As the title suggests, I want to talk about Trayvon Martin today. I want to talk about his murder. I want to talk about the release of the 911 tapes. I want to talk about how I haven’t mustered the courage(?) to listen to them yet. I want to talk about how I begin to break down whenever I see his picture. I want to talk about the picture attached to this post, and how that baby-faced kid — a baby-faced kid who could have very easily been my little brother, my nephew, my cousin, my neighbor’s kid, my son, or, well, me — had no idea that he was going to be stalked, pursued, assaulted, and murdered before his 18th birthday just because he happened to be black at the wrong place in the wrong time. I want to talk about the fact that his murderer hasn’t been (and may never be) arrested. I want to talk about how, despite the fact that I know hate is wrong, I haven’t been able to think of a word strong enough to convey my hate for George Zimmerman. I want to talk about the effect this murder has had on his family, and how this unbelievably sad story has galvanized the nation.

When we’re done talking about Trayvon Martin, I want to talk about 19-year-old Anthony Scott and 6-year-old Aliyah Shell — the two youngest of the 10 people murdered in Chicago last weekend. Aliyah was killed in a drive-by shooting in broad daylight (3:30pm) as she sat on the porch with her mom. Anthony was called to a vehicle, and shot in the head as he approached it.

I’d also like to talk about 2-year-old Taizon Arin and 11-year-old Donovan McKee, two kids recently murdered by their mother’s boyfriends. Taizon died of blunt force trauma to the head. Donovan was ordered to get the sticks he was beat to death with, forced to clean up the bloody mess he made while his murderer took breaks from beating him to death, and eventually died after being beat over a nine hour span. 

If we have some time, I’d definitely like to say a few words about Kenneth Alford Jr, one of the dozen or so people I’ve personally known who’ve been murdered. It’s been almost six years since he was shot to death, and Kenneth — who was known as “Stubbo” by, well, everyone — was a friend of mine and a basketball rival I’d known since I was maybe 11 or 12.

It’s funny. I was a much better player than him — bigger, stronger, better shooter, better handle, just better — but he always got the better of me when we played against each other. As anyone who’s ever played ball will tell you, some guys just always have your number. Stubbo had mine, and it frustrated the hell out of me.

If he was still around he’d definitely be playing in one of the over-30 YMCA leagues I currently play in. He’s long gone, though — murdered because of mistaken identity — so I’m left to wonder if he’d still have my number.

Actually, I misspoke a couple paragraphs ago. When counting the dozen or so people I’ve known who have been murdered, I didn’t count former students — kids who sat in my classroom when I was an English teacher. If you add them to the list, that “dozen” number doubles.

I feel awful saying this, but I don’t remember each of their names. But, I do remember that I said a prayer for Chandler Thompson, Richiena Porter, Isaiah Talbott, and Stephen Tibbs every night for maybe three years straight.

It’s been a while since I’ve done that though, so maybe we can talk about them for (at least) a couple minutes today, for no other reasons then it’ll make me feel better about neglecting to pray for them and forgetting the names of the rest of their gunned down classmates.

Lastly, while I may be tempted to spark this discussion, we don’t have to talk about my 16-year-old and 19-year-old nieces. They were both shot at a Sweet 16 house party a few months ago, but they were both lucky enough to only suffer non-fatal wounds.

I don’t know where I’m going with any of this. I don’t know why I stopped praying for Chandler, Richiena, Isaiah, and Stephen. I don’t know what to do with all of this emotion, all of this feeling the murder of Trayvon Martin has left me with. I don’t know what do to. I do know, though, that any glance at the “Local News” section of any one of the 100(?) or so major American newspapers will sadly remind us that Trayvon Martin’s murder isn’t the only one we need to talk about today.

 —Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)

From young Wallace’s bewilderment when venturing outside of the city and hearing crickets for the first time to Chris informing Snoop that people from outside of the Baltimore/D.C. area probably wouldn’t be very familiar with go-go music, a constant theme from the HBO series The Wire was how isolated inner city Baltimore’s inhabitants were from the rest of the world. Although — if the atlas application on my phone is correct — they’re neighbors with Towson, Essex, Silver Spring, and others, they might as well have been stuck on the island from Lost, aware of their star-crossed fate but completely unequipped, unable, and ultimately unwilling to change it.

No character embodied this mindset more than Old Face Andre — a mid-level dealer who happened to fall out of favor with the ruthless and reptilian drug kingpin Marlo Stanfield. In a subplot so sad and predictable that it’s actually funny, instead of just packing up and leaving town, Andre thinks that moving from West Baltimore to East Baltimore will save him from Marlo’s wrath.

He was wrong.

I’ve watched the full series (at least) three times. (I watched it “live,” and I’ve also re-watched the entire series with each of my last two girlfriends; at times even delaying sex to continue debates about Bodie Broadus’ motivations and Bill Rawls closet homosexuality.) I also developed an appetite for any and all things The Wire, engulfing and devouring every message board post, interview, article, profile, and conversation I could. At this point, I’d confidently bet a day’s pay that unless David Simon happens to be your cousin, you don’t know anyone who knows more about The Wire than I do.

