A Nice Hotel With Some Peculiarities
We stayed at the Wyndham Grand Pittsburgh Downtown. It’s right near Heinz Field and Point State Park and bills itself as the “gateway to the Cultural District.” The room was $88 on Hotwire (shows up as “3.5 star, downtown Pittsburgh). It was small, quaint, and in need of a good dusting, which Amber took care of within seconds of entering the room. Her inner homemaker cannot be tamed. (Beware: The Wyndham Grand employs a water guard, who stands near the water jug and makes sure you don’t fill your own bottle with their fruit-infused water. Tiny plastic cups only, please.)

Food and Drink But Mostly Drink
After check-in, we walked a couple miles down Penn Avenue to the Pittsburgh Winery. The name of the joint is a bit misleading. They don’t actually produce grapes, but they do import grapes from all the hot spots and make their own wine. Amber had seven tastings ($10), and I had a very generous pour of their cab ($5 for happy hour). Then we shared another glass and caught a buzz. So we took pictures on the winery’s lower level, which had emptied after happy hour ended. I’m not sure of the exact look I was going for in the picture below, but I’ll call it “sensual winemaker fixin’ to smash more than grapes.” Hey, Amber!

Our next stop was the Pittsburgh Downtown Partnership Night Market, which runs each Saturday from May to October. There are vendors and entertainment and fudge. Yeah, fudge. We spent $20 on it, which was more than we end up spending for dinner at Primanti Brothers, where we split a corned beef sandwich. I’ve had a lot of swaggerless corned beef sandwiches from restaurants that are more so living off their appearances on the Food Network than selling good food. Primanti Brothers was damn good, and putting fries on the sandwich was a nice twist. We also picked up a six-pack of Tecate ($8) for takeout from a nearby bar. Yeah, you can do that in Pittsburgh. Sensible alcohol laws for damn sake!

Getting High
After food and beer, we took a night ride up to Mt. Washington via the Duquesne Incline. The tram is rickety and looks like a prime target for ISIS–or more likely a domestic terrorist–but I guess it’s safe enough. Once we reached the mountain’s peak, we took some pictures and looked for Monterey Bay Fish Grotto, which we were told offers the view of Pittsburgh. Well, they closed at 11 p.m., and we missed ’em by about 15 minutes.

We took a Lyft to the Lawrenceville neighborhood. It has cool bars and shops and all the other “benefits” of gentrification. We were on the guest list at a bar called Spirit, but we didn’t make it in. The line stretched down the street and none of the youngins seemed kind enough to let elderly folks like us cut in line. So we went to Remedy. It’s a dusty lil’ dive bar with a cover charge to access its roof, where you can dance to the catchy beats of today’s badly-written hip hop. We thought better of it, and left after a beer. It’s not that Remedy wasn’t interesting, it was. It’s just that they allow smoking and I can’t have my only club outfit smelling like addiction. Back to the hotel we went, but not before buying another corned beef sandwich from Primanti Brothers.

Do Not Disturb
We were supposed to start our last day in Pittsburgh early, but we didn’t get motivated until noon. The original plan was to visit Phipps Conservatory and Botanical Gardens (supposedly one of the world’s best), Randyland (an artists’ enclave created by an affable guy named Randy), and the Carnegie Museum of Art. We only made it to the museum. It was Free Sundays, and you can’t beat that.

Other than the masterpieces my kids scribble, I don’t know much about fine art. But I do enjoy classic pictures and paintings of black folks. The Carnegie was hosting an exhibit from The Studio Museum in Harlem. Many of the works were 50-plus years old and explored racism, rape, and other injustices that we’re still fighting today. The museum is huge and you can easily spend half a day or more checking out its exhibits. Bonus: Museum security is on it! This lil’ skinny girl was trying to take a selfie right next to one of the paintings, and the guard who was across the room was like, “YOU NEED TO BACK AWAY!” Hey, it’s the small human interactions that make my day.

The Verdict
My new home of Columbus, Ohio has received a bit of national attention as the coolest place in the Midwest, if not one of the coolest up-and-coming cities in the country. But I think Pittsburgh has us beat. It’s not a huge city, but its architecture and cramped streets give a big city feel. And it’s diverse. Not in the sense of having a black neighborhood, a Latino neighborhood, and so on–there are–but in the sense of having neighborhoods where you see a variety of groups interacting, or at least acknowledging each other’s presence.

