How Far Will You Go to Pay for Some Nookie?

BALLIN' vs PROSTITUTION: What's the Difference

Original source from AverageBro.com

As a 36 29-year old black man with nearly a decade of marital expertise, I find relating to single people increasingly difficult. I suppose its just the whole "rearview mirror effect". The further I'm separated from my singlehood, the hazier my recollections of those distant days become.

Still, my ear is close enough to the ground to have a general clue of what's still going on out there, and as I've said here before, I'm always repulsed when I hear such nonsense as "it ain't trickin' if you got it". I mean, seriously, dudes here in DC are taking that "Throw Some D's" thing a bit too literally and buying chicks fake boobies. What part of the game is that?[1]

Sure, a gentleman should always be a gentleman. No woman likes a cheap (or broke) man, and part of courting/pursuit involves doing things like eating out, movies, etc. in an effort to get to know someone better. But paying for rent, childcare for a child that ain't yours, and light bills? That sh*t is just extra.

There's a very thin line between treating a lady to a good time and being a simp. Any guy who buys Gucci bags and expensive vacations for a chick not named his wife just to get close to her is a sucka, plain and simple. The whole thing has me thinking: what's really the difference between "Ballin'" and outright buying the nookie?

I realize this is a topic with a whole lot of gray area, but for the fellas and ladies, single or otherwise, I'm wondering that ya'll think about this.

Question: At what point does the purchase of goods and services to keep a person interested in you become dangerously close to outright trickin'? Fellas, what's the most money you spent to entertain a lady? Ladies, does a guy who offers to throw D's on you and pay for your rent qualify as a baller or a simp?

[1] Is this an epidemic in other cities as well? And come on bruh, buyin' girls new t*tties? F'real? Any man spending $8k to upgrade a chick so the next man (and the next, and the next) can enjoy the fruits of your hard earned labor is the definition of a simp. Stop it. What Would Obama Do?

Original source from Averagebro.com

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Say It Loud (Keep it Short and Proud) in GQ

Urban Chameleon news

Writer Knox Robinson talks about a Black man's hair in this month's GQ

From Black Panther Afros to Iverson braids, rebellious hair has long been a quick way for a black man in America to make a strong statement. But as the formerly dreadlocked author learned, a new era calls for a more retro cut

I was dreaming deliriously on a flight back from Accra, Ghana, when I heard a woman's voice telling me to cut my hair. Even now I don't consider the whisper to have been a side effect of the undiagnosed malaria that landed me in a Brooklyn hospital two days later; I'd had dreads for fourteen years—they were down to my waist—and swore I'd never chop them for love or money. So I figured if they ever had to go, it would be the result of sudden mystical transmission.

I cut my hair soon after I landed. I was at the start of my thirties and dutifully undergoing the transitions of that age—the arrival of a son, new career moves. With a radically new appearance, I felt distinctly like a man who'd escaped through the back door of a burning building and used the second chance to set out on a completely new path. Old acquaintances stared right past me on the train, and at parties women who once denied my advances wondered who I was.

There's an élan to a tight cut I hadn't considered before; it's a throwback to an era of debonair brothers in the '50s and '60s, from Miles Davis to Sidney Poitier to Malcolm X. I didn't quite get that as a young dread; even those venerated icons seem like establishment figures when you're just starting out, so I took cues from '90s-era conscious rappers and old Bob Marley pics. I never was a cornrows guy, but Allen Iverson's braids served as a generational signpost for me.

Yet that era is over as surely as my own quarter-life crisis is behind me. We're now experiencing a restoration of black cosmopolitan glamour last witnessed fifty years ago, and the guys who define that sensibility are dudes like Usain Bolt, Lewis Hamilton, LeBron James, and yes, Obama. I see their close-cropped hair as marks of men singularly focused not on rebellion but on changing the game, or more acutely: results. It's hair for the man with a job to do rather than a comment to make.

Of course, it took work for me to find a rhythm; I was in the barber's chair every ten days, getting science on dark Caesars (No. 2 clippers all the way around), skin fades (No. 2 on top fading to clean-shaven sides), and lining—that is, debating whether my hairline should be sharp or natural. (I kept it natural.) But mainly my short hair led to new possibilities of personal style. Soon enough I fell into wearing suits and picked up vintage British looks on Portobello Road, dead-stock Dior in the East Village, and all-black-everything Comme des Garçons at Hejfina on trips to Chicago.

I now wear a suit every day of the week and sometimes on Saturdays. Today a three-piece feels less like a George Jefferson sight gag and more like a suit of armor, and I get a charge knowing that my son will remember me picking him up from grade school, understanding that his father has been handling business. Last year I saw I was heading for a rough patch, and I grew my hair and beard out in preparation for what I thought would be a long walk in the wilderness. When I realized how bad things were truly getting, however, I wheeled into a barbershop and took it all the way down. I wanted to be ready.—knox robinson

Source from www.gq.com

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Does the term “Oreo” always haunt the Urban Chameleon?

