I think my Poppi is turning into a dirty old man. Not like a “quick hide the prepubescents” dirty old man. But like a Handsy-Harry “lockup your Nanas” type dirty old man. And this development distresses me.

I’m just back from the sunshine state, after celebrating the old man’s 92nd Birthday. Happy Birthday, Poppi! Homeboy looks like he’s about 80 years old. My lord, that man’s genes should be studied. He’s tan, mobile, and mentally sharp. Sharp enough to chat about tranches of packaged and securitized mortgages–Zzz zzz z z. Sharp enough to not get stuck paying the bill at dinner. Sharp enough to know the difference between charming confidence and ballsy lechery.[ . . . ] Continue »

Everyone is leaving. An interfaith exodus is underway. Did Moses post a “heading for the desert” status update on Facebook? Did I miss the crucial “RT @JesusTheChrist: Pestilence, War, Famine, and Death. WE OUT” tweet? Granted I’m behind the curve on this whole new fangled media front. And that’s because I know social networking code was programmed in the fires of hell. But couldn’t they have sent an Evite? Damn you, Mark Zuckerberg!

My friends and family seem to be running out of New York City at such a rate that I have to wonder which crucial Al Queada party list-serv I foolishly unsubscribed from. Just kidding! Dick Cheney, I know you read this blog. Roll on over in that wheelchair and post a comment already. [ . . . ] Continue »

Last week my grandfather set off the fire alarm in his Florida apartment complex at 11 PM. That very same night, in New York City, I had a shamanic vision. It was all sparks, licking flames, haze, and then oblivion.

Maybe you think I’m speaking metaphorically about an orgasm. If so, you’ve obviously never had sex with me. I’m talking about death. I think I now know how I am going to die. Strike the tragically fated hot air balloon chase scene from the script! [ . . . ] Continue »

Sometimes I forget that I’m colored. This may be a shock my tens of thousands* of readers, but it’s true. It may seem like I rag on white people in every other post, at least. Like here. And here. Or here. You get the idea.

* Only suckers trust site statistics provided by The Man. Independent audits place readership somewhere between 6 and 78,342.

It is truer to say that I usually don’t think about my ethnicity and skin tone until: 1) I see the police, 2) I see a colored baby and want to make one of my own, or 3) black or white people remind me that I’m neither. [ . . . ] Continue »

I think I contracted my irrational fear much like an STD. I must have picked it up sometime in college and, for the life of me, I don’t know who gave it to me. One moment I was a very “present” Birkenstocked 18-year-old, and the next thing I know I’m a 25-year-old with anxiety over a nest egg. I’ve always been precocious, but a mid-life crisis before the age of 30 strikes me as excessive.

It seems these days most pre-weds* have cultivated some sort of irrational fear.

* Pre-weds: shortening of Pre-Wedding; the 20 and 30-somethings who used to be “yuppies”—young professionals—though they may not be particularly “young,” and in this economy, many of them are no longer “professionals.” [ . . . ] Continue »