So if you’re looking for a San Francisco-esque place with a Midwest discount, Pittsburgh is worth a visit, or maybe even a move. We’ll definitely be back again soon.

-Dewan Gibson

The post I Had No Idea That Pittsburgh Is So Damn Hip appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

Unfortunately I missed the first day of the two-day festival. My mind was willing but my stomach was not. I ended up stopping at nearly every rest stop and welcome center on the Pennsylvania Turnpike and running to the bathroom for numerous two-flushers. (My apologies to the families who were unable to access the family restroom because of me. Despite my selfishness, I did leave the toilet seat warm for your kids.)

Anyhow, an expected seven-hour drive from Columbus to Philadelphia took about 12 hours. Some of the more notable acts I missed were Migos, Solange, and J. Cole. As far as missing Migos…I’ve seen Das EFX. Solange gave a hell of a show, according to my best friend, Mike, who actually arrived on time. Though it couldn’t have been more entertaining than that video she shot on the elevator with Jay Z. As for J. Cole, my barber put it the best, “They got J. Cole performing at night cause he puts ni**as to sleep!”

The next day, the plan was to get motivated early enough to see Pusha T. But getting a buzz for a fair price in Whole Foods’ pub, which was right outside the venue, proved a more attractive option. Two beers and an old man glass of wine later, we finally made it into the festival.

What stood out the most were mud and young people. Some little shit said to me, “Nice sweater, bro,” which led me to realize I was probably the only person out of thousands wearing a wool sweater instead a clever t-shirt. I wanted to remind him that he’s really short and will therefore end up making less money and having fewer sexual partners than us tall guys, but I figured maybe he wasn’t being sarcastic. Yeah, right…

A lil’ white girl in struggle booty shorts asked me for a sip of my $14 Budweiser tall boy, which sort of reminded of that time some dude asked for a slice of pizza as I walked out of Little Caesar’s: “Let me get a slice, my ni**a.” Both times I just said “Cool,” more so out of surprise than kindness. Anyway, I let her have sip, and then she asked for another. I smartened up, “Nah, go on. We’re not ’bout to share this beer.” Later a bro handed me $20 and damn near begged me to buy him a beer. I obliged; I know the feeling of wanting but not having access to a drink. I feel it anytime my wife and I run out of wine. I only wish I had kept his change.

The first performance I saw was by Run the Jewels. Mike, who’s been radicalized by Netflix’s What The Health, suggested Killer Mike could benefit from a plant-based diet. That may be true. His arms are starting to look short, like Big Pun’s. But he had enough energy to give a good show, though I wanted to hear more from their debut album than their most recent, which I thought was just OK.

The Chainsmokers were next up. I liked their album a lot, but I was not expecting much of a performance. They’re producers and most of their good songs have features, and I figured Coldplay was not going to show up. But the two little guys didn’t need them. They sing pretty well and get down on the instruments. Plus their show had lots of explosions that were not gunshots. Maybe the research behind that short guys are less successful theory is flawed.

Jay Z’s set closed the festival and youngins with bad manners tried to push their way through the crowd for a better view, only to be cursed out by my boy Mike. Jay started the show with his song featuring (an absent) Damian Marley. “F**k all this pretty Shawn Carter sh*t, ni**a Hov!” He was wearing a ball cap and a big ol’ sweatsuit, which looked about as cool as my wool sweater. It was Beyonce’s birthday so he must have figured he’d just throw something on and shower after the show before they go out.

Jay went through most of his hits and some of his more recent, subdued tracks. Dude’s a pro. None of that running out of breath and having 37 recent parolees on stage with him to fill in the words. When he did need a break he paused and asked different parts of the crowd to form a mosh pit. Hey, know your young, melanin-lite audience.

After about a good hour or so, the show and the festival was over. Jay came out for an encore but it was on a different stage. Thousands of people ran his way, but that was too much for me. Jay’s cool and all, but I’m running to see anyone not named Michael Jackson. Though I guess I am willing to drive 12 hours.

-Dewan Gibson

The post A Review of Jay Z’s Made In America (After Driving 12 Hours With Bubble Guts) appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

The first stop on our road trip was Reily, Ohio, where Amber’s maternal grandparents were having their family reunion. Now, the family generally loves me, especially her 85-year-old grandpa, who said just that and added, “but not in a gay way” (LOL). Anyhow, that part of Ohio is a time warp. Across the street from the party center there was a home displaying a Confederate flag. And someone at the party had one hanging in their car window. Have you heard about that upcoming HBO show from the creators of Game of Thrones? The one where they portray a world in which the Confederacy won the Civil War? I’ve already seen that shit up close in Southwest Ohio.