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

Growing up living in a predominantly Black neighborhood and commuting to an all white neighborhood where my parents sent me to school I definitely experienced the “confused years.” I was considered neither Black nor white enough. I can remember clear as day the first time this little Black girl from around the way, whispered “Oreo” at me under her breath after my mom shouted out the window for her to put down a toy of mine she was mishandling. The connection? She was embarrassed and felt the need to taunt me. I can also remember the white girls at school telling me that I was not like the “others.” Cut to 20 years later- same sh*t different century

I was recently out to dinner with a friend of mine who came to meet me after wrapping up his last day on an acting job. He was telling me how the white people on set asked if he was from the suburbs. We both busted out laughing knowing that his designer John Varvatos shirts, slip on suede shoes and pronunciation of his “i-n-g-s” is what was throwing these folks off. But we both knew this Harlem-ite, reformed drug dealer, damn near high school drop out whose version of anger management growing up was to shoot different kinds of guns off the rooftops of the projects was NOT from the suburbs. However, his second identity was born when he was accepted to Yale on a drama scholarship and for the first time had to exist amongst white folks. What was at first an uncomfortable (to say the least) adjustment for him to make eventually turned into him mastering the ability of being an Urban Chameleon-but now what? What did that mean? Especially if white people are STILL so curious to know where the hell you’re from.

The reality is- it doesn’t matter where you’re from. At the end of the day it comes down to where people think you’re from and you can choose whether or whether not to correct them. He said that he enjoyed eventually telling them folks that he grew up in the projects in Harlem – it was his attempt to shake up their perspective of what they think they know about one particular group of people. It’s then that I realized that being an Urban Chameleon is a state of mind where hopefully you are no longer confused as I once was growing up- where you’ve experienced enough worlds that you’re the one that’s now clear.

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The Value of a White Boy

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

Last night, my husband, a Black man invited his long time friend, a white man, over to our home to pitch his new idea for a company. I was so proud of the husband as he had really done his research on how this great idea would work including who their first client would be. It was so good of a pitch that his friend who I had just served another glass of Prosecco to replied, "It's brilliant, what the hell do you need me for?"

"You're the white boy."

We all busted the hell out laughing but my husband was not playing. He further responded, I cannot walk into meetings with state senators and city officials and they give me the contract for this kind of business. They need to see your white face to feel comfortable.

The white friend catching on added, “So you’re like Wesley Snipes and I’m Woody Harrelson except we’re not technically hustling anyone.”

“Exactly.”

A strange comparison but a true irony. Now that everyone was on the same page the partnership was born.

But I had to further think about how long would it be until one doesn’t necessarily need a white face in order to be taken seriously…

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What Color is Elmo?

Urban Chameleon Fun Fact


did you know Elmo was a brotha?

Kevin Clash holds his Emmy for outstanding performer in a children series at this year's 36th Daytime Emmy Awards

The brotha has been an official puppeteer with Sesame Street since 1984.

wait...Tickle me Elmo? This brotha has to be paid!

Fate(s) of a Token Brotha

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor








So I was kickin’ it with this white girl, an old high school friend right… up in her condo taking a couple shots of Patron and sippin’ a drink before meeting up with some folks and heading out for the night. She was filling me in on the monotony of her accounting gig, dating life and how she can’t find a good brotha (mind you she’s a thick curly-haired Jewish chick who loves passing for Boricua - the appeal of the exotic).

“ I bumped into Tristan the other day on the El.”

“Tristan as in T. Duncan? How you know T?” I asked.

“Come on everyone knows you guys.”

“How you figure?”

“Come on, really? You Tristan, J.P., Marvin, and Keenan, you were like the fab five. I mean… Everyone knows you guys cause you’re Black or whatever.”

Audacious? Nah, just frank, and in fact spot on.

Except she like the rest of them don’t really know me for shit. They might know of me, my name or whatever, my brothers or family but you know what I’m saying.

Anyway, I ain’t heard T’s name in a bit, probably since he escaped in junior high, and yes living out in these neck of the woods, escapin’ still applies i.e., mental captivity. Hearing T’s name and knowing how our journeys varied, I couldn’t help but reflect bout the toll white suburbia takes on a token brotha. Sure a better education is always touted as the allure of these parts, but when eyes are opened one can realize the additional cost.

Charity Case, Mannequin, and Mr. Misunderstood: A “choose your own adventure”, pick your poison, the conditioning or inevitable fork in the road a young Black man struggling to make sense of his own worth will encounter growing up in an area where the only other Black families are those of former Chicago Bull and Bears. No joke. If you know a Black Doctor or Lawyer that’s not your mother or father, then more likely than not your greeting your Aunt or Uncle, or some other relative in pursuit of that Medical, Law, or other graduate degree. Not to mention if you’re taking AP classes it’s likely that the other handful of Black faces that roam the halls won’t be part of your day. See the merits of the ‘burbs might be good in prepping for the ACT/SAT but not so much for a token brotha’s mentality.