I always assumed that my infatuation with The Wire was somewhat due to my unique personal background. While the show may have been a bit too real for some who grew up in similar circumstances and too foreign for those who lived galaxies away from that world, I grew up in a gang-infested East Liberty but was shielded from most real adversity by my (married) parents, my private school education, and my basketball. This combination of familiarity and distance allowed me to recognize some of the characters and themes while staying (relatively) emotionally detached from it. I had friends who grew up in households as toxic as the teenage characters on the show, but the fact that none of that stuff went on in my house made it easier for me to adopt a bit of a sober, deconstructionist view when watching and speaking about it.

But, as I’ve come to learn, this was all bullshit. It’s definitely still true that my upbringing protected me from harm and implanted a certain appreciation for many of the themes present in the series, but the connection I had with the show had nothing to do that. It came down to one hard to swallow fact: I am Old Face Andre.

While every single one of my closest childhood friends have left Pittsburgh for “greener” pastures, I’m still here; leaving only for college and returning as soon as my degree and my basketball eligibility had been completed. I wish I could say that I made the decision to come back because I had a plan, a promising job opportunity, or even a girl I was smitten with, but I’d be lying. In reality, I always considered it to be an inevitability; a concretized step on a pre-destined path. I came back because I just couldn’t fathom being anywhere else.

I imagine you think I’m being hyperbolic, that comparing myself to a drug dealer so short-sighted and ignorant that he basically chose certain death over leaving Baltimore is a stretch, and you’re probably be right. With a limited education and an extensive rap sheet, Old Face Andre’s options were limited by a series of decisions — decisions either made by him or completely out of his control. Maybe he wasn’t actually in prison, but he was far from free, and considering his circumstances, moving to East Baltimore may have actually been his most feasible choice.

But while my situation is far from as dire as Andre’s, I can’t help but note the similarities between us. My choice to blog/write/edit full-time gives me real incentive to leave Pittsburgh, as most of the career-making new media opportunities that would best suit the type of work I do are found in New York City and Washington, D.C. Yes, it’s true that I don’t necessarily have to leave the Burgh to build the career I want to build, but staying would be like to deciding to walk to Cincinnati the next time I visit my family there. Sure, it can be done, but driving or flying (or, well, not going to Cincinnati at all) would probably be a better plan.

Mind you, this is no anti-Pittsburgh rant. While the tone of the last couple paragraphs may have implied that I think I’m somehow “better” than the Burgh, this couldn’t be further from the truth. In fact, the city is undoubtedly better than me — talented, unpretentious, unflappable, and blessed with understated beauty. If the Burgh was a random babe at The Shadow Lounge or Savoy, she’d be out of my league, and I’d probably have a better chance with one of her less attractive cousins (Cleveland) or her extremely glamorous and extremely self-esteem deficient co-worker (Atlanta).

It’s just that…I don’t know. I don’t know what’s keeping me here. I don’t know why I didn’t even consider staying in Buffalo when done with school. I don’t know why I feel like I need to somehow be validated by Pittsburgh, like being successful somewhere else just wouldn’t matter the same way. I don’t know why this city means so gotdamn much to me, and I don’t even know if I want this feeling to change.

Despite my love for “The Wire,” I’ve always been ambivalent about Old Face Andre’s last appearance on screen. Captured by Marlo’s henchman and destined for certain death, he asks his soon to be murderers not to shoot him in the face so that he can have an open casket funeral. The request itself isn’t what stirs the ambivalence, though, as much as the tone he used when asking. He pleas the same merry familiarity that a person would adopt when asking the kid working the register at Giant Eagle to double bag his groceries. Not only is he completely resigned to his fate, it seems like he’s almost welcoming it; like he knows he doesn’t matter enough to even attempt to fight for his life.

I never quite felt that this particular scene worked as well as the rest of the show. I just couldn’t buy that a man in that situation would still be so casual, so jocular. But, perhaps he was just tired. Tired of living in fear. Tired of being haunted by Baltimore. Tired of the pathos. Tired of the self-imposed shackles. Tired of allowing himself to be manipulated by nostalgia. And perhaps his subconscious recognized that he was just ready for a change; something…anything not Baltimore.

If this is true, I understand.

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)

If you were to leave my house, make a right turn, and drive a half mile down Penn Avenue, you’d pass Bakery Square — a 150 million dollar redevelopment project that became open for business a year ago and houses (among other things) a 115,000 square foot�Google office, Anthropologie, the Urban Active Fitness Club I now belong to, the Coffee Tree Roasters where I’m writing this entry, and the nearby�Marriott�that I’m stealing wi-fi from because the Coffee Tree connection gives you a two hour time limit.

If you drove 300 feet further and looked to your right, you’d see a Trader Joe’s and a shop that does repairs for custom bicycles that cost somewhere between “obscene” and “the approximate price of my life.” On the left hand side you’d pass a doomed shopping complex that houses a�liquor�store, the nastiest dollar store that’s ever existed, a Weave Mart, and a�predictably�hood supermarket my parents�affectionately�coined “BeBe’s Giant Eagle.”