After our short stay in antebellum, we drove four hours to Evansville, Indiana. Based on my visit to its 24-hour Walmart, which is how I judge cities when I don’t have time to explore, it’s a nice college town with an interesting edge of skank and meth. But more importantly, at least for this trip, was that it was only an hour from the eclipse’s path of totality. Also, a one-night stay at the local Howard Johnson was only $48 via Hotwire, compared to the $300 or more being charged by rinky dink motels directly in the totality zone.

By 8:00 a.m. the next morning we were driving south to see “the ‘clipse,” as the kids called it. For all the worry of thousands of tourists descending upon tiny towns that lack the services to accommodate, there was little traffic, and after 45 minutes on Jefferson Davis Highway and past the 350-foot Jefferson Davis monument, we were in Russellville, Kentucky.

We set up a picnic in the town’s historic district, where, you guessed it, there was a monument to the Confederate States of America. As a Cleveland Browns fan, I understand how one can have pride in a losing team, but not in a losing and treasonous team, that, instead of a Super Bowl, was seeking to win plantations full of Negroes.

A tornado alarm gave notice that the totality portion of the eclipse was starting. It brought Ca$$ius to tears and clinginess, though also calming his wild ass down in the process. Hoots and hollers began as the sky darkened. Bats flew around pissed off and unfortunately, the street lights came on. Totality lasted for about two minutes, and even though it gave Amber a headache, it was worth the trip.

As daylight returned, we left and entered a traffic nightmare as soon as we got away from Russellville, Kentucky. Thousands of people had in fact descended upon small towns and we are all using the same highway to get home. The expected six-hour drive home took more than 15 hours (including time spent entertaining ourselves in the parking lot of Long John Silvers while waiting for traffic to clear). Still, it could have been worse, the boys were pretty well-behaved, even though we told them “only two more hours left” about five times.

Traffic aside, I’m looking forward to the next total eclipse, which will be in 300, well, seven years. No need for a road trip; we’ll be able to see it from home. Either way, I suspect there will be a lot fewer Confederate monuments and flags to ignore. As I was told by a Trump voter on Facebook when being critical of the president, “You lost, get over it.” Maybe that’s good advice for us all.

We paid about $30 for these glasses on Amazon. Anybody wanna buy?

Thanks, tornado alarm.

Cute. They’ll be musty by the next total eclipse.

Totality strikes! (And so do the street lights).

Not so fun fact: The 13th amendment was not ratified in Kentucky until 1976.

Thanks to the Long John’s sign, I almost got a twerk out of Amber.

After-party!

-Dewan Gibson

The post A Road Trip To Kentucky And Back In Time: Total (Confederate) Eclipse 2017 appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

My incoming flight passing Cancun. Felt weird to fly with a major carrier. They had leg room and their flight attendants didn’t make out with passengers.

The customs line in Cancun. Despite a robust man-print, I was not pulled into secondary inspection.

VIPs had people waiting outside the airport. I took the ADO bus from Cancun to Playa Del Mar ($12).

Nothing says gringo like a Corona air traffic control tower in Mexico.

My lil’ $90 room at the Hotel Kinbe. It was steps away from the main strip (Fifth Avenue) and the beach.

The waterfall pool outside my room. I didn’t have my kids with me so I felt OK about giving others folks’ kids mean looks for being loud.

Fifth Avenue in Playa Del Carmen on a late Friday afternoon. It gets even more packed around 11 p.m.

Ships arriving at the pier in Playa Del Carmen allow a great opportunity for a struggle rapper to film a video.


I took this while resting and drenched in sweat after walking about 10 miles on the main strip. Don’t let the water fool you, Playa’s heat will have you burning up like Usher without Valtrex.

“Cured” my hangover with a shot of fish broth. Actually you’re not supposed to shoot it, but the glass fooled me. Damn, maybe black people can be gringos.

Tuna ceviche with pork rinds. #RNS

So thoughtful of this store to keep every woman’s secret and not just Victoria’s.

The fifth avenue chapel (wedding venue). Doors were open so people stopped to watch. A few came in and grabbed a seat. Cops didn’t shoot anyone, but they appeared open to it.

