It really started earlier in the day, because even when I break the rules, I observe the rules. I had two Aleve in the morning, then another two Aleve sometime in the afternoon, knowing damn well that the instructions restrict consumption to three Aleve in 24 hours, and only if the pain subsists. Later that evening, in bed and alone, my face starts to itch; what comes to mind? The side effects of Aleve abuse, or signs of an allergic reaction. There I am itching my temples, cheeks, and chin, as my concern starts to spread, the affected area begins to condense. Just as I'm about to reach for and re-read the bottle, to properly inform the forthcoming EMT operator of my self diagnosis, the pulsating mound protruding from my inner right eyebrow gives away the culprit. A slight shade develops as I confirm the marble sized mosquito bite blocking my eyelid from properly opening; it looked quite robotic actually, like I was shape shifting in the moment.

My parents are both Saint Lucian, nothing like this happens to them. My sister and I are Canadian and wildly allergic, not fatally, just cosmetically. My sister in particular has a history of mosquitoes twice biting her eyelid, which completely shut her eye closed and gravely scared our family the first time. I have been hospitalized three times in my life, the first was from a mosquito bite engulfing my forehead as a child, I don’t actually remember this, the story just gets retold by my parents every summer; the other two occasions require separate blog posts. Between now and then, my mosquito victimization has been limited to large quantities of bites lacing my arms or legs, most uncomfortably on my thumb where every movement constituted an itch.

Being an outdoorsy person, my summers are hard. I have left rooms due to mosquito shadows in my peripheral vision, because even in a room full of warm blooded Americans, I'm always the target. I refused to go to sleep that evening until I killed the mosquito terrorist and wasn’t an all night buffet. The hunt was short, within ten minutes the mosquito was mangled with a 700 page collection of Sherlock Holmes stories; then I fell asleep without applying any magical solutions from my internet searches. The site flattened overnight from its original beveled square shape. Without suffering through any real urges to itch, all remnants of the original shock were gone within two days. Great way to start the season, this is war, I'm going on the offensive this summer; in the mean time, hopefully I just survived the West Nile virus, and earned lifelong immunity.

I have never consciously read a book and purposely watched the theatrical adaptation; my prerogative has been the exact opposite, whereby I actively avoid doing the two. I read Malcolm X and never saw the Denzel Washington performance, that I’m assured was robbed of an Oscar. I still rate Fight Club as the greatest movie I have personally ever seen, and I will never read the book; although, once I learned of the author, I have since read eight other Chuck Palahniuk novels. My first exposure to this phenomenon was Michael Crichton with the Jurassic Park series. I saw the original movie first, for which I was so thankful for Steven Spielberg. Then I read the follow up, The Lost World, before despising Steven Spielberg during the film release. So, if I think the story is worth its salt, then I read it; otherwise, I watch what I can of The Lord of the Rings, Harry Potters, and Hunger Games of the world before saving my sensibilities.

I was originally sold on the Great Gatsby movie, because having assumed the Tom Hanks mantle without a word of praise, Leonardo DiCaprio is the most underrated actor of my generation. I must be one of the few American educated adults who wasn’t forced to read F. Scott Fitzgerald in grade school, except I knew of his reputation and decided the book should take precedence. Let me begin by saying, F. Scott’s wordplay is brilliant, as is the first half of The Great Gatsby. The characters are introduced, and their nature is well defined with background. We follow a young man, Nick Carraway, from the Midwest exposed to the surreal Eastern seaboard of riches, particularly where the legend of Jay Gatsby is in full bloom. Every character expresses a different recollection of Gatsby: is he a bootlegger? Did he kill a man? How illustrious can one soldier’s career have been? Where the grandiose questions are endless, everyone is interested in discussing him, while no one is interested in knowing him.

Without spoilers, once the Gatsby veil is lifted, we're treated to a barely above average story. The momentum simply doesn't carry through, and dully grasps at action sequences to distract you from waiting for the story to end. If those same action sequences are filmed right, the Great Gatsby movie has a rare opportunity to be better than a good book; and that's exactly what the Great Gatsby is, a good book. Final rating: Bueno.

That’s right, we’re skipping ahead straight to the second round. The Heat took care of business against the hapless Bucks. Brandon Jennings should be suspended to start next season for guaranteeing four wins, or any wins for that matter. The Knicks would’ve swept the Celtics if not for the J.R. Smith suspension; expect a win at Madison Square Garden tonight. The Pacers will trudge through the Hawks, and attempt to rekindle a New York vs. Indiana rivalry, that I will not feel punished to watch. While the Nets surprised me in their first game against the Bulls, they appropriately lost the series from ahead with home court advantage. Honestly, we’re all waiting for the Knicks vs. Heat Eastern Conference Finals to generate any excitement on this coast. Given a healthy Chandler and Kidd, ala Championship Mavericks, my choice remains Knicks over Heat for a spot in the NBA Finals.

