My wife is dope (and I’m not just saying that)

Those of you who know me, know I married above my station.

My wife is quite dope, and I’m just hanging around, burdening her with children to prevent her flight.

Where’s she going, you ask?

Well she’s one of the illest artist’s I’ve ever met.

She paints and sketches and basically puts her thing down.

She just completed a piece for Nneka, who stayed with us briefly when she visited the states late last year.

Chanel was so struck and inspired by Nneka when she met her, that she created this piece.

For those of you who have not yet had the opportunity to meet Nneka, she is one of the sweetest most down-to-earth people you’ll ever meet.

When she stayed with us, we went to a Nigerian grocery to buy ingredients because Nneka wanted to cook us authentic egusi soup and farina. (It was delicious!)

Did I say the girl was sweet?

And if you don’t know wifey, know that she’s not painting just ‘ole anybody.

The girl’s got standards, ya dig?

So it was with eager anticipation I waited to see what she was gonna make.

This was where the piece started.

This is how the finished piece started.

And this is how it ended.

Chanel put her foot in it!

I’ve become so attached to this piece, that I’m reluctant to let Nneka have it.

But I’ve got the artist, so I guess I can let this one go.

You can check out some of Chanel’s work at her site.

I just wanted to share my wife’s dopeness with the world, lest I be accused of being selfish.

Psssst. Feel free to hit me up if you want something commissioned.

Single People: Do you Urban Signal?

I'm looking for all my urban singles! Is Urban Signals worth the space on my deck?

I was trolling Craigslist (as I am prone to do in a recession), and I came across a posting for a ‘Social Media Wizard‘ for Urban Signals.

Googling ‘Urban Signals’ I learned that it’s a location-based application that put social networking on steroids.

Sufficiently intrigued (I am rather SM savvy, if I do say so myself), I read further, and learned that Urban Signals was looking for a rock star who gets social media to join their team.

Ultimately, I (virtually) met Alan (in a video) who described ‘missed connections’ and how Urban Signals’ iPhone app helps to avoid making these missed connections.

The video (in which I met Alan), shows Urban Signals’ new app in action, as he stalks some chic in an effort to make a real world connection.

The Urban Signals website gives loads of information about them and the company. They’ve got a blog, and hooks into Facebook and Twitter.

They’ve also got this interesting little section that gives folks the ability to post their own ‘urban love stories.‘

Being an iPhone addict myself, I was intrigued by the promise of an app that would let you make anonymous but potentially intimate connections.

As I am already betrothed, and have no need for such an application, I wanted to see how my single people (All my single ladies! All my single ladies!) felt about an app that would help them hook up with other single folks.

Was there really a market for an app that would let you know when other desperate singles were lurking about?

Does this form of social voyeurism freak you out?

Or have virtual connections become the order of the day?

I’m writing this post for two reasons:

1. I’m really curious about the state of single folks today, and whether an app like Urban Signals’ is actually viable; and

2. As evidence of my genuine interest in working with them (freelance telecommute gig=perfect for me).

So all my people with iPhones, download the app and tell me what you think.

I’ve downloaded it, and I’m going to give it a spin.

And while I plan to give them my honest opinion, I don’t want to be perceived as jock-riding (for a job) if it’s really good.

More importantly, if it’s basura, I’d like more than my 2 cents in on that critique.

The man nightmare is over. Let the pain begin.

I couldn't bear to show you my junk being worked on. Be grateful for my discretion.

1:45 p.m. Asked to disrobe.

Declined general anesthesia, opting instead for a local (I’m a man, I can take it).

Shaved my balls.

Cleaned with cold betadine solution.

Observed the doc (aka ‘The Sadist’) change gloves.

Where’s that needle going?

Got a shot in my balls. Slight OUCH!

“Which razor are you going to use?” (says the nurse)

Razor? What happened to the scalpel?

Felt my left vas deferen (is that the proper singular?) being pulled out.

The feeling was  like someone punched me in the gut through a pillow.

Is that supposed to hurt?

Let’s give him some more local.

More needles in my balls.

Now he’s doing something down there, which created a tingly sensation in my bum.

Smell burning.

He’s got a needle and thread.