The reception was held at Blue Venado Beach Club. I’d post wedding pics, but I’m somewhat tactful. A column I read about manners said the new couple should post what they want to post, when they want to.

A giant sea turtle came to land to drop off some babies and abandon them. Could have had a better picture, but everyone yelled, “No flash!” Turtle probably didn’t care, she just wanted to get away from the kids.

It’s been said that if you’re really cool you don’t have to try to look cool. Well, I tried in this picture and I think I did OK.

I’ll definitely be back to Playa Del Carmen and the surrounding area. Even though I saw little more than the main strip, the internet tells me there’s a lot more to do there besides eat ceviche and drink oneself silly before dancing to 21 Savage. Like, you can ride wild jaguars in a UNESCO World Heritage Site and smoke bongs in water caves. And yes, Mom, for the 50-11th time…Playa Del Carmen is safe to visit.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Two Nights In Playa Del Carmen, Mexico (Trying Not To Look Like A Gringo) appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

After a shower and a nap, I caught Lyft to a bar called Rumors. One Yelp reviewer described it as a home for Amarillo’s “trash and riff raff” and another said it “always feels like a fight is two minutes from breaking out.” To me, it sounded like a place to see real Amarillo.

Cigarette smoke hit me as soon as I walked into Rumors. (Texas is one of the few states that gives smokers the freedom to endanger the health of others in bars.) Through the haze I saw an eclectic crowd. There were black folks, white women with gold teeth, thick Mexicans, and a few rowdy-looking white dudes.

The bartender served me a $2 Shiner Bock draft. Then she lit a cigarette and started writing in a notebook. I held cash in my hand and asked if she was writing down my tab. Nope. She was making plans for a back-to-school fundraiser to help out po’ kids. I gave her some tips on grant writing, and the next beer was on her. Well, kind of. She didn’t ask me to pay, so I didn’t. But then I thought maybe this some form of Texas kindness where I was supposed to initiate the transfer of money. I left $3 on the counter.

Midway through my third beer a flamboyantly gay guy sat next to me. I say “flamboyantly gay” because earlier he had announced to his girlfriends (and most of the bar) that he would “ride Keith Urban’s face for an hour!” He was blond and emaciated and slightly resembled a down-on-his-luck Alexander Skarsgard. He put his hand on my back and said, “I’m sorry, did you say something to me?” I chuckled. “You must’a heard me talking to the bartender.” He gave me a “Well f**k you then!” look and turned away.

A tipsy brown woman grabbed the other open seat next to me. She was probably in her early 40s and somewhere between black-man-thick and heavyset. After the usual bar pleasantries and small talk, I mentioned my wife and kids. She explained that she too had been married. Unfortunately it didn’t work out. The dying relationship ended when a younger woman parked outside their home and yelled for the husband to hurry up and come outside. The woman outside, according to the husband, was just someone he was teaching how to drive.

My next stop was R&R Bar. The crowd was sparse and made up of college students who all seemed to know each other. It was like one big group date and I was the older third wheel. The lone bartender served me a beer that was twice as expensive as the brews at Rumors. She was probably in her 60s. I assumed she owned the place. The conversation was non-existent and the people watching was soon played out. Before leaving, I took a toilet break and found what’s possibly the greatest bathroom graffiti of all time.

I walked over to a bar across the street whose name I can’t recall. Everyone was tatted with legit artwork and I felt self-conscious about my rookie tattoo that I’ve grown to dislike. I got it when I was 16. I only had $75 and letters were $15 each, so I got my name needled on my bicep. It could have been worse. My older brother got his initials and birth date inked on his forearm.

I drank a whiskey and Coke and caught a ride back to the hotel. Before bed, I shook the sheets and did a roach inspection. Nothing was found, but I slept with the lights on. Next stop: Tulsa, Oklahoma.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Me, A Moving Truck, And A Few Bars: Beer And Bathroom Graffiti In Amarillo, Texas appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

My first stop in the 16 foot moving truck was Albuquerque, New Mexico. After driving through the desert for hours with nothing to eat besides Jelly Bellys and a Subway sandwich, I needed a real meal. So I went to Talking Drums African and Carribean Grill. Obviously African food is not the first thing one associates with Albuquerque,New Mexico (that would be chile and meth), but the restaurant was near Martin Luther King Avenue, so I figured it must be somewhat legit. And it was damn good. I had injera with beef, chicken, and perfectly spiced collard greens that didn’t even need hot sauce, though one could make the case that every meal needs hot sauce.