The West is where intrigue lives. The Clippers and Grizzles rematch from last season looked like a contest, until Dennis Scott reminded me of two offseason moves that favor the Grizzlies: the release of Reggie Evans and Kenyon Martin. Did you really expect Deandre Jordan and Blake Griffin to BANG with Zach Randolph and Marc Gasol? When Chris Paul has to go off for thirty points and game winning drives at home, bet on the grind house in six. The Spurs, against a Lakers roster stockpiled with future hall of famers, would have swept a healthy Kobe Bryant all the same. We’re still waiting for Harden to drop fifty on the Thunder before the Rockets go on vacation. Though Durant will have a transcendental second round series, the effects of the Harden trade and Westbrook injury will practically guide my Spurs into the Finals.

I’m having a hard time calling a clear cut winner between the Nuggets and Warriors. The obvious break out player of the playoffs so far is Stephen Curry! Then again, he’s also the softest star player left, and is expected to survive alternating nights of intensity> When his coach started mentioning hit men in regard to grazing fouls, older fans of the game immediately knew that boy wouldn’t have survived the nineties.

So really, not much has changed in the NBA since my last review of the season, with the exception of Jason Collins revealing his homosexual orientation. The best part about these gay admissions is when the ex-wife claims to have not known; sure. I begged and pleaded for Jeremy Lin to explode out of the closet and stake a realistic claim to athletic equality across sexual orientation. Jason Collins' announcement has been blown far out of proportion, because he doesn’t have a memorable basketball related moment. He's so far out of basketball, that his announcement sounds like a cry for employment. To reiterate, because goodness forbid I’m not sensitive about the topic, I’m Pro-Homo; however, mentioning Jason Collins and Jackie Robinson in the same breathe desensitizes me to the seriousness of this discussion. The reality of the matter is this isn't breaking news and networks are forcing the issue; so please stop interrupting my games with replays of Jason Collins taking charges from Shaquille O'Neal, to not make a point.

During this wait for my scheduled Firefighter’s Physical Fitness Exam, numerous training programs have reached out to offer strength and aerobic preparation. I met one such program at Prospect Park during one of my routine laps: I’m an athlete; then I passed them: I’m a competitor. And during the weekend that just passed, gratefully filled with humid 60 degree days, I biked from Brooklyn College to 138th Street, and took multiple back and forth journeys in between, which amounted to some 40 pedaled miles. I was accompanied on one such ride by a friend, who submitted my quote of the week:

You don’t just bounce off of cars and continue living.

False. I have. Crossing Flatbush Avenue on Bergen Avenue (pictured above), a car attempted to park through my bike lane, while I tried to round a routine corner. I instructed that driver on proper driving etiquette, hopefully enough to save another biker from a similar experience. My point though, is that my idea of living is not “not dying.” I have seen fear turn “try or quit” choices into “life or death” scenarios. Things happen; stay aware, don’t over react, and respond appropriately. Maybe my assessment isn’t fair, considering my next chosen professional endeavor is designed to face death.

Don’t be misled, I’m a responsible adult who doesn’t play real life Road Rage. I brake at red lights and stop signs then go through them if there isn’t traffic. I pay attention to my surroundings, which way upcoming streets are directed, car indicators, and last minute wheel turns. I should probably wear a helmet more often. At the same time, I will ride twenty miles exhausted, fueled by no more than a Starbucks bagel and Chipotle burrito. It’s in my nature to jump off of my bike and play intense basketball games wearing a pair of khaki shorts and polo shirt; because that sedentary life isn’t for me. A while back, a friend asked why I quit smoking and drinking alcohol, I told him that I wanted to experience my prime in its prime; this same dude got ripped on P90X months later and I couldn’t be prouder. In lieu of wishing for an easier life, I work for greater resolve; so go ahead and chase the path most traveled, I will not be joining you. For everyone else, let’s do this.

Some pertinent tweets from this weekend:

• While I hack up phlegm from 1996, can someone wish upon a star that it doesn't rain on my ride home please?
• After fifteen undocumented miles from Chambers to 138th and back, then two basketball wins, this is my reward #NYC #athlete #fit #healthy thanks for leaving me @tiantha
• One night, far into the future, I will wish for the right conditions to ride, tonight was not one of those nights #grateful.
• Starting from here, riding to the Manhattan Center near Penn Station for TechCrunch Disrupt #Hackathon

While I try to read a novel per month, the start to this year kept me in front of illuminated screens more often than my weary eyes appreciated. Having read Brave New World and The Great Gatsby so far in 2013, two more books this month and I’ll be caught up! Another bit of news that crossed by literary and technologist worlds: Amazon recently bought Good Reads. Barnes and Noble really dropped the ball on this one, their Nook is more of a play-thing than competitor to the Kindle; and relinquishing the future IMDB of books to Amazon may have been the final nail to their coffin. Remember Borders? Finally, let’s venture into a Brave New World.

