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A couple of weeks back, the subject was dodged but I knew the topic was far from buried.  Sex. An interesting albeit over saturated topic in the adult world , is an intriguing, embarrassing, funny,  engrossing and disgusting conversation for an inquisitive 10 and a snickering soon-to-be 9 year old.

I know, I know be honest, deal with it first go round. I’ve heard it and read it, but truth be told, my imagination just got the best of me.  Like a 50’s black and white reel with grainy oddly moving images, I  imagined remorseful adults locked up in the pokey, confessing to cellmates in possession of mom tattoos that the origins of their devious ways began when their dad screwed up “the talk.” I pictured them crying as they lamented of their downward spiral, led astray by their very own father.

Sounds absurd, but through the fuzzy channel of an unfocused brain, the words I chose somehow had the power to usher them from the innocent Eden devoid of sexual implications to a world suddenly saturated with it.

I didn’t possess the perfect beginnings for “the talk”,  so careless parenting stepped in courtesy of a local events mag entitled Creative Loafing. A city paper whose budget appeared to be on an extreme diet judging by the dwindling number of pages produced week by week. But I digress.

Creative Loafing, (bad daddy!!)

To understate a fact would be to say that Creative Loafing is NOT a kid friendly paper. Kid friendly in the sense that a child in possession of the magazine,  moderate reading skills and a desire to pass the time would feel they were doing a great job. Even if they hadn’t taken the trash out, they would realize they hadn’t gotten a tattoo, a piercing, called a singles chat line, hooked up on the local dateline, redeemed a Starship 1/2 off coupon, gotten botox or silicon breast implants.

Maybe once every couple of months I grab the magazine out of habit to see which bands are coming to town or review a particular cover story (seriously) or check out what’s going on in Atlanta. On occasion, I’ve needed to make a quick pit stop to clean the car after hearing the kids snicking at images of men holding hands on the inside pages or the scantily clad women urging them to dial 1-800-hot-pants. Aside from these minor incidents, nothing major ever came out of the not-so-often habit.

So, I thought nothing of picking the paper up on the way out of the library with my son about a week ago. We made it home and began cooking dinner without incident. While taking a break from the grill, I stopped by my office to see my son hunched over the newly collected paper, reading intently.

“What’cha reading, ” I inquired.

He lifted the paper up and pointed to the cover story without missing a beat. The story, “35  Years,” covered the details of a young man’s conviction for rape in Atlanta. I asked him, “is that something you think you should be reading?” He pauses, looks at me and comes to the sudden realization, “uhhhhh . . . No?”

Panicked and intrigued, I sit opposite him at the desk and ask him to tell me about what he’d read to that point. Eager to display his reading comprehension he proceeded to tell me. He spoke as a teacher would  impart wisdom to students and related his understanding that a man forcing himself on a women is called rape. He was satisfied that the penalty handed down, which was 35 years in jail, was a good sentence. His understanding was rudimentary and fundamental. That was oddly reassuring in that he didn’t really get the emotional human cost associated with the act. I realized that we were in a unique moment.

“How far did you get,” I asked, attempting to mask my concern. He pointed to the top of the second page. The time for the talk was at hand. Not a day later, not an hour later, not even five minutes later, but at that exact moment the time had come.

His response led to the instinctive question, “what is sex.” He smiled and giggled, coyly saying, “you know.” He moved his hands while giggling to indicate a motion for sex that only silly kids can make funny and not obscene. Drawn in by the giggles, his sister soon waltzed into the room and found a place on the floor, eager to add everything she knew and had heard from her friends to the conversation.

What followed over the next 45 minutes was an inquisitive, funny, serious and poignant conversation lead more by the children with me simply providing points of clarification I was amazed at some of the questions.

Can lesbians have children?

Can you die from having sex?

When I get married, do I have to take my clothes of to have children?

Did you and mommy have sex?

Can old people have babies?

The last was a great question that lead to my daughter running for her Bible to read to us the story of Sara and Abraham when they doubted God’s ability to give them a child.