Drive another 200 feet and you’ll run right into a spanking new Target. Behind this Target is a mix of $200,000 lofts and Section 8 housing. My barbershop is within a two block radius, as is Rent-N-Roll — a place where you can put 26′s on layaway (No, seriously. If you don’t believe me, go to their website) — Whole Foods, Rainbow, The Kelly-Strayhorn theater, and a homeless shelter/soup kitchen.

Also, if you were to look on a map, the name of this section of Pittsburgh would be “East Liberty.” But, if you happened to look at all of the recent signs and advertisements promoting this area, the name somehow morphs into “Eastside.”

This all makes me a living and breathing�solider�on the country’s most important battlefield — a high stakes war where instead of machine guns and Humvees, the enemy is armed with Sperry Top-Siders and $13 cupcakes. Yes, my friends, I’m a first-hand witness to the world’s most retched 14 letter word: Gentrification.

Now, this is where you’re probably expecting me to talk about how jarring is it to see a community I grew up in undergo such change. Included would probably be a passionate�treatise about black people being displaced and black businesses getting priced out. I’d might even quote a passage from “The Bluest Eye” and cite something written by�Sister T. But, since I’ve obviously taken advantage of the many perks the gentrification has brought with it, you’re probably expecting me to end this piece with a paragraph or two describing my ambivalence towards the entire situation and a bit of genuine reflection about the guilt I feel for not leading the “reverse the redevelopment” movement

This is (partially) true. I am aware that these things are going on, and I am definitely ambivalent. But, I’m actually ambivalent about my complete and utter lack of ambivalence.

Basically, I really don’t give a f*ck about any of the gentrification negatives I’m “supposed” to care about, and I’m (kind of) worried that I’m supposed to�.

I know I should care that many people who look like me are being forced out of this community. In fact, I actually�want to care more. I want to feel like sh*t whenever I choose to get my produce at Whole Foods instead of BeBe’s Giant Eagle. I want to want to protest whenever I leave my barbershop and have to sidestep the pale-thighed joggers hoarding the sidewalk. I want to want to run up and kick the motherf*cker who’s walking his dog at night in a neighborhood where you couldn’t even wear red t-shirts 15 years ago.

I wonder if something’s wrong with me. I’m convinced that I’m supposed to be concerned, that I’m supposed to feel a perpetual uneasiness about the change going on in the “Eastside”; this gotdamn gentrification. Sh*t, I even hoped that writing this would induce at least a little bit of worry.

It hasn’t. I still really don’t give a f*ck, and it’s likely that I won’t find a f*ck to give any time soon.

Actually, you know what? Nevermind that. I’m going to go for a nighttime jog around the neighborhood with my girlfriend in a couple minutes�. Afterwards, we’ll probably walk to BRBG and get some adult milkshakes. We might stop at Bakery Square and watch a Jazz show on the way back. There’s a chance we might see some of our friends there, and we’ll probably have a pretty good time.

Anyway, maybe I’ll find a f*ck to give when I make it back home.

�The whole “I don’t give a f*ck” premise contains some hyperbole. I do care. I just don’t care nearly as much as I think I’m supposed to.

�I’m lying. I don’t do jogging. I will walk briskly, though.

—The Champ

Marshall, a perennial all-pro and native Pittsburgher (We can definitely breed em. What exactly are we breeding? I have no f*cking clue), has 515 words on his Wiki page devoted to accounts of his various arrests and run-ins with the law, so I wasn’t the least bit surprised when hearing that he had been stabbed in the gut by his wife last weekend.

From CNN

The wife of Miami Dolphins star receiver Brandon Marshall has been charged with stabbing him in the abdomen with a kitchen knife during a domestic violence incident, according to a report from the Broward County, Florida, sheriff’s office.

Michi Nogami-Marshall, 26, was charged Friday evening with aggravated battery with a deadly weapon, which allegedly occurred in their Southwest Ranches, Florida, home, according to the sheriff’s report.

The couple, who have no children, have been married one year and have been involved for 2 1/2 years, the sheriff’s report said.

Brandon Marshall, 27, told police that he “slipped and fell onto a broken glass vase,” the report said.

“However, the area of where the vase was broken indicated no blood within the immediate area to substantiate his claim,” the report said.

His wife then told police that she stabbed her husband “out of self-defense,” the report said.

“Both the victim and the defendant provided scant information regarding the incident itself,” the sheriff’s report said.

Now, I could be wrong, but after a quick scan of this article and Marshall’s Wiki page, my gut is telling me that Marshall and Nogami-Marshall are in a mutually abusive relationship.

Why definitely? Well, the numerous domestic disputes are a big giveaway. What really gets me, though, is the fact that she stabbed this n*gga in the stomach with a kitchen knife! You know where else they stab people in the stomach with non-lethal weapons? Prison. Basically, he got prison-shanked in his own house by his own wife.

But, not all abusive relationships give this type of conspicuous proof,�and here’s 5 somewhat subtle signs that you just might be in one.