After a nap and shower in my budget motel, I went to check out some bars downtown. The first was a spot called Sister. Like every other bar established after 2010, it was a hipster-rocker joint with craft beer. I like the craft stuff, mostly porters and stouts, but sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever again be able to find a regular ol’ MGD.

It was a Tuesday; the bar was mostly empty. As I drank my second beer and dished out mass likes of baby and kid pictures on Facebook, a group of six came and took over my quiet space.

One of the dudes was named Pickett, “like the fence,” he said. He wanted me to know that he was not a racist. Apparently the doorman had questioned the validity of his ID. Pickett’s response was, “I’m white,” which earned him a “Oh, you’re one of those types…” comment from the doorman, who looked Native.

Pickett told me 3 or 4 times he didn’t mean “I’m white” in a racist way. He just wanted to make it known that he’s not an “illegal.” His girlfriend joined our one-sided conversation: “You shouldn’t tell people things like that,” she said, glancing at me with embarrassment. Still, Pickett carried on. “I just don’t see color,” said the white guy seeking racial affirmation from the only black guy in the bar.

Pickett was able to sense my disinterest through his buzz. He changed the subject and went on to rant against capitalism while buying beers at an inflated price set by the market.

I left after a speck of his spit landed on my cheek.

My next stop was a club called Library. It was packed for Latin night. Unlike other Latin dance clubs I’ve been to this place was more about dry humping than elegant dancing. Pitbull had infiltrated the culture. I felt out of place; I was at least 15 years older than most of the crowd. And my buzz was severely lacking, along with my motivation to push in line for a drink.

I saw a group of brothas come in. One of the guys looked like football player/parent educator Adrian Peterson. He swooped up about 10 women in the time it takes AP to run a 40-yard dash. Seriously. He gave the bartender dap, ordered a round for everyone, and seemingly built an instant harem. Now…I don’t know much about black history in New Mexico, but I bet that n***@ made some that night.

Before I hit the road the next morning I tried to get a haircut. I don’t go to the barbershop often. I usually have Amber cut my hair into a Bryant Gumbel style. But with 20-something hours left to drive, I figured the fresh feeling that comes with a haircut would provide me a little extra energy.

I went to a shop called All Eyes On Me. It had good Yelp reviews and was possibly named in honor of Tupac. Forget Bryant Gumbel. I figured a barber at this shop could give me a cool and modern cut, like Harry Belafonte’s.

My appointment was for 9:30 a.m. I got there at 9:25 a.m., but the shop was still closed. An employee was outside. “I don’t where the hell J.B. is. He’s usually on time,” he complained.

The worker looked like he was in recovery. He was musty and scarred with amateur tattoos. I could tell he took pride in his job. He asked me to wait a little longer, said the haircut would be worth it.

I looked around the neighborhood. I got the impression Cops may have been filmed there a couple-few times. Maybe even one of those episodes where they entrap poor folks by leaving a moving truck open in a rough neighborhood. The “bad guys” go in for the loot, and the cops storm in.

I waited 10 more minutes, but J.B. the barber did not arrive. I was back on the road, through the desert with a head full of curls. Next stop: Amarillo, Texas.

-Dewan Gibson

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Then came the kid tears, and then came my Amber’s tears, and then came Amber rhetorically asking, “Would you rather have another kid or a dog?”

So we got a Yorkshire terrier (or some variation of one) from a family member who didn’t have the time to give her the attention she needed. She’s 6 and is called GiGi, which makes her sound like a stripper, but hey, no judgement in the Gibson household. We’ve been told that she likes cat food and sleeping on her owners’ backs.

So far she’s quiet–I’m not sure if she barks–and a bit nervous adjusting to our hell-raising household. The kids love her, this despite Ca$$ius saying, “If she dies we can buy another dog,” when warned about letting her run loose outside. He meant that in the sweetest way possible.

In just a day she’s grown on me, too. The kids went right to sleep with her in their bed, so she’s already earned her keep. It’s a normally a two-hour process of reading and yelling and answering questions: “Dada, Dada…when will it be morning?”

Most importantly, she’s peed and dropped a deuce…OUTSIDE.

Welcome to our family, GiGi Wayne Gibson.

-Dewan Gibson

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One of my goals was to own a giant bed like the one R. Kelly rested on while pleading with someone to go “Half On A Baby.” I didn’t quite get a mattress that size, but I did buy a California King with more than enough room for me and my wife (who’s of age).