All and all, the article albeit extremely scary, was a great starting point for our conversation. The hope was that they could feel comfortable asking their parents anything about sex. But I realized that the infamous talk is really not, “the talk.” It is she be called the introduction because it was simply the first step in a long road to teaching them how to effectively choose boyfriends and girlfriends and hopefully, soul mates that will strengthen them as children of God and lead them away from behaviors that would put them in harms way.

There were a couple of things that I learned and here they are:

1 - Get rid of any creative loafing and treat them like the plague if you have 8+ year old children. If you read them, read ‘em BEFORE you get home.

2- Similarly, find a mild mannered bock or article that deals with the topic, it’s much easier to start by finding out what they ALREADY know. This way you can be in control of how the conversation is initiated.

3-By getting your kids talking about their understanding of sex, it’s much easier to help guide them through the conversation and give them exactly what they need and not too much.

Good luck parents.

Every now and again I hear that soul stirring emotional gripe, “my Facebook account has been hacked.”  Or, maybe you are one of the unfortunate individuals to whom this has happened. My condolences.

I was skeptical at first. Not because I didn’t believe it could happen,  but because many computer problems are affectionately known by techies as a PEBCACs (Problem Exists Between Chair and Computer). After seeing more and more posts about the hacks on various sites, I looked a little deeper and was moderately interested in what I found.

Getting your Facebook, or any other social media account, hacked can and does happen. For individual low profile folks out there, access is typically gained through poor password selection or installation of rogue applications. Low profile meaning NOT Sara Palin or Barrack Obama.

When it comes to generating passwords, despite knowing better, most Americans are just not that creative when it comes to creating a password. This is the lament issued by a collection of high school teachers on their blog, “Teaching High School Psychology.” They go on to list some of the most common reasons that hackers are able to guess passwords for general user accounts.

• 16% used their own first name or that of one of their children
• 14% used simple keyboard combinations such as “123456789″ or “QWERTY”
• 5% of the passwords were of television shows, famous names, etc. such as “Hannah,” “Matrix,” or “Ironman”
• 4% used the word “password” or a close variation “password1″
• 3% used phases such as “Idontcare,” “Whatever,” “Yes,” or “No.

What’s more, I bet quite a few folks reading this have a password or two residing on a dubious list entitled, “The Top 500 Worst Passwords of All Time”.  If you see your password here, go straight to jail and do not pass go. But before you do that,  change your dang password to something not on the list. Keep in mind that any information in the public domain can and will be used against you by hackers. ANY piece of information (Read: Google yourself and see what information is out there about you, you might be surprised).

This means your dog’s name, your children’s name, your birthdate, your home state, your zip, your street address, your alma mater, everything is out there for the taking.  A hacker can assemble all of these items into a  list and begin running through the combinations to generate probable passwords.  That’s not good news.

Want to know how to choose a better password? Grab a small cup of joe and peruse the following link;  Click here to peruse. Yeah it’s boring and completely non-sexy, but at least you won’t have to send an email to everyone apologizing for the hee-bee-gee-bees you gave their pc (sorry, sorry. Or Mac). And remember to change your password at least 3 times a year.

The other predominate way to get hacked on Facebook in particular and other social sites in general is to continually install and allow random applications to access your information. Keep in mind, these applications ARE NOT, in general, built by Facebook and its development group. These are private groups and organizations with wild ideas and dreams of grandeur that assemble the applications.  Some have good intentions and others, not so much.  There is no verification process for developers putting together Facebook applications so installer beware.

On Facebook in particular, the applications will rifle through your user list sending random join messages to your unsuspecting friends. And bam, before you know it, cyber calamity. It’s ok to decline to allow applications access to your information. If they really need it, they’ll IM you.

Enough talk, go change your passwords and practice saying, “No, you can not have access to my information.”

Stay safe.