Aldous Huxley wrote Brave New World with a Dystopian premise, contrary to George Orwell’s 1984 classic, because no one is paranoid or suspicious; and for good reason, there’s nothing to be paranoid or suspicious of. The setting isn’t Soylent Green, or a shady communist regime ruling with an iron fist. There isn’t any conflict by scientific design in this future. The citizens are brainwashed from birth to accept death, regulated drugs, promiscuous sex, and the absence of solitude in favor of socializing. Looking around today, it really isn't different from the constant bombardment of broadcast influence we currently sustain; and if you somehow survive this desensitizing upbringing, then you're free to leave with like minded individuals. Every citizen is a genetically modified test tube baby, which renders traditional birth and family structures extinct. Although there is a social caste system, work and play opportunities efficiently distract from transcendental thoughts. What's yours is basically mine, unless I don't want it.

The story specifically follows the actions and consequences of a man born to the highest social class; albeit, with less desirable characteristics, like his short height and obtuse facial features, which render him similar to a lesser social class. We’re treated to the rebellious thoughts of his genius, yet feeble mind, which are expressed and noticed by others around him, like outbursts of Napolean Syndrome. Attempts to make up for his shortcomings ultimately lead to encounters with people from the uncivilized world, where people do crude things, like work on farms, worship gods, and read Shakespeare; thereby introducing conflict to the monotony, which becomes monotonous in itself.

And oh the monotony! Woe is the reader if inventory lists and tallies don’t fancy them. I, for one, did not really need to know how much of everything presides in every scene; this tactic came across as filling filler. In theory, the daily repetition of easily productive work, sex, and drugs make for a great life; however, the book wears you down by constantly transcribing the equipment necessary to accomplish such a feat. I admittedly skipped a few paragraphs of fictional material accounting; then the conflict becomes the monotony, and seasons of Maury come to mind. Mustaph Mond, a character introduced in the final chapters, saves Brave New World by delivering the insight we bravely read towards. Through a series of question and answers, and speeches, he sums up the state of affairs, how it came to be so, and why it must remain this way; which I just so happen to agree with. Final rating: Bueno. The Great Gatsby is next!

With the NBA Playoffs right around the corner, and the Kevin Ware fueled men’s college game in the rearview, here’s to the ladies.

The face of women’s college basketball for the past two years has been Brittney Griner. Brittney initially exploded onto the national scene with superficial criticism regarding her physique, followed by multiple in-game dunks, and highlighted by a National Championship last year. This year, after cruising through an undefeated regular season, her Baylor Lady Bears cruised into the Elite Eight of this year’s tournament before flaming out against the Louisville Cardinals. Brittney’s final season should be remembered for her bold proclamation: no one can beat us except for the Miami Heat (in the midst of their historic win streak nonetheless). I had the privilege of watching the second half of their collapse, and must commend Odyssey Sims on her performance for the Lady Bears; to imply that Brittney threw that game would be an understatement. Although Brittney was offensively limited due to constant double teams from a zone defense, she disappeared completely on defense and watched a layup line ensue.

With Baylor gone, the nation turned to Skylar Diggins and Notre Dame to carry women’s basketball athletics into the limelight. Immediately following Brittney’s sellout, we were treated to an emotionally charged Skylar carrying Notre Dame into the Final Four. Notre Dame then lost their next game, and the Connecticut Huskies subsequently won their eighth national championship. For perspective, Connecticut and Tennessee account for sixteen of the thirty two national championships in NCAAW basketball history. As it turns out, I can’t recall who won Most Outstanding Player, or name any of the Connecticut players after Maya Moore and Tina Charles left; alas, their coach, Geno Auriemma, is who will be remembered.

The women's game needs marketable names, not Mark Cuban instigating the likelihood of a woman in the NBA. Elena Delle Donne of Delaware is the favorite to usurp the title during her senior season. While we’re aware of Andrew Wiggins and Jabari Parker entering the men’s college ranks as definite one and done lottery picks, it’s far more difficult to stay abreast of incoming female stars. Pay attention, as the weather warms and women storm the courts in ever increasing numbers, because they’re so far under the radar, it’s not far-fetched to find yourself playing with one.

My straightforward top five list of favorite Japanese manga, in order: Akira, Ghost in the Shell, Initial D, Fist of the North Star, then Dragon Ball Z. All of these stories revolve around power struggles, and feature breathtaking battles that expand your imagination. Far Eastern producers are skilled in creating epics of this type, the closest American animated production was the Batman cartoon of the nineties. Dragon Ball Z really drew me into the culture; as a boy, watching expressive men run around screaming about power levels and punching each other in the face was a blessing to this shut in. I ignorantly anticipated episodes after school as if the show weren't already a decade old. By the time high school was over, I had seen every episode through the GT continuation due to my Asian connections.

