Jermaine Dupri of Kriss Kross died today. So did journalistic integrity.

Will the real Mac Daddy please stand up?

I love how thorough the media is when reporting on Black stuff.

Like today.

Chris Kelly, a member of Kriss Kross died.

And in perfect media form numerous news outlets flashed the picture of Jermaine Dupri along with the story.

Chris?

Jermaine Dupri.

As I watched Fox News this morning, I thought, why are they showing a picture of Jermaine?

The last time I checked, Jermaine Dupri was not a part of the rap duo.

Sure, he produced them, but that didn’t make him a part of the group.

Since the story didn’t offer any context for the picture of Jermaine Dupri, like “Their producer, Jermaine Dupri was with the family in their time of grief” or anything like that, it made their use of his image all the more inexplicable.

Kriss Kross=Chris “Mac Daddy” Kelly and Chris “Daddy Mac” Smith.

Chris and Chris.

No Jermaine.

But then it dawned on me.

All Black people look the same.

We all look the same.

One Black dude is virtually indistinguishable from the next, so no harm no foul.

Right?

You remember when Michael Clarke Duncan passed away?

Who’s image did the media flash?

Terry Crews.

Terry Crews is not Michael Clarke Duncan.

Terry Crews?

Again, I got it.

They could have put up a picture of Debo and we would have been fine.

Oh wait…

A few channels did run the story with Debo’s picture.

Michael?

Michael Clarke Duncan, Terry Crews, Debo.

They’re all the same.

What’s the difference between one bald muscly Black dude and the next?

Nothing, apparently.

At least they ran the story with a picture of someone.

That’s good right?

Even if it was the wrong someone.

We don’t really count, so who cares?

Bitches.

Be the Brand. Tips from the (pseudo)master.

Note: This post was originally published August 25, 2008. But it’s so good I just had to reblog. Enjoy.

I’ve written other blogs on other topics before, but never with the sense of purpose I have today.

Not to say that I’ve never had a sense of purpose in the past.

But I feel singularly inspired to write this blog because its all about me.

‘Who am I?’ you ask.

Entrepreneur. Brand strategist. Technology evangelist. Marketing maverick. Biz dev specialist. Trend setter.

I’m the guy who tells you like it is, whether you want to hear it or not.

To put it simply, I’m that dude.

You know who ‘that dude’ is.

He’s the guy that everyone acknowledges (implicitly or explicitly) when he walks into the room.

The one that you’ll remember years after you’ve met him.

The one that everyone aspires to emulate.

The one with the aura, the gift, the presence.

He’s that dude.

We all have ‘that dude’ in us.

It’s that aspect of us that tells really funny jokes.

Or knows how to solve complex equations in our heads.

Or has ability to remain cool in the face of difficulty.

The ‘go-to’ guy when things really need to get done.

Being the brand is the act of cultivating the ‘that dude’ in all of us.

I want to demonstrate the power of my mantra, ‘Be the Brand,” using myself as a living case study.

I’m not particularly famous.

If you Google “Chukumba” you’ll see about 27,000 results.

Add the qualifier “Stephen” and that jumps to about 37,000.

Not bad, but nothing really if you consider the 37 million results generated by searching for the term ‘Oprah’ or the 40+ million generated by searching the term ‘Donald Trump.’

Oprah and Trump are classic examples of iconic figures with huge brand recognition.

When Oprah Winfrey started O Magazine, people said, “She’s so vain. Why does she need to be on the cover of every issue?”

I thought, ‘that’s brilliant!’

What better way to promote your brand than to put your face on everything you put into the stream of commerce?

Oprah didn’t become a billionaire by promoting other people (although she has made quite a few people rich from her promotional prowess).

She promoted herself.

Similarly, when Donald Trump started ‘The Apprentice’ people thought “Who does Donald Trump think he is?”

He’s practically bankrupt!

But Trump is a perfect example of the value of self-promotion.

Love him or hate him, you’ve got to deal with him because his face, his properties, and his brand are everywhere.

Despite his well publicized failures, you’ve got to concede his staying power and presence are indomitable.

There are countless others who fit the Oprah/Donald Trump mold, both famous and unknown.

I include myself in their ranks, and I am going to prove that anyone can be the brand, if they want to be.