Unfortunately our bed has been taken over by illegal occupiers. Each night between the hours 2 a.m. to 6 a.m. our kids come in our bed. Sometimes they pee in it; others times they kick and cry for prime real estate next to Mama; worse yet, they’ve been known to interrupt the really-really fast act that produced them.

The co-sleeping began when our oldest was an infant (see below) and continued with each subsequent birth. It made sense. They were breastfed; when they needed to nurse Amber could just flip out the titty while staying asleep. That was six years ago. They have yet to leave.

We’ve tried the reward system. If they slept in their beds, they’d each get a sticker. After accumulating a certain amount of stickers–I can’t recall the number, this was Amber’s thing–they’d get a prize and eventually an ice cream party.

The result: We spent money on junk toys from a dollar store that wasn’t really a dollar store. Slick concept, by the way. The kids still came in our bed every night. And each morning after they would throw tantrums regarding the definition of “sleeping in your own bed the whole night.” (I can see them as politicians in the future, hopefully not of the “grab ’em by the p***y” variety.)

We’ve tried other methods to protect our territory. I used financial reasoning: “Mama and Dada spent all our money so we could have a bigger house that gives everyone their own space. So we should all sleep in our own beds.” They looked at me like, “Cool story. But do you have enough money left to buy a dog?”

Carrying them back to their rooms worked at times. The only problem with that is once I’m up and actually moving…I’m up for the rest of the day. And come, say, 7 a.m., when most people wake up, I’ve already been awake for about three hours, which means I’m grumpy and therefore short with the kids and friends who post fake news on Facebook.

Threatening to shoot worked for a night. This was after I bought water guns and conducted a surprise raid as they played in the backyard. They were overwhelmed by my accuracy, so when it came time for bed I said to my oldest, “If you come in mama and dada’s room tonight, I’m gonna shoot you with the water gun I keep next to the bed.” I felt kind of bad because he actually looked scared, though he did stay in his room until morning.

But he was back the next night. And his brothers were, too.

Our youngest, who’s three, yelled “MAMA!” from the top of the stairs sometime around 4 a.m. (our room is on the first floor). I stormed out the bed, as if someone had awakened me with a water gun shot. I ran up the stairs and said to him, “Stop all that yellin’! If you wanna come in the bed, just come on in!”

He did. And they won. They may never leave.

-Dewan Gibson

The post It’s Been Six Years And Our Kids Are Still Co-Sleeping appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

Getting the job was easy. The only requirements were a college degree and a bit of common sense. There’s no interview. If Pearson likes your resume they email you and ask you to accept the job offer online. Hell, that’s right up my alley. Efficient. And no need to get all dressed up and wear my patent leather wedding shoes to an interview.

Keeping the Pearson gig is more difficult. You have to pass a test during the paid training. In short, the scores you give the standardized practice test have to match the scores given by the experts at Pearson. If you fail twice…peace out. I’d say about five of the 40 or so people in my group did not make the cut.

Week 1
It had been awhile since I worked in such a structured environment. Hours were from 8 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. We were allowed two 15 minute breaks and 30 minutes for lunch. Cell phones were a no-no, though that did little to stop my addiction. The only perk was free candy. But even that was no longer free once they put a donation tray next to the candy jar.

The pay was not good. I made $12.10 an hour with the potential for a $30 bonus if I graded more than 420 elementary school essays in a day. That’s a lot of essays to skim. I was the only one on my team to make the bonus our first full day. It was my biggest accomplishment since winning my kindergarten Monopoly tournament.

But chasing the bonus wore me out. Most of the essays were terrible. I felt bad for and angry at the kids. If they didn’t improve their writing they’d never land a temporary test scorer job with Pearson.

Week 2
I missed two days of work because I had to fly to Los Angeles for an interview. My supervisor thought I was an unexcused no-show. I had reminded her the previous week of my upcoming absence, but rules were rules and if I missed another day that would be the end of my gig. But at least she said it with a smile and a “honey.” Older black women always show me love.

I got the contract with the company in L.A. It paid double what I made at Pearson and I could work from home. I thought about quitting, but I didn’t have much else going on in Columbus besides some day trading and this here blog. I also needed to get out the house. Even my wife has been like, “You should go out.” Back to grading 420 essays a day, I was.