Dragon Ball Z itself is a continuation of Dragon Ball, which I have chosen to remain oblivious to. To grossly over-generalize, the show stars Goku, an alien fighter of the Saiyen race, from the planet Vegeta [named after its ruling hierarchy] sent to destroy earth. Goku instead loses his memory and becomes earth's savior through a series of fortunate events. Like a genie, Dragon Balls are artifacts used to raise a dragon who grants wishes. Vegeta, the Prince of all Saiyans, arrives on earth to fight Earth's greatest combatants and use the Dragon Balls for himself. All fans of the show usually end up favoring Goku or Vegeta, there are some stubborn viewers who think Gohan is the greatest thing ever; they're obviously deluded and won't be considered in this discussion. For the record, my favorite character is Vegeta. Citing Goku’s desire to defend his family, and not have a heart of malice, Vegeta actually concedes that Goku is the stronger fighter. Goku fans point to this moment to definitively answer whose better; with all of the background out of the way, let’s consider the two prime reasons why they’re all wrong.

First, the sheer amount of assistance Goku receives does not rear its head in Vegeta's favor, until his genius wife Bulma artificially raises his power level to Super Saiyen 4 levels. Goku is trained throughout his upbringing and entered into various tournaments, while Vegeta is presumably off overseeing Napa's destruction of various alien worlds. Goku is trained in *heaven* by fighting *gods*, note the asterisks. Goku was further assisted to defeat Vegeta in the first place. Goku is also given the opportunity to train under extreme gravity conditions during his travels, while Vegeta merely feasts on inferior competition, until they meet again, at which time Goku has ascended to the first Super Saiyen level. This trend goes on, senzu beans; and on, instant transmission; and on, Trunks’ heart medication; and on, fountain of youth Goku... Add in a Saiyen's natural ability to come back stronger from what doesn't kill you, and you have to ask yourself, how much stronger do you return from DEATH.

Which brings us to the final point that makes everything else moot: Goku is dead. Piccolo killed Goku before Vegeta ever arrived on Earth. Either you concede that death is the end of a combatant's participation in this argument, or that dying means nothing, which ultimately means no one is stronger than anyone else. The show would have you believe that the former is true according to certain circumstances, specifically if a villain is killed, then they are not permitted to return, despite the fact that heroes are obviously not bound to remain dead. Even in the after-life, there aren't fighters capable of rivaling Goku at any level until far into the GT series, which means Frieza and Cell should have been locks to constantly return.

I’m not a fan of Lord of the Rings, or any other Fantasy based fiction. My initial attraction to Dragon Ball Z was partly based on the logical concept of power levels and the intricate explanations surrounding their employment. As the series progresses, rationale takes a back seat in favor of a deus ex machina filled theme of heroics. According to the rules of the rules of the Dragon Ball Z Universe, Goku is the strongest being to ever exist, except there aren’t any communicable rules; and if there were, then Vegeta would assume the title and circumvent all future threats by virtue of immortality. At least, that's how I would write it.

My warm weather mornings used to begin with a jog, or sprint intervals between pot holes; ever progressing towards a healthier lifestyle, I recently decided to walk in the mornings instead. While it's a given that my ethnicity is particularly at risk for high blood pressure and heart disease, it's less well known that mornings are a terrible time for anyone to strenuously exercise.

We’re 40 % more prone to suffer coronary emergencies between the hours of 6 am and noon. My mother rehashes every story about young adults who keel over and die moments after shoveling their driveway. You're aware of reports of fit athletes losing consciousness and being pronounced dead in the middle of morning practices. Like the quiet carcinogenic effects of working the graveyard shift, without the declaration of a Public Service Announcement, it's easy to believe these fatal occurrences are merely coincidental, rather than the result of a series of unfortunate circumstances.

After hours spent sleeping in a horizontal position, our blood circulation slows, allows blood to sit, and results in a body filled with the thickest blood supply of the day. Imagine drinking juice from a fresh straw, then a milkshake from a used straw, the difference is that stark.

Taking it easy on your body doesn't mean you need to sit around either. Although I barely regard walking as exercise, a brisk walk is a great morning activity substitute. The pace prevents you from feeling rushed, the atmosphere allows you to think, and weather factors are less likely to keep you indoors. Have a good morning, every morning, for a long time!

Yesterday I ran my first 5k of 2013, and recorded a personally respectable 3.5 miles in 28:01; so a little over a 5k. The day before, a friend presented their 29:38 to me. I was very proud and congratulatory of their accomplishment, having crossed the 30 minute barrier for the first time. Their progress then put my aerobic condition in perspective, and led to my taking advantage of a sunny day with a high of fifty degrees.

I started near the Fort Hamilton circle where the road was flat. My pace felt run of the mill, until halfway through the first mile, when I caught sight of some high school students. They seemed to maintain a lead around every bend, so I used our distance to pace me; which generally means I make an effort to pass, or not fall behind at least. There were six of them, I passed half of the group three quarters through the first mile; then the fourth runner wouldn’t relent.

Our back and forth routine coincided with the hill, where the burning sensation was immediate. I can usually chug passed soccer moms and recreational runners, especially on the incline. Sometimes a NYRR club member will zoom by, and I’ll give chase for however long I can before tapering off; those guys are unbelievable! On this day, the young man overtook me for good once we ascended the hill, and maintained a distance of five strides at most; I couldn’t muster the energy to challenge him. It bothered me for a while, I watched myself linger behind him for another mile and a half. Remember there were six, two of them just took off and left us to battle for third; a young man and woman, kudos to them!