Being the brand is a perspective that allows you to define yourself and your world-view in a way that sets you apart from the crowd, but without thrashing others in the process.

So stay tuned to see what I’ve got to say.

I’ve got a lot to say-I’m quite verbose.

Hopefully, you’ll come away with lots of good advice.

And at least it’ll make for some interesting reading!

Now go be the brand!

The 48 Laws of Power. Recess edition.

Note: This post is long and rambling. I have nothing really to say. So I will bore you with a story about my children to provide fodder for my blog. Read on at your discretion.

I just gave my 11 year old daughter, Asha Ming, The 48 Laws of Power by Robert Greene.

Why?

Well here goes.

Last night my wife told me she had received a call from the Northeast guidance counselor earlier that day.

Even though three of our children attend Northeast, I knew immediately who it was.

Asha Ming.

What did she do now?

Apparently she had called a boy an ‘idiot’ and…

He ratted to the teacher’s aide…

Who notified the teacher…

Who brought in the guidance counselor…

Who called Chanel…

Who is now telling me.

When questioned further, Asha Ming claimed it was in retaliation for said boy attempting to trip her.

You trip me, I call you idiot.

Sounds about right.

All rather tame stuff.

Kids will be kids after all.

But then, the wife told me about how Asha Ming flipped the script.

The counselor (in an attempt to determine Asha’s motivations), asked how things were at home.

Realizing that she might really be in trouble, she saw her opportunity to turn things in her favor.

Imagine my surprise to hear that Asha Ming broke down crying.

Revealing (to the counselor) how sad she was because mommy and daddy work too much.

And how we’re never home.

That daddy doesn’t come home until 10 o’clock at night.

Now the counselor is all in.

The concern for Asha’s mean-spirited behavior, turned to concern for Asha Ming’s mental health (and the conditions in the Chukumba household).

She was a guidance counselor, after all.

But I knew, immediately, as wifey recounted the story, that old girl was being played.

Those were elephant tears.

A deflection.

The whole event was orchestrated.

For maximum effect.

Yes. My wife and I both work.

But Chanel sees the kids off in the morning (we both do actually).

And is home to pick them up off the bus after school.

I get home, routinely, at 6:15.

On occasion, a business obligation will keep me out late.

But I regularly tuck the kids in at night.

We take family trips, eat out, go to the movies, eat dinner together at the dining room table, etc.

We both agree that Asha Ming will receive a talking to.

Last night, we pulled Asha Ming aside and asked her about her day.

Whenever there’s a tag team, these kids know the jig is up.

And last night was no exception.

Me: Why are we here?

Child: Because I got in trouble at school.

Me: What did you do?

Child: I called Taj a name.

Me: What have we told you about being mean or insulting other people.

Child: Not to do it.

Me: So why did you?

Child: Because he tripped me.

The wife wasn’t down with this linear line of questioning.

It all sounded a tad…rehearsed.

So she changed it up.

Wifey: Tell me about Taj.

Child: Taj?

Wifey: Does he bother you often?

Child: Uh huh.

Wifey: What does he do?

Child: He’s always trying to trip me.

Is this a crush?

Wifey: Well what was he doing that you called him an idiot?

Child: He was catching snowflakes.

Catching snowflakes?

Child: And I didn’t call him an idiot. I said he was idiotic.

Pardonne moi!

I had heard enough.

Apparently, Taj had been Asha Ming’s target for some time.

She had been waging a steady psychological campaign.

And yesterday was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

She broke poor Taj down to the point that he was crying – CRYING!

Trying to catch snowflakes with his mouth was all that it took to draw Asha Ming’s ire and condemnation.

I imagined this innocent child frolicking in the newly fallen snow, mouth agape, skyward, waiting for the gentle flakes to land upon his tongue…

And Asha Ming cooly (cruelly?) sizing him up, waiting for the precise moment to let her caustic barb fly.

In a moment of profound realization, I knew that Asha Ming was not to be trifled with.

So why did I give an 11 year old the 48 Law of Power?

Because she manipulates people with such deft and skill…

At 11…

That I must cultivate this talent.

And hone her skills of manipulation.

I know some may read this and recoil.

Yes.

My daughter is a trip.

Yes.

Her behavior (at times) is buck wild dingo-ish.

But know this.

Asha Ming will rule the world.

And you’ll all have me to thank.

And Robert Greene.