Bright futures covered;
What is there to be hidden;
Common sense fashion

Big trains, small windows
moving silently along
ancient dreams made real

Chatter on the train
Stormy bulls eyes getting abuse
Books cry silently

One boat, many eyes
Black soil thick between brown toes
Dreaming of freedom

Inquisitive sun
Lonely smitten shadowy snow
Death inches onward

You have to love colloquialisms. But man is there a downside to using them. A colloquialism is more or less a regional saying or phrase. Though it may give color to expressions it can often create confusion. Take for instance an experience that my wife and I had. It literally took us years to “get it“.

A couple of years back, my wife came home upset. The vibrating window resulting from the slamming of the front door let me know she was in a tizzy about something. It’s amazing how quick the brain works. Within a matter of  at most 5 seconds I had already calculated about 50 reasons why she could potentially be mad at me then eliminated them all for one reason or another. I was in the clear. Go me!!

“What’s the matter with you,” I confidently bellowed to her downstairs. So what if the kids got in trouble, that was their battle to fight.

“You’ll never guess what the fish clerk at the store just told me,” she said in disbelief. My interest piqued I rushed downstairs. “what’d he say,”I asked? Evidently, she had been shopping at the fish counter and the man behind the counter said to her, “what’s the matter, did I sleep with you last night?”

“He what!!!” I bellowed. “yesss,” she confirmed. What I love about my marriage is that my wife and I, in most situations, are  in tune and in sync. We knew what needed to be done, and we were the folks to do it. We didn’t need to talk we instinctively prepared for war.

After snatching the kids up and ensuring I had the Michael Cooper knee high socks on, we headed down to the grocery store to get all up in that dudes ish. The frigging nerve of this guy!!! No matter where you come from, that’s just bad customer service. How had they let this slime ball work for them. I was doing my best to breath. I found that breathing kept me from seeing red, and passing out. But every time the phrase, “who the heck does this guy think he is” came back into my head, I stopped breathing,  started seeing red and felt like I was about to pass out.

I believe in efficiency, so when I saw the store manager as I walked back to the fish department at the store, I flagged him down and let him know he had trouble on his hands. Like a police officer hunting down a suspect, I turned to my star witness wife and asked her to finger the perp. “Him, him right there with the beady eyes.” OK, she didn’t say that, but I tell you that’s how I remember it!!

I stepped to him. Even though there was a counter between us, he already had his hands up and was backing away as though I was about to bum rush him. “What did you say to my wife,” I inquired?  I asked the question in the tone we are all familiar with. I know what you said, I need you to confirm what you said so I can lose my mind for what you said.  He was ready for me, all he said was, “what, I didn’t say nothing to her?”

True to form, my brain went into an old In Living Color routine.

I’m thinking “ho-ho-homeboy!!! I said, ho-ho-homeboy . . . he didn’t just say what I thought he said did he?” I looked around at the gathering crowd, rhetorical mental questions simply backing one another up.  “He said nothing???? Didn’t he? Didn’t he?” The manager could see the odd look in my eyes. He caught the glimmer of a crazy man like a match, beginning to catch fire. He stepped in to diffuse the situation.

“How can I help sir?” he said. I went for the nuclear option, “I want him fired!!!” “He asked my wife if she slept with him last night” The manager successfully calmed me down with assurances that he would take care of the situation. I eventually relented, having restored my wife’s honor and left it at that.

Fast forward a year.  I walk into my brother’s house. In the course of the conversation, I didn’t respond to something and my sister-in-law says, “what’s wrong, did I sleep with you last night?” I stopped dead in my tracks, my head was the only body part turning to her and I simply said, “what did you say?”

She quizzed me, “you’ve never heard that saying?”

No,” I respond, “what does it mean?” Come to find out, the saying is meant to draw attention to someone ignoring you. It  really has no sexual connotation to it and is just a southern saying.

Oops

Now I start mentally reviewing the odd sayings that I’ve heard throughout the years. How many times have I gone ballistic over a colloquialism that I didn’t understand.

Hey folks, I’m sorry.