My chest burned afterwards, prompting internal bleeding and premature death jokes. Took a seat to watch swans, drink a protein shake, and let my kneecaps throb. Harking back to running in the rain, it’s all about resolve. Feel free to link me on RunKeeper, life is better fit, and best with a challenge.

You're asking yourself, why? Because I'm frequently in the restroom with urinal conversationalists and soap allergy sufferers, that's why. Let's review some methods to combat the bad habits of rest mates. Check the door lock before knocking or turning the handle, sometimes there’s a vacancy indicator, prove you’re literate. When entering, try to clip the door knob with your forearm or wrist, and catch the door with your elbow. Always smile at the exiting user, you're about to discover what they've been through.

For solid deliveries, like dressing rooms, I will occupy the handicap stall if it's available. For liquid deliveries, any stall takes precedence, then any urinal with space on either side; I don't mind waiting for a comfortable opportunity as a last resort. Man to man, to properly clear your urethra, press your perineum, the space between your scrotum and anus. Yes, seriously, trust me; you'll preserve underwear comfort and restore zipper confidence.

We're almost done. Kick the lever to flush, and nudge the seat closed. Wash your hands with soap or hand sanitizer instead of dry handed whistling; you've been warned. Choose a paper towel over the hand dryer, then use it to open the door. Remember to smile as you exit and comfort the next user.

A friend of mine challenged herself to work towards a five minute plank, then she quit. I decided to record my attempt at an inspirational video, to gut through the pain; even when it feels like nobody cares. My personal best at the time was approaching the three minute mark. On the difficulty scale, the five minute plank ranks far less intimidating than 100 pushups or the four minute mile. One day I may challenge myself to maintain the Oprah Mile over the course of a full marathon.

The final result I posted to Youtube (embedded below) was my third attempt. My first attempt was a success if not for the restricted camera angles. Following my disappointment with the initial footage, I began and failed the second attempt half an hour later. Two days later and determined, I added a twist to my third attempt, to stress the fact that there isn't always a television audience cheering our pursuit of personal goals. My co-star, who hesitated at first, grew more comfortable as the minutes ticked away; he’s a natural weight.

My strategy was to adjust at each minute: start wide for the first minute, go narrow at the second, balance on one foot at the third, then the other foot until the fourth minute, and gut it out for the remaining sixty seconds. Truth be told, my solid strategy failed after the third minute, switching feet at that point provided zero relief.

Crossing the five minute mark was less rewarding than the collapse. My entire body caught the shakes towards the end; I was genuinely exhausted. It’s unreal how much you can sweat from keeping still. Being me, I'm still unhappy with my back’s fluctuating height; being you, I'm forgiven. Thanks, looking forward to the next challenge!

The actual game started 45 minutes after its scheduled 8 pm start; rightfully, some in-game booing remained from the preceding Sears Entertainment Showcase. Every stoppage in play provided an excuse for Kia, All State, and whoever Kyrie Irving ages for, to advertise with a musical act. Excessive theatrics and commercials aside, the game itself was very touchy; the frequency of airborne players getting shoved deterred the star power. For perspective, even Kobe Bryant passed up open jumpers, so you know.

Commentators have long insinuated that an All Star Game player agreement exists to defer to the host. Knowing this, was it me or did James Harden, Houston Rockets star, act like a prima donna? He walked the ball up and generally looked frustrated coming off the bench again. Bosh didn't appreciate being embarrassed either, which could have been another Houston connection problem. I tried switching to the D-League All Star Game between acts, only to be reminded of the talent gap; ultimately skipped the final quarter, and imagine the final two minutes of play dragged on for half an hour.

At least the three point contest remained somewhat pure after all of these years. When I heard Terrence Ross ASK Jeremy Evans to keep the final round of the Dunk Contest prop free, my choice was made for me; of course this request was made before Evans trotted out a painting of himself. This year’s dunk field was so impressive on paper, that last year’s winner, Jeremy Evans, should have been the worst dunker of the bunch. Even though we were robbed of a Terrence Ross vs Gerald Green Finals because of the lame East vs. West gimmick, James White’s dejected face was gold! Also, if we must allow multiple attempts, then at least subtract a point per missed dunk from the dunker’s final score! Jason Richardson remains the best All Star Game dunker after Vince Carter, followed by Gerald Green, Andre Iguodala, and Terrence Ross in some order.

I should have watched the bad zombie television show instead… If you’re wondering who won what contest this weekend, then you’ve missed the point; we all lost.