I love Netflix. Now if they only streamed the movies I wanted to see.

I’ve been a cable subscriber for years.

Even though cable sucked, they were the only game in town.

Then came Blockbuster.

Like cable, they had a super selection of movies, which you could watch when you wanted.

But their expensive rental and draconian late fees, made them a not-oft-used luxury.

And it was inconvenient.

Unlike cable, if you wanted a movie, you had to get into your car.

Drive to your local Blockbuster.

And hope that the movie you wanted was in stock.

When Netflix arrived on the scene, they gave Blockbuster a run.

As long as you were willing to deal the whole snail mail thing.

And didn’t have a problem waiting until your movie was returned before you could get a new one.

Netflix wasn’t totally intolerable.

And they were dumb cheap.

But they weren’t really an alternative to cable.

You couldn’t just plop onto your couch, point your remote and wham – instant gratification.

But that was yesterday.

Netflix realized that the landscape for movie rentals was going the way of the dinosaur.

And they adapted.

Added streaming to their offering.

Changed to a subscription model.

And watched as Blockbuster folded, under the unbearable weight of it’s brick-and-mortar infrastructure.

Like cable, Netflix offers streaming television programs and movies.

Like cable, Netflix allows you to stream to your television, mobile and tablet devices.

But unlike cable, Netflix is DUMB CHEAP!

And you can stream your movies anywhere – not just in your crib.

I pay like $200 a month for my Verizon Fios.

To be fair, it’s a bundle: internet, phone and tv.

If I just had Fios TV, I’d be paying like $90 a month.

I pay $7.99 a month for Netflix.

$7.99!

If I wanted to add the ability to receive multiple DVD’s at home, it would be another $4.

So for like $12 I could get my movie on.

There is, however, one serious drawback to Netflix…

Most of the good movies are on DVD.

No seriously.

Sure, every once in a while, a movie you want to see is available for streaming.

But for the most part, the really good stuff isn’t available.

Trust me.

I’ve been down this road before.

Since wifey is a night owl, she’s constantly trolling the channels to find something to watch.

Cable routinely fails to deliver.

So Netflix has become the good old go-to.

And while there are literally hundreds of thousands of movie titles to chose from…

The movies we want are never the ones available to stream!

Netflix get your shit together!

I’m just bitchin’.

Cause there’s nothing on tv.

And the movie I want on Netflix is only on DVD.

Which means I can’t watch it right now.

And I’m a big baby.

First world problems.

Watch Fuji learn. Pimping my child for 15 minutes of fame.

This clip of my son will make me famous.

There.

I’ve said it.

I am shamelessly and intentionally pimping my 3 year old son Fuji.

For the sole objective of fame.

I have four kids.

And none of them have yet provided me with the fodder I need to strike it rich on social media.

Sure they’re smart.

They test off the charts.

They are Chukumbas after all.

My daughter, the first born, is artistic.

Sh gets busy with pencil and paper, on the flute, chimes, and in choir.

My first son is naturally athletic.

And dominates his mates in virtually every sport he plays.

The baby girl is a thespian.

She is the source of endless hours of entertainment singing, dancing, pantomiming and telling (bad) jokes.

And the baby is an all-around piece of work.

He’s handsome and charming with a smile that melts hearts.

He’ll probably be a gigolo.

But for all this talent, I have yet to capture a single viral moment.

I’ve yet to record a tricked out Vivaldi.

Or an incredible bicycle kick goal.

Or even some Shakespeare.

Oh sure, I’ve gotten them on film.

But all I’ve captured to date are cute light moments.

Nothing viral-worthy.

In this day of selfless aggrandizement of digital social status, YouTube is the litmus test of legitimacy.

But how one attains such status is elusive.

While countless videos have gone viral.

Few of them intended to do it.

Not Charlie.

Not trick shot baby.

Not 2 year old dances the jive.

And I’m not talking about ad agencies.

With beaucoup bucks to throw at creating a viral sensation.

I’m talking regular folk.

I am always talking smack about what I think about this and that.

For some reason, I think that my opinion counts.

I write a blog for Chrissakes!

Vanity aside, I do know a thing or two.

And if my calculation is right, my video of Nokosi “Little Bear” will do what viral videos do.

When they’re just the right thing.

Properly captured.

Of a certain length.

And shared through a properly engaged network.