1. No one ever invites you anywhere as a couple

While the whole Rihanna/Chris Brown thing might be a regular and even mundane occurrence for you and your beau, no one wants to be the couple sitting in the same Cheesecake Factory booth of the couple who’s throwing ice cubes, pinky rings, and two-sided brushes at each other.

2. You’re not having sex

Look, I understand that couples occasionally go through droughts. I also understand that some of these droughts may be health related. But, if you’re two healthy people with a normal sexual appetite, a prolonged drought usually means one of two things:

A) Someone did some foul-ass sh*t, and the other is justifiably pissed

B) Someone did something that wasn’t really all that bad at all, and the other is an emotional terrorist withholding the coital ransom

Ok, forget about whether that “coital ransom” analogy made any sense (it didn’t). The main point is that whenever sex is intentionally withheld for a long period of time, it’s usually accompanied either by some type of mental, emotional, or physical abuse or someone found out that someone’s a Laker fan.

3. Your last relationship was abusive

For whatever reason, it seems like people who just got out of seriously abusive relationships need to be in relationships that are progressively less abusive, but still abusive, before they’re ready to be in one completely devoid of it. It’s almost as if they’re going from crack (Ike Turner) to methadone (Jim Brown) to cigarettes (Nas) to cupcakes (Peter the Apostle).

4. You’re always on eggshells

I’ve been here before, where I spent so much time living on “Wait, is the mention of this perfectly normal sexual act going to make her cry again?” and “If this Kool-Aid is too sweet, will she burn another one of my sneakers at dawn?” eggshells that I might as well changed my name to Salmonella. Don’t fret for me, though. Served me right for dating that damn Delta.

5. You find yourself being preemptively abusive

Truly abusive relationships sometimes end up morphing into a version of Stockholm Syndrome, where instead of turning into a martyr, you adapt to the conditions created by your emotional terrorist and you even start becoming exactly like them. You manipulate before you have the opportunity to be manipulated, kick before you have the chance to get kicked, disrespect in the sack before you have the chance to be disrespected.

Before you know it, you’ve become the Steven Seagal to their “lead smirking henchman in black,” and your entire life is one big clusterf*ck circle jerk of broken limbs, bed dred, police reports, and cold semen in your eye.�

Anyway, people of VSB.com, did I forget anything? Can you think of any more signs that a person might be in an abusive relationship? Also, although men get the bulk of the abuser blame, do you think there’s any truth to the idea that women are frequently just as (if not more) abusive?

The carpet is yours.

—The Champ

If you haven�t purchased the paperback or the $9.99 Kindle version of �Your Degrees Wont Keep You Warm at Night: The Very Smart Brothas Guide to Dating, Mating, and Fighting Crime� yet, what the hell is stopping you? (No, seriously. Tell us and we’ll send Liz to fix it)

While a tad disappointing, I can�t say that I was surprised after reading �Love Isn’t Color-Blind: White Online Daters Spurn Blacks� — the Time Magazine piece showing that African-Americans are the redheaded stepchildren of online dating. Based on a study from researchers at The University of California (Berkeley), this article merely reiterated what numerous sources — OKCupid�s �How Race Affects The Messages You Get� for example — have already stated: it just seems like online dating�s just not that into black people.

But, while this phenomenon has inundated us with �Who� and �What� (and a latent sense of �black people just aren�t as attractive as others�-ness), I�m more curious about the �Why,� and I thought of three possible reasons.

1. Black people are just not that into online dating, either

Although the aughts brought with them a beginning to the end of the black community�s ongoing (and silly) tabooization of many dating practices (ie: white male/black female romantic couplings), the stigma attached to online dating remains intact.

Despite our increasingly lascivious love affair with Facebook and Twitter — �and the time we waste, er, spend cultivating that romance � a black person publicly admitting they actually sought out and met a potential romantic partner on the internet is akin to, well, a black person publicly admitting they actually sought out and met a potential romantic partner on the internet. While it�s generally considered to be �cool� if you happened to meet and date someone you happened to first meet online, nothing�s analogous to the level of simultaneous condescension and �wheredeydothatat-ness� admitting you joined a dating site usually receives.

I experienced this first hand a couple weeks ago while talking to Ms. Solomon of The Dating Truth and a few other single sistas at an open mic event. They were musing about the myriad dating difficulties present for black women in Pittsburgh, and when I suggested that online dating might be a reasonable and practical option, they each looked at me as if I suggested they start dating vegan midget pedophiles.

Quoting Ms. Solomon

“You’re not going to find hot guys on dating sites. Why? Cause hot guys are out living life, not sitting at some screen and hoping that some woman is going to think it’s cute that his profile says he likes dogs and Italian food.”

I realize this is anecdotal evidence, and I also realize other races/cultures may hold similar stigmas, but within our community, the mindset exhibited by Ms. Soloman tends to be the rule, not the exception.

Our general reluctance to embrace this part of 21^st century life surely affects our success rate when we finally do, a fact leading to�

2.� It�s not about online dating just not being that into black people much as it�s online dating just not being that into the type of black person who�d make this decision

Both the OKCupid and the UC Berkley studies cited data showing that blacks were much more interested in meeting others than vice versa.