Ask a group of men about women and we’ll readily admit that we’re stupefied. Ask a group of women about men, and prepare for a torrent of misinformed garbage spew from their delicate lips. Ladies, for the supposedly smarter sex, you should be ashamed of yourselves. Some blame magazines, I blame absentee fathers. If no one took the time to outline simple terms for a desirable relationship, then I’ve teamed up with David Cesar to combat some misconceptions and respond to unrealistic checklists like the above and below:

By no stretch of the imagination is the following list complete, although we have agreed that each point lays an admirable foundation for compromise:

• Cleans the home wearing stilettos and lingerie, cleaning the home is optional.
• Eagerly trades massages for home cooked meals, and vice versa; we're always eager for either, no man turns down or sulks over a massage or home cooked meal in return for the other.
• Makes a sandwich after sex, we would if we weren’t immediately exhausted; we kill spiders, your evolutionary advantages are just as important.
• Reciprocates compliments; we appreciate your beautiful ability to make yourself any more beautiful.
• Saves as much as she spends; because ten pairs of Christian Louboutins amount to the opening cost of retirement property.
• Calmly expresses her frustrations, and welcomes assistance to overcome obstacles; we really want to help, we would do anything to end perpetual sob stories.
• Doesn't invite ratchet television, friends, or relatives into our home; we make repairs with ratchets, don't break our home.
• Public disposition between Angela Basset and Phylicia Rashad.
• Private submissive hedonist between Kim Kardashian and Ciara.

You’ve been given the recipe; reverse engineer at will. If you insist on being stubborn, a unique snowflake, or legion to the same Marilyn Monroe who died of a drug overdose, then here are four final tips to best relate to the man in your life:

• Play with his dick
• Play with his dick
• Play with his dick
• Play with his dick

Finally, no, I am not a chauvinist. I love women, I treat women respectfully, I have argued in favor of suffrage more times than I care to disclose. If you’re still not satisfied with these suggestions or their ethical nature, then imagine each suggestion comes with a bottle of Merlot, or add a sense of humor to the list. Happy Valentine’s Day!

As a moderately handsome man, I have a few of these stories, I know your plight ladies; hell, accept my apologies for every failed attempt at wooing your sisterhood. I vividly remember this one time in Tampa, Florida. I was on the bus, can’t recall where I was going, and I sat next to a rotund lady with a friendly face. Her face was friendly, not attractive; for anyone adamant about beauty being in the eye of the beholder, I did not behold beauty on that bus. On some days I wear a titanium wedding band on my left ring finger. Like an ethical fool, I always seem to reveal my farce when someone inevitably questions my marriage. Besides my bachelorhood preference, the ring subconsciously relieves pressure from conversations with females, their friends, colleagues, and so on; I’m also very well mannered, I can generously compliment, and by nature my intentions can be confused. I mention the ring because it’s been forgotten as she strikes a conversation.

We get to the fact that I arrived from New York, which is a desirable trait for all women without ties to New York; then her questions became more personal: Are you here with anyone, to see anyone, away from someone? I’m paraphrasing, I can’t be exact this far after the fact; what I do know is, I kept saying, no and no one. Finally, she asks if I want to hang out some time; I tell her, no and never. This doesn’t dissuade her from expressing her feelings; I’m flattered, and that doesn’t dissuade me from scoffing at her date proposal. My faux wedding band suddenly comes to mind, at which point I showcase it and blurt out something about my wife’s approval. Instead of referencing the omission of a wife from my previous statements, this woman proceeds to instigate an affair. These were her words, you’ll have to envision her easy callousness: if she’s not with you, then she won’t mind! Just like that. We’re not talking about *insert gorgeous woman I would briefly picture nude before rebuffing nonetheless* here. I must have blacked out after she so unceremoniously offended my matrimonial sanctity, because I recall hearing myself, like a spectator, say, I love my wife more than anyone will ever love you. And I promptly exited the bus a full stop early. Florida heat is tragic; I will always remember that walk. I’m still trying to forget that woman.

For the most part, I quit outright cursing, ever since the emotional expression of vulgar language was proven to momentarily shut off your brain; the occasional “fuck you” or “fuck off” escapes for the dry humor. Being the loudest person in the room has never been in my best interests either. Not to be disillusioned, my passive aggression is very smug despite my best attempts to seem aloof. When I’m in a groove, with kind honesty at my disposal, I can forego the first and last word, raised voices, and embellished lies. There’s a very important difference between snaps and insults, laughter has no place in contempt.

Fuck, as a noun, verb, adjective, or adverb, is too ambiguous. For one, the words sex and fuck are voluntarily interchangeable. Lustful connotations aside, exclaiming a fuck denotes an inability to properly express the grounds for disagreement. Shit and bitches aren’t literal observations of a human being, nor are they detrimental metaphors. On the other hand, reminding a remedially educated adult of their limited vocabulary can occasionally be self-gratifying. As a sadist, I imagine masochists can feel berated by figurative language; from afar, watching children cry themselves to sleep can be equally entertaining.