But anyway the break down is simple, the only one really thinking bout this is Mr. Misunderstood. The quiet type; he doesn’t really speak much about his circumstance sensing no one in these parts thinks twice bout where he’s coming from, the whole conscious tip, his lens or perspective taking in the facts of black struggle, white flight, and how racial identity is really crucial to one’s life. Mr. Misunderstood tries to make sense of it all but just ain’t at ease in terms of expressing himself. By the time he gets to college he might get caught code-switching, or even called-out for being wet behind the ears or for seeming like such cause the ‘hood don’t know ‘im, they think he’s Bourgeois’ing or sadity, so he walks his own walk as Mr. Misunderstood.

As for Mannequin, he’s in and out of his uniform like he’s in and out of jersey-chasin’, blonde cheerleaders. There ain’t much else to it, that’s all his ego has room for, another trophy to put up on the mantle.

And lastly there’s Charity Case. Though this one has its variations, he basically relies on white folks for everything. Most salient though is the one that would do anything to fit in with his white peers. Grateful Dead or Dave Matthews concert; he’ll be there spazzin’ on that air guitar. If he could have had a Bar Mitzvah, he’d be all over the Torah, then cheesin’ for his pledge class photo at ZBT. Those that support and surround him do so merely out of sympathy.

So think of this as a cautionary tale when you’re ready to settle down and start that family in the suburbs, with the 2-car garage, 2.5 kids, dog and white picket fence. I’d advise not to just set it and forget it, cause it may not be so easy to reproduce that Urban Chameleon who can see the different avenues, knows when or how to wear the mask, shuck and jive, and keep dodgin’ those muggs that try to box him in.

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A Jewish Girl Grows in Brooklyn

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

There is another side to the plight of the Urban Chameleon if anyone was wondering. Every story is not necessarily from the Black world to the White world. Like my world for example: The white, Jewish world. I am not white enough to be white and not Black enough to be Black. I exist in both, but don’t belong to either. In truth both are worlds I slip in and out of. But even my Jewish world isn’t all my own. See, in the world of a New York Jewess there are micro-worlds, smaller sections in the big beautiful scheme of Jewish culture.

There are the Black Hats that walk around fully covered, not showing an inkling of alabaster skin, devout. There are the hippie Jews who go to the love-ins and speak about the light of Hashem (Jewish word for G-d) etc. Then there are the Jews who don’t want to be Jews and lie to their Wall Street friends, throwing that Menorah in the sink and resurrecting a tree just so they can drink the proverbial eggnog in December. Then there’s me and my type of Jews, we love Judaism, we love food, we are outspoken, passionate, and aggressive. It’s funny because even when you feel like you should belong to a group you don’t.

I grew up in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood in Queens, and we were the outcasts of the neighborhood. We weren’t Jewish enough. We were reformed and everyone else was conservative. This was a big deal, because we were the only family eating bacon double cheeseburgers, and driving on Saturdays if you get my meaning. It never really bothered me so much until one day I was playing with my only friend in the neighborhood across the street. They were shunned as well, from the rest of the neighbors in my neighborhood: they were Cuban. I loved them and me and the youngest daughter in the family were best playmates. One hot summer day I was playing and had to go to the bathroom, but my Mom wasn’t home and neither was the girl’s family. So, I figured I would hold it till either my family or hers arrived home. But after a while, I couldn’t.

So, I proceeded to knock on every door on my block to see if I could use their bathroom. I mean they knew who I was after all, what was the harm? Picture it: a cute, short freckled face, curled haired little girl with her legs crossed standing at your door, asking to use the bathroom. I figured it would be no problem.

But not one person would let me use their toilet, not one single person.

I guess, I wasn’t Jewish enough for them, not Jewish enough to use their toilet.

When my Mom arrived home, she found me with wet shorts sitting on our doorstep. She marched down the block and knocked on each door and gave them something to think on, my Mom was good at that. And even though I hoped if it happened again I would have been able to rely on my own people to help me, my Mom made me carry a set of keys on me from that day forward…

There are always going to be people who think you aren’t enough- enough. That’s why we exist in multiple worlds at the same time. It gets lonely when you can’t feel welcomed by your people, sometimes finding a sister in another world fills you with a sense of belonging you never had, and that’s a good thing.

When I arrived at college I sort of accidentally landed upon a group of young Black women, all of whom echoed similar attributes to myself having a multifaceted way of looking at the world. I felt immediately drawn in and welcomed. They had me at “hello.” When I was with them I was free to be me in many ways: unencumbered by the confines of what it means to be white or what it meant to be Jewish.

Through out our friendship that still exist today having first attended a predominantly white University I witnessed how they existed in contradicting worlds. It was in those first few years that I discovered the chameleon code and realized who I was was just fine.

So you see it doesn't matter where you come from, there are Urban Chameleons of multiple shades and backgrounds creeping in the shadows and dancing in the bright light of the world, and if you look closely you can spot us because we have a knowing glimmer in our eye.

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