Stored within my vast noggin are terabytes of information, far too much of it useless due to constant scrolling and clicking and texting and algorithms. Now, after a hard reset, my brain is recovering and being selectively refilled. Here’s how I’m getting my powers back.

I’m reading actual hard copy books. A bit of background: My love for reading developed early. In elementary school, I read a bunch of books and earned free pizza through Pizza Hut’s Book It program. As a teen, I worked at Waldenbooks and learned that sex scenes in romance novels were even better than what I could find on Skinemax.

As a young adult, smartphones became a thing. The constant dopamine rush pushed me away from novels, though I did manage to write a book that became a hit in Mansfield Correctional Institution after Uncle Boo (RIP❤︎) shared it with the homies on lockdown.

I’m now grinding through at least one book per month. The benefits: delayed gratification and increased mental perseverance, and of course, learning new words that make a ni@@a feel intelligent. Want some recommendations? My recent favorites: Gravel Heart, The Night Guest, Entitlement, Heads of the Colored People, Vantage Point, What Kind of Paradise, The Awkward Black Man, Harlem Rhapsody, and The Winner.

I’m also resetting my brain through exercise. The trick is to go raw when exercising. Not “raw” in the way that led me to have three kids, but “raw” as in walking, running, and lifting weights without a phone and earbuds.

This allows my mind to go on random deep-dives. While these thoughts are sometimes violent or otherwise socially unacceptable, it’s better than listening to yet another personal finance podcast or worse, murder rap. (No offense, 21 Savage. I’m still a fan.)

Lastly, I’ve been microdosing a miracle drug called marijuana, which is surprisingly legal in Ohio (it’s the only thing Dems and MAGA agree on). I don’t get stoned—usually—but a five milligram edible helps me destress and get into a “none of this really matters because agentic artificial intelligence is taking over life as we know it” mindset.

Speaking of legal substances, I’m drinking less alcohol. I still feel alcohol has social benefits for a shy guy like me, but it’s a brain drainer. High ABV Belgian tripels go great with Netflix, and I was downing one per night and/or sipping various wines from Trader Joe’s. These days I abstain a couple-few nights and wake up clear-minded with a lil’ more brain matter intact.

Next up? Maintaining set hours of when I can use my cell phone. Want to reach me during off hours…best come a’knockin’ or send a telegram. Come to think of it, in-person conversations with friends is also good for the brain.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Books, Exercise, & Edibles: The Big Brain Reset appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

Scheduling the colonoscopy was simple enough. I called the doctor’s office and answered a series of questions. The rep was focused on why I wanted the visit. I was thinking, “Well, it’s winter and there’s not much to do anyway. Your gastro center is new and just down the street. The screening could save my life. And it’s free.” So yes, with all due respect, I’m asking you to take a look at my ass.

It turned out she was asking for insurance purposes. If it’s a preventive colonoscopy, you can just show up to the office cheeks out and insurance will cover the visit 100%. If it’s diagnostic, meaning you’re having issues like blood in your stool, you need a referral from your primary care provider and there could be costs. 

The gastro office sent the prep prescription to my pharmacist and mailed instructions to my home. Day before the screening: Clear liquid diet all day. Two Dulcolax laxatives at 5 p.m. Drink eight ounces of “bowel formula” (potassium chloride) every 15 minutes until you’ve finished two liters. Set up a cot next to the toilet cause you ain’t going nowhere else the rest of the night. Day of the screening: Finish the jug of bowel formula. You will go to the bathroom at least 15 times in two hours, continuously spraying highlighter-yellow electrolytes into the toilet. Enjoy! 

As much as I’m pro-colonoscopy, prep was miserable. I probably made it worse by eating too much beforehand. You never know what could go wrong during a procedure, so I figured I’d go all in for what could have been my last meal. I ate drumsticks (of both the chicken and ice cream variety), an arugula and cabbage salad topped with smoked salmon, steak and mushrooms, and drank a beer. I was stuffed. Until I wasn’t. 

Whatever. I fought through massive outflows and mentally locked in for my colonoscopy. I was supposed to arrive at the doctor’s office an hour before the screening. Unfortunately, I spent so much time on the toilet that I was running out of time to take a shower. Forget that. Imagine being under anesthesia and the doctor’s like, “Yo! This ni&&a’s funky!” Like I said, the clinic was down the street. The doctor could be my neighbor. I jumped in the tub. 

My wife drove me to the clinic, and man, the office was efficient. I was checked in and wearing a hospital gown within 15 minutes. Of course I had to leave the back of the gown open.

Doc explained the procedure. A thin tube affixed with a camera would provide a livestream of my asshole, to be shown on the monitor next to my bed. Polyps or any items I accidentally left up there as a child would be removed. 