I started talking to the guy seated next to me. He was disabled, seemed to be recovering from a stroke. We had sat in silence most of the first week. It was my fault. I assumed he didn’t want to or was unable to talk. His speech was slow, but it helped his comedic timing when he joked about the subjectivity of the grading system. I came to admire him. He caught the bus to work and wore a suit.

Week 3
It stormed one morning and my well-dressed work partner would miss that day and all days thereafter. He was not the only one. I’d say about a third of the original team had stopped showing up.

Monotony had set in and people started to crack. There was a balding, pony-tailed white man in the break room nearly in tears asking for migraine meds. I wished I had drugs for the both of us. And there was an older East African woman, about 60, who flipped out and yelled at the guy sitting in front of her. According to her, he distracted her by moving in his seat too much. She may have also needed meds.

I felt the stress, too. My eyes hurt and restless leg syndrome set in, which Big Pharma says is a real thing. But I found peace in a gender-neutral bathroom. It had one toilet and was usually empty. I’d grade 100 essays at a time and then go hang out in the bathroom to play on my phone. This, along with my real breaks, brought my actual work time to about six hours. And I got more done because I was so focused on earning that bathroom break.

Week 4
I had another interview late Monday morning and called to let Pearson know I’d try to make it in late. I never showed. In the past seven work days I had graded 2,578 essays on the same topic and like the LeBron vs Jordan argument it was overkill.

Human resources called that afternoon to say the project was ending a week earlier than expected, and not just for me. We bonus chasers had graded too fast and there was no more work. I believe Jay Z would refer to this as “hustlin’ backwards.”

I felt relieved, though thankful to earn a little extra money. Please make sure your kids know how to write a coherent essay.

Note: Pearson also offers work-from-home gigs, which sounds like much better experience than my job with Pearson, if only because you would not need to hide in the gender-neutral bathroom.

-Dewan Gibson

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The young couple was looking to get married. The owner of the McDonald’s where my dad worked agreed to have the wedding at his restaurant for free. See, McDonald’s was the s**t and a lot less common than today. (There were fewer than 5,000 McDonald’s restaurants worldwide, compared to over 36,000 now.)

Anyhow, the store remained open during the ceremony–McDonald’s doesn’t play when it comes to their money–but the ceremony was outside of peak hours, so my parents had most of the outside area to themselves, even as restaurant guests looked on like, “I can dig it!”

They were married at McDonald’s on the 23rd of that month. Four kids and nearly 40 years later, they’re still together. And of course, the McDonald’s on Lee Road is still there, too.

My parents today:

-Dewan Gibson

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My first stop in Little Tokyo was the Japanese Garden. It was surprisingly small, not much bigger than your average Midwestern backyard. But the scenery was welcoming and it seemed like a comfortable place for a nap. Unfortunately the lone bench was taken by two lustful students. They stopped making out when they saw me–the only other person at the garden–but remained on the bench so they could get it on once I left. I’m not a hater, so I did just that after snapping a few pics…of the garden, not the hell-bound fornicators.

From there I went to the Little Tokyo Galleria. It’s a mall where you can find authentic Japanese goods and see lots of kind Japanese folks who say hello to unknown Afro-Americans like myself, which honestly, has not been the case with most other Asian cultures I’ve come across. I spent most of my time at Daiso, the Japanese dollar store. They had tons of stuff no one really needs, but all of it aesthetically pleasing and of higher quality than the crap you’ll find at your typical American dollar store. I bought a phone charger, tea, and some candy. I almost bought the chair below; I thought it would be cool to see my wife’s big ol’ butt hang off it; but I’m always preaching about not accumulating stuff so I passed.

After the dollar store, I grabbed some food from the casual restaurant in Little Tokyo Market Place. My simple budget demanded a simple meal, so I bought pork belly fried rice. No disrespect to all the lil’ Chinese spots I’ve frequented, but this was the best fried rice I’ve ever had. The meat was not mysterious and the rice was soft but not sticky. (Can rice be al dente? If so, what’s the Japanese word?) Bonus: The entire meal was only $7.

After dinner I walked to the nearby Arts District to see how the gentrification was going. I saw lots of interesting street art, including the muscle donk pictured below. There were also quite a few people having professional pictures taken of themselves. I’d try to walk into a shop or get a closer view of the street art and the entry/sidewalk would be blocked on account of vanity. There was no “my bad, one sec” or “go ahead through, bro,” they stood there with their big beards and cuffed pants. They’ll never make it in reality TV with attitudes like that.