Once called the fourth estate because of the power it wielded, newspapers  are headed down a path from which there is no return. I blogged about it a while back (check it out), well it looks like the king of bargain basement pickings has seconded the motion. Check out Warren Buffet’s ideas on where the newspaper industry is headed.

http://finance.yahoo.com/insurance/article/107029/Business-Musings-From-Woodstock-for-Capitalists

Do jokes count for a blog post? Miguel got me to thinking about how funny my finances were, so  I wrote a joke or two about em.

I’ll be honest man, my finances are a joke. I called in to check my balance, I never got the amount though cause the automated teller wouldn’t stop laughing!!

My finances are disgusting. It makes me sick, heck they make everyone sick. My piggy bank got swine flu!!

Money Makeover, there has been no lip stick created to make my finances look pretty.

I just finished the Dave Ramsey book, Total Money Makeover and that guy is nuts!! No one can survive on those budgets. It’s not a money makeover, it’s a lifestyle workover. With those budgets, I bet if he ever made a movie the soundtrack would be in morse code!!

My wife gets angry when I don’t balance my check book. So a couple of months back I tried it..   the stock market crashed.

This is the third time trying to write this post. I’ve started it with statistics, anecdotes, and even a reference to my favorite TV show, The First 48. But somehow I keep coming up short.

It’s a rather straightforward proposition. Any man, or women for that matter, can in the span of 1 - 2 hours on a given Saturday, Sunday or any day really change someone’s life for the better? It doesn’t require any knowledge of psychology, a religious bend or even a license. You won’t be required to fill out a registration card, go to an orientation or commit yourself to anything in the future. On the face of it, the proposition is quite presumptuous. One word, one day and one moment that you spend with a random child in a park somewhere can change their life.

I found that every now and again activities that I took for granted were wondrous new adventures for others. As I reflected on those moments, I realized just how precious and life altering they could be. All of this visited me when I was throwing a baseball with my son in the park. A similar incident happened about two weeks before. Two children tentatively crept forward, edging ever closer to investigate the mysterious left hands of my son and myself.

“What’s that on you hand,” the little girl said. She couldn’t have been more than 6. She didn’t know that it was a baseball glove. She also didn’t realize the little round white ball we were tossing, was a hard baseball. She chased it with  no respect for it’s ability to swell melons. Her slightly older brother meekly followed behind her, eager to take advantage of her curiosity. We let them wear our gloves and we tossed the ball back and forth with them. They giggled in excitement when they finally caught the ball. The little boy was quite good. Later another young boy who I recognized from our pick up game a couple of weeks earlier joined us.

The moment hit me, what difference would it make if a regular guy, just like myself visited one park with a football and a baseball just once a month? What difference would it make in someone’s life? What conversation would be had in that moment that would otherwise never exist. I firmly believe in the possibility that is  pregnant in every moment. When you boil it down, it only takes one moment to alter the trajectory of our lives.

Think about it. Look at your life’s memorial landscape forever playing on that big screen in your head.  Here you can view those scattered but important memories that shaped who you are. Many are feelings, and many are moments and people. We made decisions on who we would no longer date, we decided what our friends would look like, we decided who we would be because a moment changed your life. So, if we are aware of the power in one moment, does it stand to reason that this is the greatest gift we can give? We are blessed with these moments and these memories. We can also give them.

I’m wondering if any other men recognize the power in this random moment.   It really is a simple game of catch. But the real question is not what you will be catching, but who

Jelani Cobb has an interesting conversation brewing over at his blog, American Exception - The Somali Math Problem. He posts that the Somali pirates could continue their attacks for a long time and almost never catch up to the damage done to Africa by European traders engaged in the slave trade. It raises questions of fairness and retribution while using a mirror to assist in the definition of, “evil.” Against my better judgment, he sucked me in and I couldn’t resist adding my two cents!!

There was a comment that this conversation is ultimately about how those in power paint others as evil and depraved. It was chalked to white privilege.

