Like many young people, I am slightly technologically dependent. More specifically, I am entirely too attached to my phone. I'm the guy who typically responds to your texts seconds after you press send. Years ago, friends would clown me for answering the ringing phone and holding lengthy yet incoherent conversations while asleep.

I used to answer the phone during sex.

You get the point.

I've relaxed a bit since then.

There are probably larger, deeper social explanations for this. Maybe I rely too heavily on technology to supplement a lack of local interactions. Perhaps I rely on gadgets and communication portals as a social lubricant or ice breaker of sorts.

Whatever the case, as of this Friday, I'm ditching my US phone number. For the first time in ten years, I'll willingly be out of the reach of many people I'm used to contacting in seconds. I'll have email, but it's not quite the same as text messaging.

I am disconnecting.

Kinda.

I'll have a Panamanian phone number, and data on the Blackberry. If you get the new digits, and you call me from abroad, you had better be dying or in labor.

This is new for me, the phonewhore. When my screen broke a few weeks back, I was essentially phoneless for three days. Struggle much? I need to be able to ask my Mama what color dish soap to buy and manage an imaginary heaux shit calendar. For those few days, I was an unwilling temporary Bronx resident, trapped in a piss-scented pit of Nextel-esque despair. A BET employee with dreams of career advancement and paychecks that don't bounce. I was basically dead.

I say all of this to say that what is to come is an adventure in every sense of the word. Not being able to pick up the phone and tell (insert friend) about some tragic, unloved soul who crossed my path will be new. But, as with everything else, I welcome the challenges.

In moving to Panama, I don't want to be concerned with what delusional athlete baby drinker-turned-instaCeleb did what with which ex-convict closet homosexual rapper. I don't want to be on the computer as much, checking in on my social media sites 10 times daily. I want to live in the moment, not worrying myself with tweeting life's every awesome or awkward event. This past week, I fought with myself to avoid tweeting and shit during dinner with Mom & Dad or going in on my negro sister's blue contacts during what was our last time seeing each other for the forseeable future. No more.

So, you'll see less of me online.

This site will always be here, though. In fact, look out for some changes around here. I will be thoroughly documenting my travels and experiences, so don't fret. I will be using Skype more than before. And smoke signals. And gchat and the like.

Or email me via the button at the top of the page.

I'd love to hear from you while I'm out humping locals in the jungles of Panama and such. Fire up that webcam and show your boy some titties and peen and what not. Or something.

Note: Panama is not a burrough of Mexico. It's not "right up under" Mexico. It's not "pretty much just like Mexico," either. Nor is it an island in the Pacific. So, yeah. More on this later.

At any rate, I'll be around. We'll still talk. Just maybe not as much.

And that's just fine.

See you around.

all feedback is welcomed. yes, even those of you in the Bronx.|be notified of new posts: Subscribe

I'm in New York on the first stop of The Great East Coast Farewell and Potential Hoe Shit tour. Tis my last hurrah before I jet back to Los Angeles to finalize things for the move to Panama.

This is incredibly bittersweet. I'm revisiting friends who've seen my growth and progress over the years, people who knew me when I was but a bald-headed black boy with a smart mouth and a dream. I am not making grand plans; I am perfectly fine with wandering, walking, talking, and reflecting since it's free. I have made it abundantly clear that this is not a "goodbye" but more of a "see you around...at some unknown point in the likely distant future." I will try my best not to do tears, because I'm no punk bitch, but, in reality, I can't even promise that.

Tuesday was my last day of employment in the states. Driving into the parking garage for the last time, I became unexpectedly emo. My thug exterior had been quietly breached and I took a minute to compose myself. I had worked at this job for about a year and a half, and, for all the drama experienced, I can say it's been one of my favorite jobs. Being able to flourish as a manager while developing leadership skills while maintaining a strong work ethic all contributed to one of the better aspects of LA life. That group of people became a family of sorts and will be deeply missed. After a handful of teary, semi-dramatic farewells, the mad dash to tie up as many loose ends before the trip commenced. Selling of furniture. Twisting of hair. Selling of cars. Packing and shipping of books. And so on.