The Little Tokyo Library was my next destination. I needed to charge my phone and figured I’d hang out to browse National Geographic. As usual, I got lost. I ended up on Skid Row and thought, “Damn, America’s never really been great.” I walked in the middle of the street out of fear and respect for people’s tents. I passed a guy who was naked from the waist down shouting in his own world. Nothing like a random frankfurter to get my sense of direction together real quick.

My trip ended at Wolf & Crane Bar. It was a cool little spot to go alone without looking out of place. I had a Purple Rain, a tequila and mezcal and purple-syrup mix that looked like something I should have been drinking while wearing a romper. I followed it with a Sapparo and left to wander off my buzz. Karaoke came to mind–I’ve only performed once before–but I knew I’d end up wasted and hungover for my interview. I went back to the hotel. Good decision; I got the contract.

-Dewan Gibson

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In the past three months I’ve taken close to 20 flights on Frontier. And each flight has been just the way I like ’em: quiet and unremarkable. Well, besides my last flight from Columbus to Vegas, where I was surrounded by two drunk bros, a belligerent middle-aged woman who was wasted off her ass, and a horny flight attendant.

The drunk bros were seated right behind me. One was intoxicated before he got on the plane. He talked loud, as if was trying to talk over loud music in a club, except there was no club or music. And almost every other word he yelled was “F**k!” In fact, he was on his way to “f***in’ destroy Vegas!”

The other guy was sober, at first. Actually, he didn’t even know the guy next to him. He tried to cut the conversation short, which was one-sided and had gone for over an hour, but he relented as bro number one bought him liquor.

The new best friends bonded and amplified nonstop. I turned up the volume on my tablet and hoped seven episodes of Master of None would distract me for the remainder of the flight.

I made it through two episodes.

A middle-aged woman sat across and two rows behind me. She yelled, “I’m so tired of this f***in’ flight!” I understood the sentiment.

She tried to order a drink but was refused service. She would then leave her seat, pacing the aisle, muffin top oozing out her tight but saggy jeans. A female flight attendant told her to sit back down or she’d have the police waiting upon landing. The drunk relented, but not before she asked why the bros did not have their liquor cut off. Whatever justification given was not enough. She shouted over the engine noise: “Fa**ots!”

The woman, who was either Asian or post spray tan white, was walking down a slippery slope. I figured the N-bomb would be dropped next. But sense came over her and she took a seat.

But the bros did not take kindly to the slight. One called her a “c**t.”

It was on!

A male flight attendant sat next to the drunk woman. I figured he wanted to calm her, and he did, but with some sort of strange alternative therapy that involved dry humping.

The woman straddled the flight attendant as he kissed her cleavage. Then there was tongue action. Her hands gripped his face as she pulled him closer. I noticed her fingers were missing. It looked as if at least one hand had been mangled.

Damn this was a strange flight.

It was dark and none of the other passengers seemed to notice the orgasms-in-process. The bros were apparently past the conflict and focused on getting some “f***in’ legit Thai food” in Vegas.

I said to the passenger next to me, “You see them making out?” The sista responded, “What! And that’s the goddamn flight attendant?”

Another passenger rang the call bell. The male flight attendant tried to scoot from under the drunk woman. She held on and got in a few more grinds. He adjusted his pants (and probably his boner) and went back to work. He had things to do that didn’t involve thrusting.

Another flight attendant soon came out from the bathroom area. She asked the drunk woman to put on her seat belt. “F**k that,” she responded. The attendant sighed and walked away. The sexual healer/male flight attendant returned and asked the drunkard to put on her seat belt. Suddenly happy and maybe still horny, she giggled and followed his instructions.

We landed. The lights came on and I looked at the flight attendant for clarification, like, “What are you?” He smiled and started talking to the bros behind me: “I made an executive decision to only charge you for six drinks. Everything good?” he said.

The loudest of the loud bros responded. “Dude, I saw you making out with that chick. I’m not even going there, but are you sure you only charged me for six?”

“I took care of everything,” he responded.

Yes the hell you did, you horny job-risking bastard. And my slightly edited version of Frontier Airlines’ slogan says it all: “Low Fares (and passengers) Done Right.”

(Note: Frontier Airlines provided me with a $25.00 voucher after I complained about witnessing bad simulated sex on their flight.)

-Dewan Gibson

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