For me to truly hate something, is to prefer said object be at my disposal, rather than oppose me; then it’s a compliment. My ideas of insults don’t slap you in the face; they firmly clench your soft hands and shake your weak wrists. I’m the fifth horseman of the apocalypse, the harbinger of self-loathing; because when all else fails, I remind you that we're going to die, and this conversation won’t mean a thing; besides a wasted opportunity to be more than two negatives.

If you immediately thought, "two negatives make a positive;" not when they add.

On OKCupid, there are questions used to compute your compatibility with potential mates for a relationship, as friends, or as enemies. Whenever I encounter a high enemy rating, I’m always assured that woman is a Christian with extra-marital children, and they hate homosexuals. I’m that heterosexual black male who endures flak for drawing a civil rights analogy from the homosexual movement for marital equality. America has statistically disproven the efficacy of marriage, denying the right to be federally observed as a matrimonial union is a senseless affront to the Bill of Rights. The internet, our final modicum of democracy, has logically argued, “Oh, you don’t like gay marriage? Then don’t get gay married.” And that makes sense.

I would love more gay male friends, their typically impeccable style complements me, and they have a knack for attracting attractive women. Gay females on the other hand, have shared far fewer benefits in my favor, especially being menage opposed; sorry ladies, I’m sure you’re wonderful people nonetheless. If I must confess distaste for anyone, it’s for obscenely flamboyant people; gay or straight, I'm an introvert, that much attention is nauseating. For some helpful insight from my inexplicably accurate gaydar, ladies meet kegels; because once a man mentions anal sex, then he’s obviously bored of your most feminine feature.

Two people have ever asked me if I were gay, one privately gossiped as much, another thought he could insult me with a public insinuation, and multiple gay men have hit on me; I was flattered every time. Because, even as a heterosexual black man of West Indian descent, the second most homophobic region of the world outside of the Middle East, I don’t associate homosexuality with bad or wrong. At the same time, there’s another internet meme that asked, “What if homosexuality is nature’s way of preventing over population.” And I can find the humor in that, the same way I can be entertained by Django Unchained, Dave Chappelle skits, and rap music. It’s easy to digress over the suitable nature of potentially offensive humor, butt fuck it; everyone deserves a fair chance.

Zoe Saldana, born Zoe Yadira Saldana Nazario, is currently the go-to minority action heroine of Hollywood. When Will Smith cracked the movie blockbuster code, it must have occurred to another demographic that similarly promising rules applied to them. Once a movie producer accounts for conventional wisdom and historical demographics, we’re left to conclude that profitable movie investments should reflect the desires of hormonally charged young white men, and old Jim Crow era white men. It’s then no surprise that as a black actress, you should sleep with enough white actors to be cast for your appeal to satisfy these factors. Let’s explore this theory on a movie by movie basis with the leading ingredient of mixed race relations; please note that I watched movie trailers for the most part, rather than subject myself to watching dreadful movies.

Let’s begin with the outliers, known to people who order movies on demand as, After Sex and The Heart Specialist; highlighted by explicit sex with Brian White, almost lodging a wrench in my theory, despite Brian’s ironic surname. Let’s follow up with her movies devoid of a love interest, including The Skeptic, Vantage Point, Center Stage, and Get Over it; followed by movies featuring soft ethnic relationships, including Takers and Drumline. Finally, let’s conclude with her sexually themed onscreen mixed race relations, including Avatar (yes, Avatar), The Losers, Crossroads, Death at a Funeral, Colombiana, The Words, Star Trek, and Burning Palms/Maneater; in the last of which she begs Nick Stahl to rape her, thereby removing The Heart Specialist wrench. From Halle Berry to Thandie Newton, professionally and personally, to the opposite end of the spectrum, from Uma Thurman to Angelina Jolie, leading ladies rarely share intimate screen space with black male love interests. Observe the roles of your favorite leading black male actors, from Idris Elba to Morgan Freeman and Will Smith himself, question how frequently they’re left without love interests. Zoe Saldana is the beneficiary of an industry that rewards her for enforcing a social bias; for which, if the prolific Voltaire legally scammed his fortunes through the lottery, then Zoe Saldana's profitable exploitation is no less admirable.

Her blueprint's sales potential has only recently gone mainstream with Scandal and Deception; special shout out to Shonda Rhimes, banking like the new Oprah! The last leading pair of African Americans on broadcast television starred in Undercovers, which despite rave reviews, was quickly canned. The real loser here is Tyler Perry, as much as I feign his cross dressing caricatures, his stubbornness to present black men in a positive light will forever relegate his productions to basic cable and poor box office sales. Congratulations Zoe Saldana! No hard feelings; for someone to win, someone has to lose.

Like the mathematically inept with calculators, Macs are for people who simply need things to work, PCs are for people who need to know how things work, and Linux is for poor posers forcibly turned smug elite. I would know, I’ve owned every platform and read The Oatmeal. Now, Macs have left the hallowed grounds of designers and eccentric homes, to infiltrate developer circles and general administrative offices.

