOILER WARNING: I’m not the dude that will spend his evening cat calling and breathing down more necks than a vampire. Sadly, such desperation is nowhere to be found in my DNA, which apparently isn’t working in my favor. I’m more of a mingler. Why? Because real niggas mingle, dammit. I sip and indulge on overpriced libations, converse with whomever has the best credit score, and just go with the flow. If the pendulum swings towards courtship and sexual impropriety, one of those condoms in my wallet is destined to eventually die for our sins. If not, my Facebook newsfeed just got a tad more convoluted by its latest addition. Because you can never have enough BitStrips. So to summarize, apparently I need to be a little more Scar and a little less hakuna matata.

AH: Sure, being all brash and Lady Elouise about the situation all sounds very impressive, but I know it’s much easier said than done. Mingling? Hmm. I can admit that I become more fun with a few heavy-handed brown liquor situations in me, but mingling is key. My last two quasi-relationships stemmed from mingling and just being visible and approachable. I’ll admit my priorities of late have shifted from socializing and meeting the next man my father gets to beat around the bush to inquire about to wearing tank tops and having people watch me dance and look amazing and talk to no one. Which brings us right the fuck back around to the now. Perhaps I’ve convinced myself it won’t happen here and am emitting beams of LeaveMeAlone? Maybe I need to be a little more Ready, Set, Eat, Pray, Law of Attraction about the situation.

JC: Ohhhhhhh, so you’re that kid in the arcade—I mean—dance floor, who smashes it in Dance Dance Revolution, while everyone stands around gawking with a heart full of envy and a fist full of sweaty quarters? Nothing about that scenario sounds even remotely conducive to successfully attaining a life partner. Nigga, are you trying to die on Atrophy Island?

AH: So far, showing out in public has been good at people seeing me, and telling me later when we cross paths, “Oh, I remember you from…” but has brought me exactly zero dates, phone numbers, or skeets. So, perhaps I should rethink my strategies? I’ll have to find a balance. I’m not going out to two-step awkwardly with you as you search the depths of your soul for the appropriate beat on which to shimmy your shoulders. Historically, if I find someone who can keep up on the floor, it’s usually a breasted person…which is as meaningful for my romantic aspirations as being a respectable representative of the Black community is for Don Lemon. What do you suggest?

JC: Well shit, I don’t purport to be Patti Stanger, but I just had a come to Jesus meeting with common sense and it requested that I kindly inform you that communication is a prerequisite for a healthy, hump heavy relationship. Though body language (and must) speaks volumes, it’ll take more than Omarion pirouettes and monopolizing all the single women to stumble upon your better half. But since you’d rather pop lock than talk, have you considered online dating? Match.com? Plenty of Fish? Farmers Only?

AH: I could easily write a memoir about my online adventures alone. As safe spaces for dudes to meet dudes aren’t always plentiful, many turn to these good Internets to find others often in our own communities that we wouldn’t have been able to connect with otherwise, say, in a bar or other such environment. Of course there are DATING sites, and then are “dating” sites, where it’s not uncommon to scroll through a few pages of dicks, chests, and asses like a Fingerhut catalog. It cuts through some of the awkward introductory fuckshit, as one can make their aims known at the onset. Little in the way of romance has resulted on “dating” sites for me. I’ll consider DATING portals when I’m in a…browner city. Here in Panama, Chocolate Thunder ain’t online. He’s living with his mother until 40 and in the closet thanks to residual Caribbean-infused homophobia. Great times, really.

JC: Oh, so you don’t cross pollinate? Strictly (black) dickly?

AH: It’s been ages. Had a moment in New Orleans with a particularly handsome, brawny stud. Things got interesting, and she had locs and broad shoulders and I was muy muy conflicted but nah. Pregnancy scare at 17 aaaaaand scene. I appreciate a nice well-formed titty like the next dude, buuuut actual vaginal excavation? Most I’ve done since is some heavy petting and a little tongue action. It occasionally crosses my mind, depending on what I’ve consumed, because I don’t apparently SCREAM sissy, to satisfy my curiosity and see if I still got it. I’ve had chances. But alas. *turns table* Can you, comfortably and without the need to say NO HOMO, recognize another bedicked individual is less than hideous?

JC: ……..Hold up. Is this a setup? Do I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me inquisitory God? I mean, shit. I’m comfortable enough in my masculinity to traverse the streets in salmon pants and openly mancrush on Justin Timberlake, but I don’t think *proceeds to wade through a crescendo of internal bemusement* I would have a problem acknowledging that yes, there are those amongst my masculine ilk who would qualify as less than repulsive. It’s kind of like when your thirsty ass homegirl is doing her due diligence in trying to find out which one of your friends she wants to do the don’t with. The investigation process is tedious, right? “Where does he work?” “Does he like cats?” “How soon can those felonies get expunged?” If Sway ain’t got the answers, then what the hell makes her think I do? But as soon as she hits you in the head with “Is he cute?” I’m stuck like Quvenzhané’s kindergarten teacher calling attendance. I mean, the nigga ain’t ugly, so “Surrrrre” should suffice, right?

AH: This is where I wish I had a loud, Southern family from Family Feud to pat you on the back and yell, “DASS RIGHT. GOOD ANSWER.” Such a human response, more than the average man would likely say. I’m always fascinated (and disgusted by and sympathetic for) by those men, regardless of orientation, who must go through life asserting and declaring their *chest thump* MANHOOD, reminding others what men don’t do, wondering if the way they open a beer or salute someone projects something they don’t intend to. What pressure. I recently engaged with an associate who hit me with the “I mean, I’m cool with gay dudes as long as they don’t bring that around me.” This is where I point out that he has a face only a (blind) mother could love, yet felt threatened. Ho(with crime scene teeth), please. Lighting round: Were you ever less comfortable being around, or talking to homogays? Were you ever less secure and felt…threatened?