Must be finishing on the left side.

First side down, no worse for the wear.

On to the right side.

iPhone alarm just went off reminding me I’m having surgery in 30 minutes.

Pulls out the vas deferens on the right side.

Got that punched in the gut feeling again.

Smoke. Smoke?

Feel like I’ve got to pee.

“Hey doc, OUCH!”

Get a couple more shots of local to dull the sensation.

Sounds of sizzling bacon.

“Doc you’re not cooking down there are you?”

Laughter. But no answer.

Using some new fangled tool (new clip applier) on my balls.

Mindless banter between the doctor and nurse as they sew some more.

Status update: “Almost done.”

“Moving along quite nicely. You’re scrotum is cooperating.”

It’s the private schooling.

2:07 p.m. Surgery complete.

Cleaning me up.

Apply bandage.

All done.

Start to finish about 20 minutes.

No big deal. No sweat.

Just saw the quarter-inch piece of vas deferens they removed from the left side.

Looks like a red piece of rice.

I tried to Tweet live from the operating table, but couldn’t get a signal, so this blog post is the next best thing.

I feel like someone kicked me in my nether region.

I’m high on oxy right now, so I’m going to bed.

Diary of a mad (as in crazy insane) Black man(‘s nightmare come to life)

His junk is gone. Who can laugh at a time like this?

In less than 12 hours, I’ll be having surgery for the big ‘V.’

I’ll have to admit that I’m a little shook.

I mean some dude is going to be putting needles, and scalpels and heat…down there.

In a place that none of the aforementioned implements of torture should ever be.

It’s barbaric.

It’s inhumane.

It’s necessary. (Child number 4 was…how do you say…an accident.)

I’m trying to pyche myself up.

You see, back in December, when I had my original consultation, I thought I had more time.

The baby wasn’t here.

Wifey hadn’t healed up.

I could talk about ‘The Procedure‘ in a far-off, abstract way.

But in less than 12 hours (did I tell you that it’s happening in less than 12 hours?) some man in scrubs and rubber gloves will attempt to stop the flow of spermatozoa from my gonads.

I’ll plant no more seeds.

Build no more ‘lil Chukumbas.

Cease contributing to the world’s overpopulation.

I’ll be sterilized.

Not to say that there aren’t positives to having your faucet turned off.

For example, I’ll be able to run up in wifey whenever the hell I damn well please.

Bareback. Thank you very much.

AND if I ever slip up and fall into some booty that’s not the wifey’s, I’ll never have to worry about paternity tests, “cause I’m shooting blanks Maury!”

So there is an upside.

But I can’t help thinking about the words of my sadist, I mean ‘doctor.’

“Some guys syncope, at the mere thought of having the procedure.”

Syncope? C’mon dude, plain english! (Syncope=pass out)

Didn’t you take a Hippocratic oath? You monster!

Oh, so you’re saying I’m a punk?

But….as I sit here, thinking about the fact that:

1. Someone is going to stick a needle in the vicinity of (or God Forbid, IN) my balls; and then

2. That same someone is going to take a scalpel and make an incision (forget the pleasantries – CUT) my nutsack with said scalpel; and then

3. (without skipping a beat or allowing me to recover from the unadulterated trauma of items 1 & 2 above) pull my vasa deferentia from said incision, sever and seal them (with FIRE); and then

4. Stitch up the incision with another needle.

Perhaps I am feeling a wee punk-ish.

But I shall remain undaunted!

I’m just writing this post for your entertainment…

I don’t REALLY need to get psyched up…

I’ve got this in the bag…

I’m Nigerian damn it!….

We chase lions and kill food with our bare hands!…

What’s a little needle, knife and heat going to do to a straight Mandingo like myself!?…

………………….Mommy?

Mass Social Voyeurism: Cyberstalking on Facebook

Don't let virtual voyeurs ruin your day. Check your Facebook privacy settings.

This weekend, we had folks over the house. With the arrival of the newborn, cats have a legitimate excuse to bum rush our door, and since they know we can’t really go anywhere, it’s pretty hard to turn ‘em away (‘Umm, you can’t come through, we’ve got the swine flu?’).