I've been to New York four or five times since moving to Los Angeles. Never really felt anything besides joy when visiting. This trip, naturally, is different. Two friends have always pleaded, jokingly and nonjokingly, for me to move back. I always, nonjokingly, shut them down. So, I expect tears and grand outpourings of emotions upon my departure. Sure, it's justified. And I'm mentally preparing for that.

In all of this fuss, the scope of what's to come hasn't really settled in just yet. I'm full speed ahead without reflection until the time arrives for the big leap. Emotions can wait. However, similar to when I touched down in Los Angeles for the first time, I had a panic attack during the layover in Milwaukee Wednesday morning. First, numbness in my right hand. Then, a noticeably quickened pace. Sweating. Labored breathing. It crept in as we de-planed and got worse as I walked through the terminal. Asked a customer service worker if there was a first aid station as if that would help.

"No, but there's an EMT I can call."

"Okay, fine."

By this point, my right hand was turning blue and both hands were shaking pretty intensely.

I've had panic and anxiety attacks before. It typically goes like this:

Cue worrying and/or anguish. Symptoms appear. Questioning and self-assessment commence. "Is this Lupus-related?" is invariably the first question. "Am I dying?" or "Will I have to pay for an ambulance because of this?" usually follow.

Panic intensifies. Considering the possibility of a larger medical issue and the resulting bills and/or death continues. Treatment is sought. When vitals are taken and I'm labeled "just fine," shame sets in. Always. This means "you caused this." I'm told to "relax and calm myself down."

Shame becomes unbearable. Most times, sitting on a stretcher in an ER, this is when I typically start crying. Mom or Dad talks me down via phone. Each time. Blood pressure eventually lowers. Relieved that I'm not dead, I get discharged, go home, continue feeling stupid for working myself up and into an ER. Post-insurance, a God-awful bill arrives four to six weeks later and I live happily ever after. End.

There was no frantic call to the parentals or an ER trip this time. In the waiting area of the AirTran terminal, a crew of EMTs poked, questioned, and checked me to ensure I wasn't having a stroke, dying, or on drugs.

"Any medical issues?"

"Aside from Lupus, no."

"Any personal issues, family problems, or big events coming up?"

Bingo.

"Oh yeah...that."

In the end, I don't die.

"You're fine."

They leave.

I sign papers, consider airport meltdowns as a way to score a free and quick medical exam in the future, hunch take a minute to collect myself while embarrassment fades and my pulse normalizes, and eventually take my seat next to Buffalina Jolie on the plane.

Since landing in New York two days ago, the Completed Acts Of Hoe Shit count stands prominently at ZERO. Bold, all-caps, font size 72 ass zero. A sign from Dr. Pepper-flavored Jesus of the need for me to keep my skinnies up around my waist and off the floor? Perhaps. A cause for frustration? Absolutely.

Well. I've a day and a half left here and a world of thirst in my pants before hopping the bus to DC and VA.

Wish me luck.

-Thirsty McThirsteson

originally published January 20, 2009 at the old colored boy wordpress joint. long, but universally applicable.

Hello children. It’s me: your good friend, Professor ChrisAlexander.

(Applause)

Happy New Year! How’s everything? Good, right? Great. Some recession we’re in, huh? Boy oh boy. Times are hard. But, children, we’re not here to discuss how the Fuckhead in Chief has run this country into the shitter. Although….Haiti may actually have us beat economically!

(Crickets….sparse awkward laughter)

…..I’m here to share something important with you. Let me first say that I love you. And because I love you, I have taken it upon myself to educate you (the uninformed or misinformed consumer) about things that will make the world a better place for you and for me and the entire human race.

Today’s lesson will cover a topic that I am a little more familiar with than most. It is something that each of us can relate to and knows something about: restaurants. More specifically, how your monkey ass should (and should NOT) behave the next time you moonwalk that ass into anybody’s dining establishment.