Who can deny a child’s enthusiasm for learning?

Now here’s the plan.

My family, friends and colleagues will get this first.

It will amaze, amuse and warm the cockles of their hearts.

Then, they’ll share it with their wider network of friends.

Who will be similarly impressed and compelled to do the same.

And so on.

And so on.

Before some local news affiliate picks it up.

Broadcasts it.

And the world will see how Chukumba kids get down for their learning.

Then it’s network television.

Speaking engagements.

Endorsement deals.

And then world domination.

Mwahhhhaahahaha!

I’m sorry.

Got a little ahead of myself.

But I think I’m on to something.

Something about this video strikes me as the stuff of YouTube sensation.

I could be full of shit.

But you decide.

If you think this video of little Fuji getting his learn on is awesome, like and share.

If not, you suck.

Get money the 419 way!

Every so often, I get an email that genuinely makes me laugh.

Sometimes, they’re the “I just saw an embarrassing picture of you on Twitter! You should check it out” type.

Or the “Easy opportunity! Work from home and earn lots of money!” kind.

Maybe even the “The secret to get any woman to love you!” style.

You know to never open them up.

If you do, you run the risk of infecting your computer with some virus.

That steals all your contacts and republishes the foolishness to your network.

Generally, my spam filters catch them.

But every once in a while one of these wretched emails bypass my spam folder and find their way into gen pop.

Today, one such evader was in my inbox.

It was sent by a “David Ellis”.

I know a “Danny Ellis” and countless Davids.

But no David Ellis.

Still, nothing about the email initially threw me off.

Then, I noted the subject of the email.

“OPEN ATTACH FILE AND FOLLOW INSTRUCTIONS FOR YOUR PAYMENT”

In all caps, just like that.

Open attach file, huh?

And then, this most impassioned and persuasive letter:

$4 million?

Just waiting in a trunk for me?

Well hop to it!

If the Head of Inspections Unit United Nations Inspection Agency tells me that, in his estimation, a box with the dimensions W61xH156xD73 (cm) and an effective capacity of 680L contains $4 million, who am I to quibble?

So what if there’s no actual salutation.

I’m often referred to as “Dear”.

Who cares if the email is rife with improper capitalization, punctuation and misspellings.

We can’t all be Rhodes scholars.

It’s immaterial that the Head of Inspections is seeking a bribe in the performance of his duties.

Who couldn’t use a little help in these trying times?

Needless to say, I’ve sent the information he’s requested.

I can’t keep my package waiting in unclaimed consignments at the Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, now can I?

The reason emails like this make me laugh, is that they are patently unbelievable.

But somehow (lots of greedy) folks have been duped into parting with their cash.

I first heard about scams like this on a flight back from Nigeria in 1997.

I was reading an in-flight mag about folks falling victim to 419 scams.

419 is the police code for confidence scams in Nigeria.

Apparently, some (rich) dude fell victim to a 419-er (one who practices 419ing), who convinced him that if he helped him to clean and transfer a large sum of money from Nigeria to Texas, he would pay a handsome commission.

The money (about $3 million USD) was covered in black oil and needed to be cleaned in order to be released.

All he had to do was to wire $150,000 to an escrow account, which would be held temporarily as collateral.

Another sum, approximately $20,000 would be used to clean the oil from the stash o’ cash.

Once cleaned, $300,000 would be wired into the Texan’s account, along with his $150,000 deposit, and $20,000 cleaning fee.

He sent the money as requested.

And dude ended up losing that $170,000.

Can you believe there was never any dirty money?

Needless to say, a fool and his money are soon parted.

The story went on to describe the countless gullible fools who had been taken in by similar shenanigans.

And I laugh out loud (literally), thinking about that poor ole Texan, whenever I see one of these emails.

What gets me is that it’s 2013, and these emails are still circulating.

Are folks still falling for the okey-doke?

I really hope not.

But if they are, I’ve got a stash of cash which needs cleaning…

Ode to a Gateway TV. Fare thee well, old friend.

A few weeks ago, I realized I was going to have to shoot my television.

You see, recently, old girl had begun to show signs of age.

I’d been trying to ignore them (the signs).

Seizure inducing flashes whenever the image on screen had a white background.

Remote control constantly out of synch.

Faint shadows burned into the screen.

She was lame, but she worked.

