The One About Self-Awareness.

I see PRIDE! I see POWER! I SEE A BAD ASS MUDDA WHO DON'T TAKE NO CRAP OFFA NOBODY!!!!

I remember the first time I heard the theory that people are more intimately familiar with who they think they are than who they actually are. Okay, that’s not true at all. I don’t remember when I first heard it, but I do know that when I heard it I immediately said to myself, “self, that’s true”. It makes sense if you think about it. We spend so much time thinking about who we want to be and how we think we come across that reality is like getting slapped in the face with one of Aretha’s areolas, your two ho’s, and a bottle of rum.

With that in mind, over the course of time I’ve come to some conclusions about myself based on what I thought I wanted or who I thought I was and how reality is playing itself out. Some way down like where the signifying monkey used to hang out. Others more shallow than Kim Kardashian in a kiddie pool kickin’ it with two koalas on Koval.

Allons-y.

I thought I wanted to be one of those folks who likes to have deep conversations. It turns out that I want to be one of the people who has deep conversations about ignorant sh*t.

You know Savon from Love Jones? Yeah, I want to be him, except talking about thongs and the importance of Puffy to the fabric of society. But I SO want there to be a drum present. When I buy a house, one of the first things I’m doing is going drum shopping so I can have a truly Black household. All convos will include the drum. I want to talk about how Kool-Aid is truly the key to life and pop culture. I don’t want to talk about important things unless I feel like it. And only on special occasions…like when white people are present. Or in front of Barack Obama, though I’m fairly certain I’d probably talk a little ignant around Obama. The man sings Al Green songs for cripe’s sake. He cool.

I thought I wanted to date women with big hair who had the big hair angst and social justice guilt and conscience who were artsy and blah blah blah. It turns out I just like big hair.

Seems that I couldn’t care about their activism. I just like big hair. Hell, I might actually prefer big haired bougie women. The type with big hair and Coach bags who are as superficial as chicks with perms. I just wanna lay in their hair without the guilt of recycling. Basically, while I love Freddie from A Different World, I’m sure she would have gotten on my last damn nerves when I told her that I thought “Rack City” was empowering to women.

I thought that because I’m a writer and a rapper and an author and talker and because I communicate often I was a good communicator. It turns out that’s not true.

So, despite my uber sharing ass nature, in intimate settings, I can be quite walled off and anti-vulnerable. How’s that for some sh*t that makes no sense. I’m like the Great Communicator Of Useless Information When It Matters Least. I’m Alex Trebek for Dummies. For Relationships.

I thought that majority of my relationships ended because of compatibility issues. It turns out that most of them probably stem from that little communication problem I just shared a few lines ago. No coca-ina.

Now that’s not to say that every relationship that ended didn’t need to end, they probably did. But my inability to communicate properly was probably as culpable for the beginning of the end as any compatibility issue or constant nuisance that I either created or initially found cute but eventually found grating.

I thought that I was one of the few mixed kids who didn’t have an identity issues. It turns out that I do.

Yeah, I can’t decide if I f*ckin’ rock or if I’m f*ckin’ awesome. It’s a conflict that only people of my pedigree can fully appreciate. It’s hard out here for an cool mulatto. Or a culatto.

I often thought that because I was enlightened that I was above certain negativitisms. Turns out my enlightenment helps to inform my ignorance.

This woman cut me off in traffic today. I didn’t call her a b*tch while shaking my fist in my car behind my glass windows. Nope, I called her a wench. Mostly because I like the word and second because I thought calling a woman a b*tch because she’s a woman who pissed me off would make me like every other ignorant man. So wench it was, which I’m fairly certain achieves the EXACT same end as the b-word. I felt bad. But if I didn’t read, I don’t think I’d know the w-word either. Damn you education system for teaching me how to get around general use pejoratives for learned ones! I definitely call ni**as the n-word though.

Anyway, those are some of my self-awarenesses. Sharing is caring people. What you got?

-VSB P aka THE ARSONIST aka MR. STEAL YOUR CURL aka GIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRL HE A 3

six things every grown-ass sista should possess

last week, panama blessed the vsb pulpit with 6 things that every grown a** black man needs in his life. since we’re ardent supporters of equal opportunity and sh*t, here’s six things every grown-ass sista should possess.