Rather than bombard you with my expansive knowledge, I shall bring you into the light gradually. In [2011], the goal is to live right, give to the needy, and avoid pissing off those who handle your food by any means necessary.

(applause)

(house lights go down. spotlight focuses in my podium.)

(Clears throat)

Chapter One: “Please Wait To Be Seated”

I should note that this chapter does not pertain to so called “fast food” environments, but focuses more on restaurants that feature waiters, non paper glasses and cups, employees without visors, and don’t contain dedicated children play areas.

With that said, I shall start at the beginning. I’ll take it slow so that no child gets left behind. Remember. If you have questions, please, don’t hesitate to ask them. We’re all friends here, right??

(applause)

Okay. Now, whether you make a reservation or not, the entrance into the restaurant usually sets the tone for the dining experience. Being attitudinal when requesting a seat is discouraged. That pretty little table beside the dumpster just might have your name on it.

Hopefully, you’re hungry and eager to drink a little (or a lot). So, let’s grab a seat!

Oh, wait:

Hosts and hostesses (the attractive people who greet, size you up, label and prejudge you upon entering the dining establishment) exist for a reason. Their job is to accommodate all reasonable requests and ensure everyone (not just you) is comfortable, happy, and in the mood to spends lots of money.

You will notice tables with varying numbers of table settings. Some for 2 guests, 4 guests, 6 guests, or larger. The seating of these tables is usually systematic. Many factors go into deciding where you are placed. We will go into this more in a later chapter. The point is, don’t rock the boat.

Now, although such requests aren’t questioned in “fast food” environments, before you even ask:


Don’t inconvenience the rest of the world because you a) have a Big Mac addiction and need seating for two or b) want space to put your feet up, spread your legs, or rest your head after you eat yourself into a food coma. Get a grip. Besides, that’s not what Jesus would do.

Whether you realize it or not, you are NOT the only people in this particular establishment. So, be mindful of the fact that other groups and individuals would also like to enjoy their meal comfortably.

Also, when being walked to your seat, please remember the aforementioned seating system that exists in most restaurants. If entering a restaurant without a reservation at a particularly busy time of day, please don’t huff and puff when your question, “Can I have a booth?” is answered with “No. Fuck off. Sit down.”

Any questions??

Last minute key points:

-Moving tables around, together, or apart all willy nilly at your own damn discretion is not allowed or appreciated. You are not the decorator. Take a seat, spend lots of money, and get the fuck out.


-Contain your goddamn kids. If you don’t want to be bothered with your kids, chances are that your waitress doesn’t either. The restaurant is not the place to let little Charlesina and little Anfernee spread their wings the way they do at home. Throwing food and silverware, jumping on chairs, and doing sprints in the aisles are not cute or picture-worthy. The surrounding tables aren’t sending you death stares because they’re envious of little Bessie’s melodic voice, they want you to grab that little hussie by the throat and put an end to her fucking shrills. Besides, your magical brand of parenting (read: none) is a gift that should be shared privately among loved ones. Keep some secrets for yourself, right?

Okay, so hopefully you haven’t pissed anyone off and been refused service or banned and managed to get a seat. Let’s move on to Chapter 2.

Chapter 2: “Waiting, Waiters, etc.”

Alright. You’ve made it past screening, convinced the host that you DO have (enough) money and you have received your very own table.

You’re doing good so far. Let’s continue.

Depending on the season, you may have coats, jackets, umbrellas, shopping bags, etc. Before you get too comfortable,


Hang your goddamn belongings on YOUR goddamn chair or tuck them under YOUR goddamn table. Don’t place your raggedy Canal Street-bought “Burberry” scarf on the ground and raise hell when it gets stepped on. Placing items on the floor usually signals a lack of concern, so if you don’t care, then I don’t care: I’m going out of my way to step on it.