JC: Only in two very specific, isolated, non-homophobic (See? I even included a complementary disclaimer) instances. Sorry Usher, but these are my confessions. The first being in the presence of cross dressers. No, not hipsters (though their branches blossom from the same flamboyant family tree), cross dressers. I have an inherent phobia of glitter, so I find grown ass men baptized in pixie dust and frolicking in stilettos more disturbing than a Rhianna lead single. Throw in exaggerated “makeup” and karaoke power ballads serving as accomplices, and our Saw Movie Soufflé is complete.  The second instance is when niggas like you (Yes, you. YOU, nigga) stroll your happy asses up in the club and commandeer all the single women. I fucking hate that shit. We can’t dance like ya’ll, we can’t dress like ya’ll, and we damn sure can’t horde every ounce of estrogen within a specified zip code like ya’ll. I mean, damn. We let ya’ll have Frank Ocean. The fuck else do ya’ll want? Actually, now that I think about it, the reason I’m stranded on Atrophy Island is because niggas like you (Yes, you. YOU, nigga) don’t play fair. Ya’ll some Game Genie, put-the-Power-Pad-on-the-ground-and-slap-it-with-your-hands-while-the-rest-of-us-are-out-of-breath, ass niggas.

me, dancing with your girl. -alex

AH: Ah, cross dressers. Mission One. Let me toss some coins into your change cup to commend you for using “cross dressers” over “transvestites.” Yeah, uncommon gender expressions can be alarming. But, having moved to big ass Los Angeles, you had better get your Black ass ready to stand in line for wheatgrass or cocaine—or whatever you people do—behind all types of interesting-looking people. See, in that same situation, kitten heels or unflattering makeup would have gotten my eye to twitching. Considering them, though, I have previously taken pleasure in showing OUT once I’ve realized someone was uncomfortable in my presence (he was Jamaican), because grow the fuck up. To your second moment, as someone who’s has left plenty a party drenched from dancing, there is great motherfucking freedom in being able to shake your body down to the ground without the burden of having to look at once manly and unhideous and cool and humpable and respectable and dateable and of a satisfactory credit score to attract breasted people. You can have that struggle. I can put on a tank top and Chuck Taylors and sway, awash in cool, in a corner with my brown liquor and like drug charges to DMX, they will come, no matter what, leaving undicked yet entertained. And everybody wins. Except you, He Who is Unsure of What To Do With His Hands When Not Holding A Drink. Don’t hate the player, mi amigo. Hate Macklemore.

JC: My indignation is indiscriminate. As far as I’m concerned, there’s plenty of hatred in my heart for the likes of yourself and the Grinch who stole Grammys. That said, I’m not diametrically opposed to a peace treaty. Since I’m fresh out of red velvet cake and superfluous Kitty Pryde apologies (because you can never eat enough cake, anime), I’ve consulted with the rest of the Heterosexual Atrophy Alliance and collectively, we propose the following: You will retain the deed to your current ration of Y chromosomes, but ya’ll gotta come off some of those X’s, yo. The nightclub pilfery must cease. If we have to tolerate hours of audio abuse, cover charges and being tasked with mandatory libation procurement, at the very least we deserve some cleavage to fondle. Isn’t that in the constitution? We have rights, nigga. Give us free. My sanity and dramatically improved dating prowess thank you in advance for your compliance.

AH: My counteroffer: I’ll bring my Awesome down to about an 8 on payday weekends so ye of dry dicks can spend your rolled pennies on a chance at short- or long-term affection from a breasted person. Tell Les Insecures that they can unclench when in the presence of a Homosexican like myself, one who you shouldn’t assume wants to be described as FABULOUS *glitter bomb*. Pass on them memo that it’s embarrassingly presumptuous to assume that every gay dude yearns to make sweet love to them down by the fire. Humble yourself in the presence of greatness, lesser motherfucker. También, and more logically, I’m a HOMOsexual, not a HYPERsexual, undiscerning hornball who takes whatever he can get. WE HAZ STANDARDS, BITCH. Most likely, ain’t nobody, ovary-bearing or otherwise, checking for you, broham. Gay men are always discussed in purely sexual terms, negating the whole other 92.5% of our wondrous selves. If T-Pain, hideous yet paid, can have an openly gay personal assistant, publicly bash homophobes, not feel threatened when breathing the same air as a gay dude, and not begin all his sentences with NO HOMO, then your brethren, ashy, overweight, and probably not too far ahead of R Kelly’s deathbed confessions on the Scale of Things That are Revolting, can chill the entire aquatic fuck out. Deal?

JC: But was the glitter bomb really necessary though? You are a man bereft of both virtue and the inherent delight of vaginal corridors. Bitter, single and black. How great thou aren’t.

AH: Doesn’t Virtue live in a storage unit with the lesser Braxton sisters? That’s what I heard. Anyway, four bonus points for bereft. Include that usage in your next Womb Raider job interview. Bitter? Me? As Whitney once said, I’m saving all my accumulated Glory for the most impressive bidder with the smoothest vocabulary. Or something. I suppose that’s what we’re all doing, no? Black: Yes. Single: Yes. And alone. Not bitter. Fuck you.

___________________________________________
A million thanks to my partner in crime:

Jay Connor is a prized pupil of the esteemed Professor Xavier and a Los Angeles based freelance writer. When he’s not preoccupied with accruing overdraft fees while chasing the dream, he can be found disseminating terrorist threats on Facebook. Direct all business inquiries, sexual innuendo and Nigerian email scams to deathtoadverbs@gmail.com.

Follow me on Twitter: @chrisalexander_
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