I didn’t want to admit the truth.

But the other day, when I turned her on, and it took several minutes for the volume to be audible, I knew it was the end.

She just needed to warm up.

Warm up?

What is this? A vintage car?

And what used to be a few minute lapse between hitting power and hearing sound, has become an hour ordeal.

Minimum.

I understand how people lived before ‘speakies’.

Now, I must shoot my poor Gateway and get a new set.

And I’m sad.

I’ve had this ole biddy since 1998.

98!

Back then, she was a beautiful 42″ plasma.

When cats were still rocking the fat-back TVs, I had stepped up to a wall mounted flat screen.

Well my girl had actually done the stepping up.

I stepped alongside.

Or perhaps, more accurately, behind since it was she who dropped coin.

2,500 smackaroonies to be exact.

And that was a steal!

Joints ran $5k easy.

But she saw a sale at Gateway and was sold.

To be honest, initially, I had my reservations.

Gateway?

What the fuck does Gateway know about televisions?

Sure, they made cute computers and shipped them in cow print boxes.

But those were computers.

And we’re talking TVs here.

Mind you, homegirl was a TV junkie, so who was I to stand in the way?

If she wanted a Gateway, we were going to have a Gateway.

So one day we jumped in the whip and headed to the Gateway store on Route 10.

And my life changes.

All I saw were football games, soccer, boxing, The X Files – all larger than life.

And crisper than I had ever seen before.

Super hi-def (way before they even offered hi-def programs).

Booming stereo sound.

Ports as far as the eye could see.

I was in heaven.

I was transported to cloud nine the day it was delivered and installed.

They mounted it on the wall above the fireplace and we achieved TV nirvana.

Fifteen years later, she’s giving up the ghost.

Compared to flat screens today, the Gateway is a dinosaur.

She’s thick and heavy.

Like Governor Christie.

No HDMI ports.

No Bluetooth.

I couldn’t even hook up an Apple TV to that bitch.

But as I look at new 42″ plasmas going for less than 400 bucks on Amazon, I realize how far ahead of the times I – I mean my girl – was.

I’m probably going to cop a new Samsung – them joints are banging!

But there will always be a place in my heart for miss thing.

Fare thee well old friend.

Fare thee well.

AAA Roadside Assistance? There’s an app for that!

Ever since I’ve had a license, I’ve had AAA (or Triple A, as it’s more commonly known).

Growing up, every car we ever owned had the silver lame (that’s lame as in a thin plate of metal) Triple A stickers in the window.

Although I don’t recall even one instance when we actually broke down, and had to avail ourselves of it’s protection, my dad kept his membership up to date.

So when I became a car owner myself, I made a point of copping my Triple A membership.

Over the years, there have been a few occasions when I made that call.

A few winters ago, my Jeep just stopped working.

I was in NY and when I got back into old girl to head home, she simply wouldn’t turn over.

I whipped out my phone, called Triple A, and then had to run the gauntlet to actually get a live operator on the phone.

First there was the automated attendant who wanted my member number, eye color and middle name of the nun who taught me in first grade.

Then, when I finally got a warm body, I was told that I needed to be transferred to another Triple A office, that handled the borough I was stranded in.

And then I was transferred to another operator who told me that I had been transferred to the wrong location.

After about 30 minutes of musical chairs, I was finally told that someone would be there within “30 to 45 minutes”.

I thought that was an inordinately long time (considering how long it took just to get the initial request put in), but was prepared to wait.

Two and a half hours (several irate phone calls and lots of hold time) later, someone actually showed up.

Two and a half friggin hours!

Grateful to have been rescued from my predicament, I didn’t bend dude’s ear or put Triple A on full blast.

But I was hot.

On another occasion, my rental conked out at the mall.

Whipped out the phone.

Placed the call for roadside assistance.

Got the same run around as the last time.

“Oh you’re not with the right office, let me transfer you. Please hold.”

Next operator takes my info.

Gives me the standard “30-45 minutes” spiel.

A deuce later, a Triple A truck shows up.

Two hours? For a jump?

Really?

A month ago, I had a flat tire.

Easy.

As in, “you be easy.”

I can change a flat tire.

But in the process of removing my lug nuts, I stripped it and it would not come off.

Placed a call to Triple A.

You know the drill.

Two hours later, someone showed up.