From the Berkley study:

�Those who said they were indifferent to the race of a partner were most likely to be young, male and black,� said Gerald Mendelsohn, a UC Berkeley psychologist, professor of graduate studies and lead author of the study, which will soon be submitted for publication.

Overall, he said, �Whites more than blacks, women more than men and old more than young participants stated a preference for a partner of the same race,�

The reluctance of whites to contact blacks was true even for those who claimed they were indifferent to race.� More than 80 percent of the whites contacted whites and fewer than 5 percent of them contacted blacks, a disparity that held for young as well as for older participants.

OKCupid even showed that we�re less interested in meeting each other than we are with meeting others:

Men don�t write black women back. Or rather, they write them back far less often than they should. Black women reply the most, yet get by far the fewest replies. Essentially every race�including other blacks�singles them out for the cold shoulder.

While this can (and has) been interpreted as proof of a general lack of physical/sexual attraction for black people (and black women in particular), I don�t share that self-defeatist opinion.

Instead I�d argue that — because of our previously cited reluctance to de-stigmatize online dating — the black people who do embrace online dating are probably more likely to embrace it out of desperation, a last option, a final �I need to find someone by any means necessary!!!� salvo. While exceptions definitely exist, people at the end of their dating ropes usually tend to be (thinking of the least offensive way to say this possible) less desirable than those who aren�t, and it�s no surprise that they would encounter some of the same difficulties online they�d usually face while dating traditionally.

Basically, just like pretty girl problems…only the exact opposite.

3. The type of people (black and other) interested in virtual dating and in actually meeting black people might not be found on the sites cited by these studies

Five days from now, approximately 250 to 400 very smart people will descend on Washington D.C. to attend VSB Lounge, Episode 1: Three Deez — an event created, sponsored, promoted, and organized by a website that each of these 250 to 400 very smart people frequent. Books will be signed, Patron shots will be passed, and babies will be conceived in parking lots and bathroom stalls.

And, while the majority of the people planning to attend are probably just hoping to have a good time, the singles in attendance — many of whom would scoff at the idea of joining a dating site — probably wouldn’t mind if they happened to meet a potential mate while there.

My point?

Well, between VSB, high traffic message boards like Okayplayer.com, and even smaller blogs and Facebook groups, there are myriad venues available for black people interested in meeting potential romantic partners; venues that usually don�t require fees and also provide a sense of community, making the virtual approach less stressful and unnerving. These people don’t usually frequent these sites just to troll for mates, but the commonalities present in the community makes them more likely to entertain the possibility of finding a partner.

Also, since OKCupid pulled from their own data and only �major� dating sites were cited by the Cal Berkeley study, both ignore the thousands of black people belonging to sites such as Black Singles and Black People Meet.

Lastly, while the OKCupid study did show that black women were less likely to get contacted than any other race, I�d argue that the type of black person (man or woman) who�s already lukewarm about intra-racial dating is probably more likely to join a site like OkCupid. It�s not that black males who date virtually aren�t into black women, it�s that the black men who are interested in sistas can probably be found somewhere else. I’d imagine that if you asked black men in Irish pubs in Boston and black men in Baltimore IHOPs to share their thoughts about black women, the results might be a little different.

When you add these factors together, you can make the case that it�s not so much �the concept of online dating�s usually just not that into black people� but �predominately white dating websites usually just aren�t that into black people� � still not surprising, but much less disappointing and pessimistic.

Anyway, people of VSB.com, I’m curious: How do you feel about online dating? Would you consider joining a dating site or physically meeting a person you grew fond of on a site like VSB?

Also, can you think of any other reasons why this taboo exists?

The carpet is yours.

—The Champ

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“You’ve never rocked a doo-rag before? Ever?”

This question came about yesterday as a friend and I were having a nuanced discussion about the peculiarity surrounding the idea of blackness. Wait, that’s a lie. We were actually talking about something called a “Dr. Laura Schlessinger“, and the conversation somehow segued to an analysis of women with mustaches (and which occupations they’re most likely to have), morphed to a debate about old men with baby hair, and finally landed on Cheese from”The Wire”. (don’t ask)

As any fan of “The Wire” will tell you, Cheese–a mid-level East Baltimore drug dealer played by Method Man–was perpetually doo-ragged up. In fact, I don’t think there was a single moment in five seasons where Cheese appeared without a doo-rag or hoodie on his head.� Anyway, while discussing Cheese’s contribution to the show, my friend made a reference to the acne a loose do0-rag can cause (for the laymen: if you leave the strings hanging down, they can irritate your skin), and that it would be difficult to be taken seriously if you were a drug dealer with adult acne. My reply:

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never attempted to sell drugs in East Baltimore, and I’ve never rocked a doo-rag”

“What? I don’t believe you”

“You’ve known me for 10 years. When have you ever seen me attempt to sell drugs in East Baltimore?”

“I’m talking about the doo-rag, d*ckhead. You’ve never rocked a doo-rag before? Ever?”

“Nope”

“You sure you’re black, right?”