I was drugged with fentanyl and versed via IV. Doc mentioned, with enthusiasm, that some patients manage to stay awake and watch their anus on TV. That’s too freaky for me, so I drifted off to sleep. I woke up what felt like hours later, though I was actually only down for about 30 minutes. 

I’ve been on a high fiber diet for years and can boo-boo with the best of them, so I wasn’t too worried about the results. Still, you never know until you’re screened. Colon cancer incidences are increasing in people under 50, especially black folk. But if you catch it early the survival rate is 90 percent. 

Doc said everything was good. No polyps or signs of cancer, though I did have a small hemorrhoid. I’m not sure why he didn’t remove it. Maybe he thought it was cute? He left me with a few printed pictures of my digestive system. I gifted these to my kids. “Look at Dad’s butthole!” they screamed. 

I’ll let you know how my next colonoscopy goes, in 2034.   

-Dewan Gibson

The post Fun At 45! My First Colonoscopy appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

But this year’s annual visit was different. The doctor, whom I selected because he’s Black and had an opening during my lunch break, asked a lot of questions. “Have you felt down recently? Married, right? Any sidechicks? What do you actually do at work? You mentioned that you don’t use drugs, does that include marijuana? Any concerns that we didn’t cover?” 

I told him that my hairline isn’t as strong as it once was. “Looks fine to me. That’s a normal part of aging. I’m balding and fat. Be glad you’re not both.”  

Dr. Barnes opened his laptop and reviewed my medical history. “Your blood calcium levels are high. Have you had that looked at?” Nope. I hadn’t even heard of a blood calcium level. “Really, no one mentioned having that checked out?”

Had edibles ruined my memory? Maybe. “Every doctor I’ve seen said I’m fine.” He ordered another blood calcium screening and two days later referred me to an endocrinologist. 

The specialist was perplexed. “This isn’t something that we see in someone your age and condition.” He asked if I had other medical issues throughout the years. I had a ganglion cyst removed from my hand. Also, my white blood count was dangerously low in graduate school. That was almost 20 years ago. 

He turned all Dr. House on me. “Really? Were you able to take care of that?” I laughed. “Well, the doctor told me to take an HIV test. Freaked me out. I was fine, though.” (I left out the part where the HIV testing counselor suggested I reduce the number of self-care sessions I was having with my loins. Don’t bother…it’s a long story involving a “wait till marriage” ex-girlfriend. Anyway, I don’t know if the counselor’s advice was science-based, but I followed his recommendation and my white blood count increased.) 

I left the doctor’s office with a big ol’ jug to fill with urine over the coming days–another calcium test. I was also referred to a radiologist for a bone density scan. Apparently, an overactive parathyroid gland can cause calcium to be taken from the bones, causing a reversible form of osteoporosis. But that’s not it. The doc said I’d likely need surgery to remove the defective parathyroid gland (or glands).  

The scan showed osteoporosis in my femur. My older brother called me Mr. Glass from Unbreakable. He texted me something like, “Nigga out here like Mr. Glass.” This is how Black families say “I hope everything goes well.”

I thought of Prince. He broke his lil’ hip after decades of splits and floor humping. Like many Midwestern men of middle-age, he got hooked on painkillers, which led to an overdose. I can’t afford to be an addict. Especially after paying for all these doctor visits.  

My next appointment was with a nuclear medicine nurse. I was injected with a chemical and strapped down for an MRI. I’ve heard horror stories about the coffin-like feel of a closed MRI, but I dozed off within minutes. Easily the best sleep I’ve had since accidentally becoming a father three times over. 

The cost after insurance for just this one scan? $1,484. It was worth it. They were able to pinpoint the problematic parathyroid gland that would need to be removed. 

I met my surgeon three weeks later, a shy and very kind White man who looked like his name should be Brett. He described the procedure and seemed genuinely concerned, which was kind of scary. I thought, “If I’m not worried, why are YOU worried? You’re the expert!” 

Dr. Brett explained that an incision would be made just below my throat. Risks? Accidental damage to my vocal cords, which would leave me speaking in a hushed but possibly sexy tone.  Also, if the doc was having a really bad day, a carotid artery could be severed. 

Still, I looked forward to the operation. Too many doctor visits and doctor bills. The surgery itself was $55,000, though my share would be “only” $4,400 (after a 20 percent cash discount). ‘Merica!

The operating room looked like a small factory. There were machines and bodies and body fixers. Or maybe I was in the prep room? I don’t know. A round Italian guy, the anesthesiologist, rested his hand on my thigh and assured me that he’d take good care. My brain was then paused. 