In each instance, Triple A got me right.

So I definitely think that it’s worth having a membership.

But that wait….

You can imagine my chagrin this morning, when I was driving to work, and old girl started to sputter.

I was driving my lil’ brother’s 1991 Mercedes Benz 300E.

I’ve been driving it for a minute (he parked it at my house in Montclair when he got a spot in Manhattan).

So I thought I knew her pretty well.

The gas light had been on for a couple of days.

But that only means that the gas is low, not empty.

I knew, from experience, that whenever I saw that light, I had a good twenty more miles before I actually had to get gas.

So I was completely thrown when she just stopped.

I was not looking forward to another two hour wait.

I whipped out my phone and started to dial.

But then it hit me, maybe Triple A had an app!

So I switched up and opened up the App Store instead of dialing.

Lo and behold!

Not only did they have an app (they had four), but there was a Roadside Assistance App!

I quickly downloaded that joint, fired it up and plugged in my info.

15 minutes later, I spied a Triple A truck pulling up behind me.

I shit you not.

15 minutes later.

Dude popped out of his truck, grabbed a 3 gallon gas can and funnel, and poured life-giving petrol into my disabled ride.

And just like that, I was off!

Now I can’t say that it was the app that got them there so quickly this morning.

If Triple A hasn’t received a slew of complaints, or if it wasn’t a light day, or if it wasn’t my (new) premium membership, then (aside from my using the app today) I can’t account for the speed with which they responded to my call for aid.

But I can say that if you ever find yourself stranded on the side of the road, don’t bother calling Triple A.

Whip out your smartphone.

Dial up the Triple A app.

Request assistance.

And watch the magic happen.

Spin class sucks (and forty five reasons why I hate Rodney Cummins)

Violence must be my theme this week.

While I’ve only been in one real fight in my life – with Darrell Cabbel when I was sixteen – I’ve had to suppress these urges.

I kicked his ass.

But that’s another story for another time.

Right now, we’re talking about why I’m plotting on taking out one of my colleagues.

Several months ago, when I started working at Usablenet, one of my team members, Rodney Cummins and I, started going to the gym down the block from the office.

Two or three times a week, we made it our business to get money.

For my urban vernacular challenged, get money = work out vigorously.

And get money we did.

Religiously, each week we’d get money.

We got so much money together, that our co-workers nicknamed us Chukummins.

Chukumba + Cummins.

I know, they’re juvenile.

Anywho…

The Red Barron, another one of our colleagues invited Rodney to spin class, also at the gym, and he went.

The Red Barron = a red-headed Irishman.

I mocked them mercilessly for going to an obviously sad excuse for money getting.

He came back from that class, bitching and moaning about how hard it was.

But remarking about what a great workout he got that day.

Spin class?

Hard?

Great workout?

The Red Barron?

I found the whole thing ludicrous.

The next time we went to get money, I had Rodney take me to the spin class.

So I could get my spin on.

And debunk the myth that spin class was in any way comparable to the money we were getting on the man side of the gym.

That day, there was no class being offered, but I decided to just jump on a bike and see what it was like.

I had Rodney play instructor and simulate a few minutes of the class.

He ran through a short warm-up of pedaling with slight resistance, before ratcheting it up.

“Pedal seated for a four count.”

“3-2-1.”

“Now up for a four count.”

“3-2-1.”

“Back down for a four count.”

“3-2-1.”

“And up again for a four count.”

“3-2-1.”

This is spin?

This ain’t shit!

Spin is for sissies, I thought.

Until he said, “now hold it for another four count.”

By this point, I was quite used to the simple rhythm we had going.

And I was totally ready for my “now sit 3-2-1.”

I needed to sit.

But when he told me I had that four count to go, I felt the burn in my thighs.

I started to sweat.

Mind you, we had been spinning for less than a minute.

My mind raced frantically.

WTF Rodney!

Hold it for another four count.

Really?

Right then, I decided that spin was the devil and promptly dismounted from the bike.

Nearly pitching myself over the handle bars in the process.

Spin bikes don’t coast and have no brakes.

The only way to stop is by gradually decreasing your rate of pedaling.

No one told me.

So not only were my thighs burning, but I nearly died too.

Curses flowed from my mouth like I was possessed by Beezlebub.

I cursed him like he stole from me.