While I have and still do shed tears for my ancestors and the degradation and injury placed upon their shoulders, are black folks just sore losers? Although this is not my point, it’s kind of an interesting way to interpret some of the comments here. Angry that black folks are not the top dogs like the days of old (and yes there was a time when this was accurate). History is a continuum. Not a beginning and not an end.

At the end of the day, I believe that, other than geographical location, the parallels between pirates off the coast of Somali and retribution for slavery are wholly incomparable incidents.

These acts are not sanctioned by any government, there is no country from which to seek redress for grievance.

I can understand the argument’s roots, but I believe there is a sinister cynicism that plagues it, oozing through its pores. This argument has an emotional root which seeks to absolve the wrongdoing and African descendant because of the injustice of slavery. An historical wrong from Arab and European merchants to blacks in Africa and the diaspora. In essence, it’s a get out of jail free card whenever some misguided black disasporian somewhere gets caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

The fruits of this argument are wicked and deadly and have been sown for generations in countries such as Palestine, Israel, Iraq, Afghanistan, New York, LA. Anywhere that men with one good eye left seek to exact revenge for what was taken.

That’s not to say that reparations aren’t warranted, but the Somali argument weakens the case. So, I get the argument, but I’m not really feeling it.

I just read an article that drew some correlations between grades and Facebook use. The gist was that students who used Facebook were typically a 1/2 letter grade below students who didn’t. You can check out the article here.

The really difficult thing about assessing these types of claims is that many angles have not been covered BEFORE the “results” are released. Yes, the writer makes it abundantly clear that she has no slant and that their is more to study, but why make the claim if you have to disclaimer it into oblivion? It’s akin to the tv show COPS showing a man chased down by a small battalion of officers who then beat the mass out of him while cuffing him and then running the disclaimer, “All suspects are innocent till proven guilty.”  Guilty as sin!!

Imagine the legions of overzealous parents that have now banned Facebook in their households to their children’s disbelief.  They’ve relegated Facebook usage to second shift after Saturday morning cartoons, if anyone still watches them. Kids will be forced to Facebook in dark desolate alleys.  What really bothers me about these studies is in many instances their is no historical context give for the subjects that are included. In other words, were these individuals already performing below non-Facebook students prior to the study? Were their study habits filled with other tasks?

Granted, I haven’t taken any master’s level statistics, or even undergrad level coursed. But I smell a rat. Interesting article, I just hated the dangling connotation.

Ok, I knew better.

And, after the deed was done, I felt dirty and icky for doing it. Though I’ve been in denial for quite some time, I have a great friend who has consistently told me for years, “DON’T GIVE MONEY TO THE HOMELESS.”

On the face of it, sounds like a pretty anti-Christian, anti-Muslim, anti-God thing to say. That’s what my denial was. I subscribed to a school of thought that articulated a desire to give to God regardless of whom that recipient was. My line was always, “I’m not giving to that person, I’m giving to God.” That’s a load of crap.

The seedy truth underneath it all is that I was giving to satisfy my mental moral obligations while maintaining my distance and comfort. How easy is it to dig into your pocket and produce $1.00 - $5.00 and make the homeless person go away? Don’t get me wrong, giving to the poor is one of the cornerstones of faith. But giving is denigrated when its essence is an unguided blank check that has no guidance and support attached to it.

The man had walked the length of the train car I was riding in. He was respectfully asking for change, slowly working his way through the center isle. I kept my head down with my nose tucked into a book. I scanned the words, and understood nothing. My brain was preoccupied, debating giving or abstaining. He stopped next to me, asking those around me for change and I smelled pity. I clung to the notion that my crisis would be solved if he didn’t ask me for money. Mildly funny on the surface, but troubling at its core.

His pleas fell upon stone faces staring distantly into far off lands. I fought the urge to dig in my pocket as best I could. But as he turned, a feeling of disappointment began to wash over me. Here I was given an opportunity to serve someone else, “the least of these” and I was turning a deaf ear and a blind eye. I was confused.

To silence that harsh mental critic, I reached in and soothed my soul by sliding him $5.00. Holding it so others could see. Not in a boastful way, but in hopes I could sway the outcomes of the debates others might be silently waging. Evidently I was the only one in this debate.