Don’t be a jerk, jerk. This is not your goddamn house, so

You could also get “pick-pocketed.” Pick-pockets just love fancy-looking (fake) bags left unattended on the back of a chair or a purse placed conveniently beside the feet of a tipsy patron. Use some damn sense.
If you do place your things in that open table beside you,

Remember, [2011] is not about being an inconsiderate shitbag. Now, once all your belongings are situated and you’re settled, it’s okay to relax, chit-chat, and take in your surroundings. This restaurant may be new to you, so if you’re excited, great! You may be dining with friends or family you haven’t seen in ages, so its natural to want to catch up, right? But, keep in mind:

so…


“Do you need more time?” actually means “Please hurry the fuck up. You aren’t the only table in this joint, so I don’t have time to stand here and smile while you motherfuckers figure how many ways you can split a sandwich.”

The restaurant has taken the time to print you your own personal list off the day’s offerings and want you to review all that is available and have the best meal possible. Each dish has been prepared with love and may even have its own cute little description on the menu, answering a question you may feel inclined to ask your lovely waiter/waitress.

While waiting for your server, be patient. Perfection isn’t easily attained so please be aware than he or she is preparing to wow you with stellar service so,


Relax!

Note: “YOO-HOOOO….!” and “HEY YOU!” are also not okay. Jerk. Such behavior may even lead to delayed wait times, incorrect drinks, and misunderstood or unheard food orders.

Example 2.1: “Oh, you wanted a rare burger?? I completely missed that! I thought you said VERY VERY well done. Guess we’ll have to get you another one.”

Or

“OH! You’re a vegan!?! I thought you said EXTRA MEAT and TRIPLE CHEESE!”


And nobody wins in situations like that. You may try to stick it to the server at the end of the meal by skipping the tip, but (being three steps ahead) he’s already sprinkled finely crushed glass into your rice and you’ll be dead in a day.

See? Nobody wins.

Sit tight, keep your pants on and your voice down. Patience, jerk. Your server is happy to meet you and answer any questions you may have. If he or she attempts to introduce himself or herself, let them. You might wish you remembered their name when you start to notice that crushed glass tearing up your stomach lining.
A general note: If you’re not of age, don’t order alcohol. You getting a sudden soda craving when asked for identification (“Oh, you know what? I think I’ll have a Fanta.”) only makes you look foolish. You knew when you sat down with a group of 30-year olds that your 19-year old ass has never successfully ordered beer. That $20 fake ID you got in a seedy “copy shop” won’t work everytime. However, if you like public humiliation, then by all means, feel free to try it!

Second note: If you know upon being seated that you have $13 and a condom in your pocket,

Don’t be ashamed. Embrace and stand firmly in your poverty! As an extra credit assignment, next time you dine out, I want you to confidently state, “Water only, please,” when questioned. You’ll save a few minutes and prevent the server from having to roll their eyes at you. Practice now. Notice the rush of adrenaline and confidence that surges through you from shedding asshole tendencies! Yes!!! Some have even called this sensation “orgasmic.” You be the judge.

unrelated, hilariously scary animation.

In general, when communicating with server/waiters, remain calm. I know his or her awesomeness is probably a little overwhelming. Their brilliance could be blinding, but fear not. They exist to serve you. So, as long as you don’t make any fucking ridiculous requests or demands (covered in the next chapter), you should have no problems.

Well, friends. Look at all the ground we’ve covered today. You have made it all the way to the table without exposing your inner asshole and have your very own server! Impressive.

In no time at all, you’ll be a more respectful, well-mannered, adequately-tipping consumer that knows…

(Audience joins in)

(CHEERS)


Isn’t that exciting??

(applause)

Alright kids, that’s enough for today. As I said before, I don’t want to overwhelm you. I shall bring you gradually into the light.

Please submit all questions and I’ll respond below promptly.

Remember, Professor ChrisAlexander loves you. Tip the coatcheck, and have a great night.

Thank you.

(Curtain falls)


all feedback is welcomed. yes, even those of you in the Bronx.|be notified of new posts: Subscribe