I'm back, I'm bad, I'm black, I'm mad!

Well, maybe I should be clearer here. I’m not exactly “black”. In fact, I’m white. Really, really, really white. Whitey Peckerwood McWhitenstein the Third, they used to call me back in Brooklyn. It’s true: I’m so white my momma used to reach for me instead of the bleach. I’m so white I make the Partridge Family look “urban”. I’m whiter than a salt mine, whiter than a skeleton’s dentures, whiter than a Burnsville bingo game. “Hey, Salt! Where’s Pepper?” they used to shout at me. “I don’t know,” I would say, and then I would start to cry. Because that is what us white boys do, we cry. Because we’re white.

And, while we’re doing the honesty thing, I want to confess that perhaps “mad” isn’t the best word to describe me. Sure, certain things can make me mad---people walking three abreast on the sidewalk and not moving over to let you pass, unwarranted rudeness towards service personnel, ignorance, cruelty, and parents who let their kids run all over the store like they don’t have any sense—but I don’t think anger is my natural state. For instance, I’m not mad right now. I’m quite happy, in fact. I’ve got a bottle of Kevin (the fragrance), a long weekend off, a pocket full of money and life is fine, fine, fine. What could I possibly be mad about?

Nor can I be described as “bad”. That just doesn’t make sense on any level. Those of you who know me can attest to this: if I was coming down a dark alley towards you, you probably wouldn’t think “Oh my goodness! Look at that bad-ass! He certainly is intimidating! I better turn and run in the other direction immediately!” If you thought such a thing, you would be weird. You’d be more likely to think, “Oh, that guy better watch out, somebody’s liable to steal his brand new iPod, seeing as it has at least 5200 of the world’s greatest songs collected within its fragile shell!” Or else you’d think, “Wow! Look at that smoulderingly sensual hunk of raw male essence! I wish he’d take me back to his apartment and ravish me! And then tell me all about obscure Latin American authors until the sun ascends over the eastern shore! Because my lust for him knows no bounds, residing as it does in my entire being, not just my trembling and supple loins!”

But maybe people only think like that in my fantasies. And maybe if that’s true, maybe you should be kind enough not to burst my bubble. I’m just saying.

Anyway, I suppose I can be described as “back”. That’s probably the least interesting descriptor up there, though. It’s really just there for rhyming purposes.

Still, one accurate word out of four isn’t too bad. Especially for a blog.

Thanks for your patience. I’ll be back Sunday or Monday with some spanking new filthy, filthy nonsense...