“No, but my d*ck is definitely black. Ask your wife”

“You might not be black, but you’re definitely gay”

Gayness aside, I was telling the truth. I’ve never rocked a doo-rag or stocking cap before, but for good reason(s)

A) Due to one of my great, great, great Native American second cousins, I was able to get waves without having to wear one.

B) Because of my head size/shape insecurities as a youth, I (rightly) assumed that wearing one would make my head look like a condom.

Anyway, this conversation made me think of a few more stereotypically “black” things I’ve just never really been that into, parts of standard American blackness I’ve never experienced, and other things that might jeopardize my black card membership if word ever got back to the committee.

I’ve never seen Love Jones, Love and Basketball, The Golden Child, The Last Dragon, The Wood, Booty Call, Hav Plenty, and anything Tyler Perry. I finally watched The Color Purple for the first time two years ago, and I’m close to 122% certain I won’t be watching Precious any time in the pre-apocalyptic future.

My reasons for not seeing any of these movies vary from “it just doesn’t look any good” (The Golden Child) to “He’s 5’6 in heels. How the hell am I supposed to believe he’s a great basketball player?” (Love and Basketball)

I’ve never been to Atlanta

Although, thanks to YouTube (NSFW!), I have been to Strokers numerous times.

None of my friends in Pittsburgh have any kids

Wait, let me rephrase that. None of my friends in Pittsburgh have any kids they know of.

Seriously though, I realize some people might find this–there are entire crews of childless, 25 to 35 year old black people floating around–hard to believe, but it’s true. I actually have a theory about how black people with kids and black people without kids usually travel in completely separate social circles, and I’d expound upon it if I actually gave a damn.

I always hated Good Times

The entire premise was depressing, none of the jokes were funny, and I could never make the Bob Beamon-esque leap that John Amos and Esther Rolle would have been able to overlook the 932 year age gap between them to form a loving couple. 900 years? Maybe. But, not 932. That’s just pushing it.

I’ve never purchased an R&B album

Unless, of course, you include Ghostdini the Wizard of Poetry.

I grew up in Southwestern Pennsylvania, went to a predominately white college, played a sport, and only slept with one white woman

And, to be perfectly honest, she was somewhat thick before it was cool for snizzles to be thick–her nickname was “Jabba The Butt“– so she didn’t really count.

I haven’t worn a pair of sunglasses in at least a decade

I’m including this even though I’m not exactly sure how “black” sunglasses really are. Basically, sunglasses are exactly like Rashida Jones in “Parks and Recreation”

I’ve never drank an entire 40

Honestly, I’ve never understood how people can do this. I mean, I can’t even drink 40 ounces of water in one sitting, so how the hell do people drink 40 ounces of beer? Are beer drinkers born with extra stomachs? Is the beer in 40s like cotton candy where it evaporates as soon as it hits your mouth? Is there a prize at the bottom of a 40 bottle? Like, is there a pocket-sized Kenya Moore waiting at the bottom of the bottle for you to rescue her from her foamy hell? Someone (preferably someone from south central Los Angeles) please explain this to me.

I’ve never shot dice

But, unfortunately…

My house has been shot at…

…which basically makes up for everything else on the list.

Okay, that’s enough from me. VSB.com, can you name any stereotypically black things you’ve never experienced, parts of universally accepted black culture you’re really just not that into?

The floor is yours.

—The Champ aka No Alias (because aliases are a bit too black to)

***as you can see, i’ve linked to a partial video of the event. because of the camera angle, you can’t really see much of me. well, lemme rephase that. you can’t really see much of me, except for my obnoxious-ass hands. gotdamn, lol. people have always told me that i speak with my hands, but i never realized exactly how aggressive they were until watching this video. it almost looks like i’m doing an impersonation of kevin hart doing an impersonation of a rapper. i probably should have just slipped a “real talk! i kill pittsburgh panel n*ggas!” in there for good measure.***

sometime during the night, one of the panelists (i forget who) remarked “the only dating truth is that there are no dating truths. we all just need to find our own way“, a statement that received a good 10 seconds of applause from everyone in attendance (including me), and it wasn’t until the next day that i realized how wrong that comment was. if experience has taught me anything, it’s that there are a few universal dating truths that are applicable to everyone and every situation, even if we don’t want to believe it.

here’s 5 of them.

1. catching (and keeping) feelings is a choice

we’ve all heard this story before:

after 6 months of bullsh*t convos over mediocre meals and half-assed bi-weekly sex, boy and girl kind of call it quits through a series of passive-aggressive text messages. boy moves on, but girl remains intent on holding onto one-ply thread of reconcilatory hope, stating that she “can’t help that she likes him so much, and wishes that she didn’t” while crying on shoulder of loyal (and cuckolded) “platonic” male confidant. dry-dicked platonic male confidant starts to mimic the unaffected behavior of boy, thinking that it will give him more sexual success, but not realizing that said behavior only works if women are trying not to like you. everybody eventually dies.