I have been anti-Apple for so long that I bought a Creative Zen AND Sony Mini Disc player instead of the iPod! I still don't want to pinch, wave, or generally gesture at my screens! This must be how writers felt about typewriters, or photographers who thought film would never be usurped; where art thou BUTTONS?!

A respected web developer recently told me that her last PC encounter involved DLLs from Windows 98! I started asking around and found that most Mac users have never owned a PC, last used an antiquated Windows version, or were exposed to the much belied Vista. Microsoft hasn't done itself any favors with Windows 8 either, when all they had to do was build a TILED desktop with a Start menu and omni-bar. Of course, it's not difficult to personally install the necessary components, except that extra effort is exactly where a sane person would browse other options; now I know how most Thiests feel.

The easiest explanation for Apple fever has always been convenience. From my experience, public schools were either equipped with Macs or PCs in their computer labs. Each platform maintained a separate image, one remained in a beige box, and the other resembled an organized bucket of Legos. Microsoft may have released the ill fated Courier before the iPad, and Palm may have released the Pilot before the iPhone, except they were all marketed to the wrong generation. The computer market is at the mercy of grown children systematically brainwashed, and devolved to devote themselves to a grownup Leap Frog product. As I get older and lose my complex faculties, I promise to more freely dabble with Apple products; in the mean time, best wishes with your Macs and elliptical machines.

Everyone has their preferences. Remember to be tolerant. Lesbians don’t accuse straight women of sexism; some biases are implicitly respected to that point. For clarity, because there will be semantic detractors, a preference is a tendency is a partiality is a bias by relative synonyms; the title uses the term bias because I’m partial to alliteration.

To my point, it’s my belief that we’re all biased; an example for your credulity, we innately value our family over strangers. You know the question: what if you had to make a choice with a gun pointed to your head? Against a stranger, you’d have to more than hate a family member to save the stranger instead. Then it’s not unreasonable to find our biases subtly expand. We humans are creatures of comfort, we find comfort in regularity, and nothing is more regular than our reflections; itself an instinct recognizably adhered to by virtue of our homogeneous relationships. Of course, all rules have exceptions, ironically often products of biases themselves: short women who only date tall men for example.

To be clear, my purpose is not to validate offensive behavior. Circumstances inevitably arise during which we feel excluded due to inconsequential biases, such as demographic marketing, like browsing the melanin scrubbed Task Rabbit service. However misappropriated, this constructive reaction is more admirable than the anger that results from forgetting our own perpetuated exclusions. While some scenarios can insult our sensibilities, science has proven that explaining a problem can help alleviate the associated stressors. You’re welcome!

Instead of preaching mythical purity, let's acknowledge that our tolerance and biases define our individuality; and along the following lines, do not impede your growth:

But today most black Americans not hampered by poverty or prejudice take for granted their right to study Italian, listen to Britney Spears or opera, play in the NHL, eat Thai food, live anywhere, work anywhere, play anywhere, read and think and say anything. —Stephan Talty, Mulatto America, 2003

It's Sunday, the Super Bowl is too large to ignore! Please note my Patriots over the 49ers Super Bowl pick from the Conference Round, unlike pre-game talking heads, I own my losses; of course, when I win, you must never forget that I celebrated President Obama’s second term before he won! My record for the new year so far: one win, two losses.

I would like to make the sentimental pick here: Ray Lewis’ bon voyage season concludes with a Championship ala Michael Strahan and Michael Jordan; it would probably help if his name were Michael Lewis. The problem with the sentimental pick is that it flies in the face of the better team. After dominant wins over dominant teams, and despite a few hiccups, the 49ers were arguably the best football team all season. And yet, there are logical reasons to side with sentiment. The 49ers did fall to far lesser teams, and the Ravens did pull out victories over two future Hall of Fame quarterbacks in games they were favored against. Sentiments are emotional though, the pick is still tied to the dream of a fairy tale ending, instead of inexcusable confidence. Colin Kaepernick has played like a veteran, crushed a playoff quarterback rushing record, and won on the road when it mattered against the league’s best home team.

There’s more sentiment, my anti-sentiment towards the polarizing arrogance of Jim Harbaugh. I was a Jim Harbaugh fan in his playing days, I was also a Jeff George fan, a Warren Moon fan, and a Ken O’Brien fan… Basically, I rooted for quarterbacks who kept losing, liked the allure of the upset, and wanted to be inspired by the underdog. Today, Captain Comeback has reinvented himself as the hard-nosed coach who revitalized football in San Francisco, previously the home of west coast finesse. We both changed in this equation, and there is a solid discomfort associated with coming full circle.

Sentiment aside, I’m picking the 49ers to win, and even my record for the year; I’m going to need the clean slate before the NBA Playoffs. An on-field Ray Lewis collision with Colin Kaepernick’s immediately dislocated hip would still make my evening; and somehow, I find myself worrying more about Lewis’ miracle recovery being derailed. Flukes aside, give me second string Alex Smith over Joe Flacco anyhow. I win either way, just know, I care more about my record than a story. Enjoy the game and chime in with my tweets during the game!