1. a hobby

“what’s the most important thing for a grown-ass sista to possess?”

you know, while others may respond to this question with goeswithoutsayings like “a job” or “an education” or “a passport” or “a genius-level command of their gag reflex“, an actual hobby that doesn’t involve meeting men or buying blahniks is usually the first answer i think of. nothing says “i’m grown the f*ck up” more than a woman who has genuine interests, enthusiasms, and curiosities, and actually makes time to partake in and pursue them.

despite this, there still remains a somewhat sizable sista sub-species of seemingly “grown” walking, talking, vagina zombies with no discernible interests infecting the dating game with their uninteresting-ass e coli, and i’m curious to find out how this happened.  it’s almost as if they all took the exact same “how to be a hobbyless ho 101″ course their freshman year at howard

2. girlfriends

like i said before, when a woman tells me that she doesn’t really get along with other women, i interpret it as code for one of two things

a) i don’t really get along with other women anymore because i’m a backstabbing b*tch who usually tries to steal their boyfriends”

b)because i don’t have any friends, i’m going to expect any man i happen to be with to be my sole entertainment for the duration of the relationship”

seriously though, if you’re over 25, you’ve been on the planet long enough to cultivate at least one or two good relationships with someone else in your peer group, and you probably shouldn’t go around calling yourself a grown-up until you’re able to.

3. size, age, and situation appropriate clothing

reason number 135 why every grown-ass sista should possess at least one good girlfriend: to put your ass in a figure four if you attempt to leave the crib like this

4. orgasm ownership

if you’re a sexually active woman, the “i’m completely and utterly clueless about my vagina and have no idea how to make myself climax” sympathy card expires a month after your 27th birthday, and you probably should pencil in a permanent reservation at the kiddle table during thanksgivings until your “too old to be shook by my own snatch” ass figures it out.

5. nice hair

whether you’re rocking braids or a baldy, a bob or a halle, deceiving weave or the “spelman pullback”, a grown-ass sista should know a) how to handle your do, b) which do is most appropriate for you, and c) how not to leave the house looking like one of those tragic maury povich mulattoes whose mothers have no f*cking clue what to do

6. a go-to dude

whether its her dad, her cousin ronnie, her grade school vice-principal, or vsb, every grown-ass sista should have at least one (heterosexual!) male in her life that’ll give it to her straight with no chaser whenever she needs to know “what does it mean when he says that he only wants to see me between 3 and 3:45am on the weekends?” and other deep insights about the mysterious male mind

anyway, people of vsb, what else should every grown-ass sista own before she earns the privilegde to call herself a grown-ass sista? 

and, since we’re all here, who do you think is going to be the first popular recording artist that actually murders herself on stage during an award show because she’s trying to top a lady gaga performance? (my money’s on pink)

—the champ


hair, hair, hair

i’ve had the exact same haircut for thirteen years.

real eggheads do real things

see, egghead

since allen iverson influenced me to upgrade from a close fade to a ceaser some time in the winter of 1995, i’ve stayed loyal (heh) to the cut. sure, i occasionally change the length and thickness of my beard and mustache, but my hair has basically remained the same.

at the base level, professing to having the exact same cut for over a decade seems somewhat odd until you remember that for a professional black male, there really aren’t that many variations. this is a stark contrast to the 80′s, a decade which saw the virtual wild wild west of acceptable adult black male hair. nowadays, our choices have basically been narrowed down to ceaser, short fro, locks, or bald. sure, if my head wasnt shaped exactly like an easter egg i could conceivably grow cornrows or rock mini’s with watermelon jolly ranchers at the tips, but i know that doing such could, no, wait, would stifle my professional and social growth as well as insure many nights of dry penis.

although we’ve commonly and willfully accepted that a change in hairstyle can drastically alter a persons job prospects, we seem to be a bit hesitant to admit how much it affects our dating selves as well. in a perfect world, i wouldn’t be lactose intolerant, jim jones would be dead be managing a bodega in new rochelle, and your hair wouldnt really matter that much to anyone else. bald or perm, braids or process, in a perfect world you’d still get the same type of attention from the opposite sex regardless of what’s happening on your scalp. its the person inside that matters, right? your hair should have sh*t to do with that.

yet, as i hear “come home with me” obnoxiously blasting from some car outside my bedroom window, i’m reminded that jim jones is still alive, cookies and cream shakes give me impressive gas, and hair matters.

hair matters in the sense that a particular hairstyle can give strangers immediate synopsizes of your personality. adjectives such as “afro-centric“, “high-maintenance“, “free spirited”, “hood rat-ish“, and “gotdamn foolish” could be immediately assigned to you, and this same immediate synopsis affects what type of person might be drawn to you. as i jokingly mentioned before, i know that if i had cornrows instead of the simple ceaser, i wouldnt have been able to bag some of the women ive bagged before, their decisions solely based off of my implied maturity level and income potential. regardless of whether or not this is right or wrong, you can’t deny that its true

hair matters because with many black women, merely suggesting to them that changing their hair might possibly result in increased attention from the opposite sex could induce eyerolls, dialated eyeballs, eye-poking, and eventually eye-gouging.

hair matters because, well, none of us would have ever heard of kelis if it didnt, and, well, we all know how much the idea of kelis has influenced the direction of each of our lives

hair matters because, well, i’m not even gonna attempt to discuss the long and nuanced history regarding african-american women and their hair, so i’m just use this clip as my cheat sheet:

so, coarsely maned fine people of vsb.com, how does hair matter to you?

—the champ