Like he violated my mother.

Like the soulless bastard he was.

Eventually, as feeling returned to my thighs, and the burning subsided, I felt less hatred towards him.

And as time passed, so did my memory of that unfortunate 60 seconds of spin.

Until today, that is.

You see, for months, he and the Red Barron have been attending spin.

The running joke is the invitation they extend to me each time they go.

Knowing I’ll decline.

Rodney is cursed afresh with each invitation.

But today, another one of my coworkers was going with them.

And – against my better judgment – I was compelled to attend.

Pride is a motherfucker!

Despite the single digit temperatures in NY today, I was sweating on the (not long enough) walk from our office down the block to the gym.

Fear gripped me as I entered the spin class and took my assigned bike.

No. 20 mocked me as I sat upon it, strapping my feet into its toe harnesses.

As the class started, my hatred of Rodney renewed.

The whole time, mind you, he was clapping and uttering ‘motivational’ catch-phrases at me.

If I had a machete handy, a headless torso would have been pedaling astride me, instead of this bloody happy fool.

But no machete was handy.

All I had was Rihanna to get me through.

And my unwavering desire to save face in front of my colleagues.

So I pedaled.

Thighs burning.

Sweating like a slave.

Angry.

Cursing Rodney with each new hill – or sprint – or eight count.

45 minutes later (and only having almost pitched myself over the handle bars of my bike twice) I emerged.

Ass sore.

Broken, but unbowed.

I will never attend spin class again.

And if they ever find the headless torso of a Black man in gym clothes near the New York Health & Racquetball club…

Why I never attend CES. Confessions of a gadget addict.

How Inspector Gadget must have suffered!

Gadgetaholic (noun) one who suffers from an addiction to gadgets.

I am an admitted gadgetaholic.

Ok, ok. There’s no such word as gadgetaholic.

But there should be.

I’m addicted to gadgets.

If it beeps, buzzes, chirps or tweets, I’ve got to have it.

I can’t even help myself.

On any given occasion, I’ve got a gagillion different gadgets in rotation.

Mobile phones, tablets, laptops, mp3 players, remotes, wireless keyboards, clickers, battery packs, you name it.

If it’s got a modicum of utility, I’ve owned it – or coveted it.

I’ve been hooked on gadgets for so long, I can’t even tell you when it first started.

With my obsession for gadgets, one would think that the annual Consumer Electronics Show (CES) was Shangri-La for someone like me.

But it’s quite the opposite.

I can’t stand CES.

All those companies, congregating, with all their unreleased wares for show.

It’s all too much.

It’s so bad that during the CES week, I just go radio silent.

I ignore all CES related updates.

I pay attention to none of the information that streams out of TechCrunch, cNet, AdAge, Engadget, et als during the week.

I want none of it.

And do you know why?

BECAUSE I CAN’T HAVE ANY OF IT!!

At times, I’ve gone a bit…overboard…with my….

Obsession.

There, I’ve siad it.

My closet (several of my closets) are stuffed with gadgets past.

Dust laden boxes of this portable satellite radio…

Or that digital recorder…

Or some unused thingamajig or doohickey.

But do you know what it’s like to be a gearhead, but not be able to cop the latest technological wares?

Or see bright shiny object, and have to walk away from it?

It’s torture! That’s what!

And they’re not just any old shiny objects, mind you.

They’re shiny objects created by cats who are more tech obsessed than I.

Which means they’re reaallllyyyy cool!

I mean, have you seen some of this stuff?

Flexible touch screens.

Smartphone watches.

E-ink smartphone displays.

Yum. Yum. Yum!

But what good is all this scrumptious technology if I can’t have any of it?

99% of the items at CES are concept items=not for sale.

The stuff that is for sale is too expensive to buy (or shit I dont want).

My urge to possess said stuff would drive me to straight thuggery.

And how would I look robbing these good white folk for their goodies?

I don’t think a stick-up at CES would go unnoticed.

So every year, I resign myself to keeping my addicted ass in Jersey, while CES goes on without me.

And that’s a good thing.

No one wants to see a grown-ass man, drooling like a rabid dog.

Flitting from thing to thing like a hopped up kid with ADD.

One day, I might get my addiction under control.

But for the time being, I’ll treat CES like a watering hole to be avoided at all costs.

And take my recovery one day at a time.