Instead of hearing a mental pat on my back from my ever present critic, a wave of nausea ran through me. I knew that the $5.00 I had just given him would never satisfy his hunger. My $5.00 would be gone in 10 minutes, his life would be the same and he wouldn’t know how I was if I passed him on the steps outside the station. I could hear my friend JahQues words in my head, “DON’T GIVE MONEY TO THE HOMELESS.”

His mantra was, if you are going to help them, help them. Don’t enable them. So , how do you help the homeless? The most valuable thing you give them is yourself and your time.

In this instance, a conversation would have been helpful. He wasn’t mentally disturbed, was respectful and didn’t appear to be a danger. I could have purchased a meal for him. I could have asked him if new about SafeHouse, a nearby mission established to get the homeless back on their feet. I could have talked about the Atlanta Dream Center another outreach program in the Metro Atlanta Area. I could have prayed for and with him.

Whatever, I could have given him something more valuable than $5.00

SafeHouse - http://www.safehouseoutreach.org/
The Atlanta Dream Center - http://www.atldreamcenter.com

From the outside listening in, some folks might not get the relationship my wife and I have. We’re committed to not taking ourselves too seriously and laughing is always encouraged. So when you hear me tell my wife, “your Frump Factor is moderate today,” laugh along.

If you’ve been in a long term relationship, you know there are some conversational landmines to be dreaded, avoided and handled with a ten foot pole. For the uninitiated, listen carefully. When the sentence begins with the words, honey, sweetie darling, sugar or other sappy nouns peculiarly out of context with the current situation. . . RUN!!

If you can’t run, pay close attention and when a similar situation arises, think man, think. My wife and I will celebrate ten years of marriage in September and I’m still discovering.

“Sweetie, how do I look in this?” were her words. That was the setup and like Pavlov’s dog,  I made the mistake of answering in less than ten seconds and I failed to look her way. That’s a rookie mistake veterans make all the time. As a husband, these questions are routine questions not really deserving of whole mind concentration as much as requests of comfort worthy of grunts and nods. But evidently, from a female’s perspective, this is some pretty important stuff that must be dealt with several times a week utilizing severe consideration and scrutiny.

“Looks great,” was my response. I’d learned my honesty lesson years before. When it comes to looks and weight, honesty is not the best policy so men put your poker faces on. And just like poker, some hands you win and others you lose.  I could feel my wife’s corneas trying to burn a hole in the back of my head. This flippant response was clearly a losing hand this go ’round.

“You didn’t even look,” she quipped. “I did,” was my feeble response. But I’m a pretty bad liar when it comes to my wife, so the whole, “you look great” was a doorway to verbal beat down #476.

“And just when it looked like the home team was going to lose, big time, I put my hands up and said,  “all right, all right, I think your Frump Factor is pretty high today, maybe in the 7-8 range.” Boy’o, I had done it now!!! Not sure where that brilliant idea was coming from, but I was struggling to try and plug that hole. As I watched her response, she ceased the verbal assault  and drew in a long breath, as her head tilted up and her mouth widened. I could see teeth and squinted eyes and just when I was picturing my self in the Southwest Airlines, do you want to get away commercial, I realized, I had prevailed. She was laughing. Hysterically I might add.

After she stopped laughing, she asked, is it the skirt or is it the blouse.  Crisis avoided. Not only did it introduce a guaranteed morning laugh, but my wife’s dressing has gone to another level. Just when you think you know what to expect, marriage throws you the unexpected.

I now actually have fun with the question, “how do I look.” I relish the opportunity with zeal. My wife frequently requests a Frump Factor report. I can hold my head up high and say, “yeah, uhm today we’re at an 8 - 9. Ok, ok, truth be told, I COULD say 8 - 9 but I WOULDN’T say 8 - 9. I do still want to stay married. I generally don’t go higher than 8.

So to men everywhere, I give you the Frump Factor, use it with caution!!