regardless of how attracted to someone we might be, we all have a little line in our head that basically says “ok. cross this point, and you’re going to start liking this person. don’t cross this point, and you won’t“. when you catch feelings, it’s not because some uncontrollable galatical force compels you to see grandkids in your future. no, you make the conscious mental and emotional decision to start liking them. and, when a person says that they can’t stop liking someone, what they’re really saying is “i don’t want to completely stop liking this person yet, because a part of me still thinks there’s a chance this might somehow work”

2. don’t do intimate sh*t with people you don’t want to f*ck, because you just might end up f*cking

***not to be confused with “don’t go to a buffet if you’re not hungry, cause you just might end up eating something” and “don’t date a mexican if you hate kids, cause she just might end up pregnant“***

3. nobody cares about you and your bullsh*t

the woman you’re out with tonight doesn’t care that the only reason you threw a spoon at the waiter is because you have anger and intimacy issues stemming from the weekends your dad used to make you wrestle baby deer on film. no, she just thinks you’re a creepy weirdo, and now her focus is on finding a way to walk out without having your creepy jame gumb acting ass follow her to the parking lot.

everybody has issues, and nobody gives a damn about yours. either deal with them and date, or don’t deal with them and stay home and put fawns in the figure four.

4. attractive people attract people

with this in mind, if you’re single and looking, it’s not the worst idea in the world to make the attempt to look attractive. like it or not, you’re in indirect competition with every other person on the market, so it’s in your best interests to compete.

get a haircut. shave (everywhere). brush your teeth. smell good. buy new clothes. work out. save the two year old hoop sneaks and FUBU basketball shorts for hooping, and save the mom jeans and the ridiculously unenthused hair for the saturday afternoon meredith baxter-birney marathon, not the club

5. some people won’t like you…and that’s ok.

regardless of how fabulous and unique you think you are, there are going to be some people who can’t stand the sight of you. sometimes you might even be attracted to these people, but you repulse them so much that they’d dry heave if they knew you were attracted to them. they’d rather f*ck a ceiling fan than throw a lay your way. to them, the only way your sh*t would stink worse is if it came out looking like you.

so, what do to? well, f*ck em. life is too short to dwell on who doesn’t like you and why they don’t. plus, you don’t like everybody, so why the hell would you expect that everybody is going to like your happy ass? brush your communist-ass shoulders off and do you.

people of vsb.com, did i forget anything? can you think of any other universal dating truths?

also (beside louie c.k. and patrice o’neal. wait, i gotta include bill burr in there as well), is there another stand-up act as consistently funny as kevin hart’s today?

—the champ

as you can imagine, game night is also a prime hook-up opportunity for many in attendance, as well as a great chance for those already coupled up to observe the multiple social etiquette faux pas committed by those actively looking for their next ex.

here’s a few of my favorite.

1. mr. or ms. “i haven’t figured out yet that i’m wasting my time trying to hook-up with someone who’s clearly not that interested in me”

whether its because of the alcohol or the (relatively) polite setting, there always remains a couple people so unaware of social cues that they continue with their full-court man-to-man press even though the other team is already back at the fucking hotel.

***btw, vsb’s and vss’s, if you ever think you’re in this situation, be mindful of one thing: laughter. basically, if you’re having one of those “i’m exchanging meaningless words with this person just to gauge their interest” convos and they haven’t even cracked a nervous smile or chuckled once, chances are that they probably think a wii directions manual is more interesting then you***

2. ms. “i probably should have either worn a belt or lotioned her butt crack if i planned on sitting like this all night”

a faux pas only rivaled by ms. “i have giant boobs and i’m giving all the guys too familiar hugs“ on the list of “relatively harmless things that will get a woman a seriously strong collective side-eye in a roomful of sistas”

3. mr. “i’m rocking enough unforgivable to suffocate a fuckin moose ox”

usually, this is also the same guy rocking an outfit specifically chosen to accentuate his gold bracelets, as well as the too competitive guy sweating through his shirt while playing charades

4. the “we just now realized that we’ve been talking to/sleeping with the same guy” twins

one of my favorites, along with their close cousin,

5. mr. “i should have looked at the invite list and realized that both of the chicks i’ve been sleeping with were coming so i could have stayed my ass at home“

anyway, people of vsb.com, i’m sure i’m missing a few. can you think of any other faux pas of house party hooking-up?

the floor is yours and sh*t

—the champ

last week produced pittsburgh’s first real taste of winter weather, with wind chills so violent that the mere thought of any outdoor activity induced some of the most awkwardly vulgar obscenities known to man. seriously, in the block walk from crazy mocha to my apartment last thursday, my brain was so appalled by the cold that it somehow convinced me that screaming “sh*tty goat nipples!!!” repeatedly would some how make it better. it didn’t

despite this, I always get a little giddy during this time of year. winter remains far and away my favorite season, and here’s four reasons why:

it builds character

put it this way: if leaving the comforts of a warm bed, blanket, and brown booty at six in the morning to shovel your percolating truck out of three inches of snow just so you can battle 10 miles worth of black ice, backed-up traffic, and bitch-ass priuses so you can sit in a cubicle and make just enough money to pay for you to repeat the entire process tomorrow isn’t character building, then I don’t know what the hell is.