Anywho…after the crowd thinned (there were 18 people in our house at one point), and the wine got to flowing, conversation turned to the phenomenon called Facebook.

There are two schools of thought when it comes to Facebook, you either love it or you hate it. If you love it, you use it. If you hate it, you don’t or you use it sporadically.

But there’s actually a third school – the Facebook voyeur. Cats who use Facebook to peer into the lives of others.

One of our guests couldn’t wrap her mind around why people were so manic when it came to Facebook.

She was especially perplexed by the way folks who you hadn’t been friends with in the past would attempt to ‘friend’ you on Facebook.

Her annoyance was palpable as she rattled off questions:

Why do people search for people they haven’t spoken to in years?

Why would you try to friend someone who used to be your enemy?

If we haven’t spoken for years, why the sudden desire to reconnect?

You don’t even know me, so why are you hitting me up like we we’re ace-boon-coon?

After going back and forth, debating the Facebook cult of personality, a theory emerged for why people were agog over Facebook – mass social voyeurism.

Facebook gives the casual voyeur the ability to anonymously sit and watch people broadcast their lives to the world.

What makes it ‘mass’ is the fact that there is a social multiplier effect attributable to this brand of voyeurism.

It’s not just the virtual stalker that you’ve got to worry about, but all their freaky friends and compadres.

Facebook’s confusing new privacy policy (and probably unbeknownst to most FB users) makes virtually everything you do public and searchable.

So that girl that couldn’t stand you in college because she thought that you thought that you were all that, now knows that you’re no longer as cute as you used to be (cause she’s trolled pictures of you in Facebook) and silently rejoices – and then tries to friend you (cause she’s hot now – and wants you to know it).

Even if she never actually tries to friend you, she can sit, eating Bon Bons, taking pleasure in every ‘It’s complicated’ post you publish, relishing personal trials and travails.

What’s so disturbing about it, is that you’ll never know your whole life is under the scrutiny of crazies. Most people probably don’t put that much thought into what they post or publish, because they feel like it’s among friends.

But in this age of reality tv, TMZ and YouTube, every personal gaffe is potentially fodder for the masses.

Spot check: I’m getting deeper than I’d intended.

Several bottles of wine later, we’d concluded that Facebook wasn’t for everyone and familiarizing oneself with Facebook privacy settings was definitely in order to avoid cyberstalkers and voyeurs.

My kids have aspirations.

Is this the next Black President of the United States?

Driving to school today, my daughter started telling me about all the things she wanted to be when she grew up.

Daddy, I want to be a vet, a doctor, a singer, an artist, an entomologist…

What the hell is an entomologist? Geesh, I’m not even as smart as a 2nd grader!

My son chimed in with his aspirations.

Daddy, I want to be a motorcycle racer (damn you Kabil!), a soccer player, an astronaut…

You ARE somewhat of a space cadet.

Not wishing to be left out of the discussion, the baby added her two cents.

Daddy, I’m going to be a dancer, a doctor and astronaut, a singer, an artist…

That’s what the crayon on the walls is all about!

No! I said I was going to be an artist…

I’m going to be the astronaut!

I was compelled to intervene.

Who wants to be President?

Hands shoot up in the air. Me! Me! I do!

Thank you Mr. Obama!

Who wants to be a tennis player?

More wildly wiggling arms. Me! I love tennis! Me too!

Williams sisters look out!

What about a scientist?

Arms strain towards the roof of the SUV. Me! Ooo I do! Me too!

Do we have a Edward Alexander Bouchet in our midsts?

Who wants to be a lawyer?

Rear view mirror totally unobstructed. Crickets.

I shed a silent tear.

C’mon guys, who wants to go to law school like mommy and daddy?

Crickets AND tumbleweeds.

So much for Chukumba Chukumba & Chukumba.

Anyone want to be a cyborg robotronic computerhead like your daddy?

Palms shoot up. Me! Me! Me too!

So I’ve learned that my children have aspirations, although the practice of law isn’t in the cards.

They want to be motorcycle driving, rocket piloting, goal scoring, Wimbeldon winning, pet curing, people saving, song singing, audience pleasing, canvas painting, country leading, robotronic bug watchers.

I AM as smart as a 2nd grader, after all!