cold weather music

by “cold weather” i’m referring to music thats best appreciated when heard through headphones, in your house by yourself, or in a whip with the windows up. usually this music either inspires you to make babies (ie: “who is jill scott? words and sounds vol. 1″), write your own songs (ie: the roots’ “things fall apart”), reluctantly sell drugs (ie: the gza’s “liquid swords”), or kill people (ie: mobb deep’s “the infamous”)

you can keep your heavy bass, boom-boxes, and laid-back breezy beach beats. gimme a hoodie, a skully, an ipod, and “the war report” and i’m good

the start of hoop season

although “below the rim: a former d-1 players’ awkward journey in search of his missing abs, hops, and pride” would be a perfect title if anyone made a documentary about me now, i still look forward to the beginning of basketball season more than any other single annual occurrence, including my birthday and the season premiere of “for the love of ray j”

the curious cases of the cold weather cuties

while I’ll always adore the energy, liberty, libido, love, and std’s produced by the summers heat, you can’t beat the intrigue and whip appeal of seeing a december sista so fine that her glory finds a way to shine through a parka, two thermals, fur earmuffs, and snow shoes.

plus, unwrapping that gift always makes for a great game of late night coitus kwanzaa

anyway, people of vsb, does anyone share my sentiments? if so, why? what is it about winter that you adore?

if not, what do you store in the space where your soul used to be? milk? staples? condoms? mexicans? I’m curious and sh*t

—the champ

although i’ve always suspected that i live in a bit of a vacuum, the conversations i’ve had, heard, and read over the past couple of weeks have basically confirmed this. apparently infidelity is the new 30, and my lack of experience in this arena apparently either means that i’m hopelessly behind the cheating curve (the preferred option) or so undesirable that both me and the equally undesirable women i’ve chosen to be with exist in cheat-free alternate universes (the, ummm, unpreferred option)

thing is, even if you disregard the “cheating is wrong and sh*t” thought, the idea of cheating has never even really been a relevant issue for me, for five completely separate and somewhat selfish reasons.

1. i’m lazy as hell

the walls in the dining area (“area” because calling it a “room” would be like calling the mud puddle in my parking lot a swamp) of my apartment are decorated with framed 24 x 36 inch vintage art posters. sure, they’re a bit cliche and definitely pretentious, but they’re colorful and black chicks with glasses, asses, and advanced degrees seem to dig them.

anyway, this framed poster…

…is actually laying on the floor next to my dining area table. it fell off the wall when my air conditioning broke, making my apartment so hot for a week or so that the wall adhesive basically melted, and its been there ever since because i’ve been too lazy to put it back up.

if that alone doesn’t convince you of my transcendent laziness, lemme inform you that this frame fell in august…of 2008

basically, a man who has spent 18 months walking past a fallen picture of a wino monkey because he just hasn’t felt like putting it back up yet probably isn’t going to bother trying to juggle multiple chicks.

2. i’m a bit of an assh*le

to expound, i’m a bit of an assh*le who will break up with somebody i still actually like.

basically, while others might stay in a relationship where they’re still relatively happy, but cheat to fill whatever void they have, i don’t have a problem with just saying “sorry, this isn’t working,” pulling the kanye shrug and bouncing if i feel a strong inclination to step out.

3. it seems too time-consuming

between working, blogging, watching basketball, playing basketball-like activities three days a week, the time spent in showers taken after masturbat1ng, and the time spend b*tching about the state of black relationships over cheap beer, i barely have enough time for my one girlfriend as it is.

i hate using condoms

i know that isn’t the most politically correct thing to admit, especially in light of world syphilis awareness week or whatever the hell it is right now, but f*ck it. yeah, i get tested and blah, blah, blah, blah, but isn’t being able to say “hey, look, ma: no condoms!!!” one of the perks of being in a long-term and faithful relationship?

nevermind. don’t answer that.

4. i live in pittsburgh

a common saying about the burgh is that it’s the biggest small town in the country. while six degrees of separation may connect you to everyone everywhere else, the burgh’s unique dynamics make it so that its somewhere between seven tenths and one and a quarter here.

basically, if you can’t even go to a home depot in the hood on a thursday morning without running into (in order) an old teacher, your godsister, franco harris, and an old f-buddy from the summer of 2003, how the hell do you expect to be able to creep here without getting caught?

5. apparently i’m prone to make funny f-faces

i’m already self-conscious enough as it is. i don’t need a bunch of off-brand sluts knowing exactly what the champ looks and sounds like when he’s making baby champions.

anyway, in the past two weeks we’ve devoted approximately 372 entries and 10,000 comments to why people cheat, why monogamy is unreasonable, and why blasian n*ggas named eldrick can’t be trusted.

for the remaining seven percent of us who haven’t cheated on their mate, i have one question: why? why haven’t you stepped out, and what has allowed you be a faithful tree in a den of inequity and easy p*ssy?

also, for those who’ve cheated on some but not others, what made the difference? was it circumstance, condition, or did you just wake up one day and decide to stop being a b*tch ass muthaf*cker?

the floor is yours

—the champ