I woke up a few hours later. I looked drunk, high, and all of my 43 years. My neck and cranium felt as if they’d been in a vice. The inside of my throat was torn, likely due to a breathing tube. I wasn’t aware that I would have one inserted, but my wife told the surgeon I aspirate in my sleep, and they wanted to be cautious. The incision over my larynx was covered with dried blood and glue. We were six weeks away from Halloween and my costume was ready, as was my oxycodone prescription.  

It’s been a month since the surgery and I’m 99 percent recovered. On occasion, I feel like something’s stuck in my throat, but that may be from watching the scene in Stranger Things where Will coughs up a slug. But overall, I have more energy and have seen a general increase in swagger with just three remaining parathyroid glands. Also, you can barely even see my scar.

And yep, I’ll be back to see Dr. Barnes next year. 

-Dewan Gibson

The post Parathyroid Surgery: My Throat Got Sliced, But I Feel Great appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

I don’t think I’m balding. My father has a full head of hair made omnipotent by Murray’s pomade. My mom says her dad kept his hair. I’m not sure of the details. I didn’t see him often, but I remember him wearing a cap. He had a straight mane flowing out the sides and back. Could it have been that Grandpa’s ceiling was missing, or at least thinning? Perhaps.  

Being that I have a high deductible health insurance plan, I get medical advice from Reddit. I searched hair loss groups, and man, it’s scary. Dudes fly to Turkey to get Indian hair sewn in. Others take meds that give you a lil’ patch of hair and impotency. Some just comb their sh*t over and shelter-in-place on windy days. There’s also the “bigen.” A dye that makes it look like you got lined up with a Sharpie and sweats out by the second quarter of an NBA game. Crazy! 

There are few other choices for the hairline deficient who decline the options above. One can wear a cap, but that just delays the inevitable “Daaaammmmn!” once you do the big reveal. Your best bet? A haircut. 

I usually get a lineup and leave the top and sides poofy. But a struggle hairline blends in more naturally with a low cut. I asked the barber, a masculine, middle-aged Black woman who looked like she could be part of the Mayweather family, to cut the curls off and line it up tight. (This was the first time I’ve been cut by a female barber. It was great. No worries about a nutsack resting on my knee.) 

She buzzed away only to momentarily turn off the clippers. “You got some funny hair…” I laughed and explained that the left side of my hairline has always been stronger than the right side, more so during the past decade. She examined the birth defect and nodded. 

Her work was done just 20 minutes later. “I got you looking like a little boy!” And I felt younger right away. No need to worry about a hairline if you don’t have much hair. Bonus: The hair that I do have is brushed forward, creating the illusion of a competent hairline.

I got home from the barber and the kids were pumped. “It looks good, Dada!” My boy with sensory issues wouldn’t stop rubbing my head. My wife stared and at least pretended as if she liked it. “Hey, you got a new husband!” 

The last stage of grieving a f***ed up hairline is accepting that it’s not coming back. I think I’m there. But! If medical technology progresses to where I can take a pill that makes my hairline damn near connect with my eyebrows, I’m on it. Even if I have to go all the way to Turkey.

-Dewan Gibson

The post The Struggle To Move On After Being Betrayed By Your Hairline appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

This is actually my second animal save. The first was when I manically swung a broom at a coyote trying to eat my neighbor’s cat. I’m far too humble to call myself a hero, but please say it for me.

Man, this experience has really made me feel at peace with nature.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Ever Save A Baby Fox That Has A Jar Stuck On Its Head? appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

We had our first ‘rona scare last month. Amber’s officemate’s wife was infected and he came to work like, “Hi y’all!” That same day, Amber suffered from a severe migraine and vomiting. My bird chest was congested and the kids had sniffles. Amber was tested at Kroger’s Little Clinic. It was simple: We parked in a designated space, the tech came out and handed Amber a swab. She pushed it up her nose and towards her eye socket and twisted it in circles. Rapid testing was not available that day. So no results for 2 to 3 days. 

Fortunately, she’s a salaried worker with benefits. But what if you can’t afford to take off work? There’s no incentive to quarantine while awaiting test results. What’s to prevent this person from becoming the company superspreader? How come the guy in the White House, whose lease soon expires, never took the lead on a national testing strategy to prevent this?

I was able to take a rapid test two days later at CVS. It was only offered at a store 30 minutes from home and there was one appointment available. I drove to the testing shack, sanitized myself, and eased a swab up my nose. The tech said, “You can’t stop right there. Keep going…” I obliged, pushing the swab farther up my nose, wondering if I’d get brain fluid on the tip. Tears ran down my face, as they did at my bachelor party, though that was more so caused by a depressive mix of mescal, weed, and Tijuana.  

I headed home and got a call from the tech within 15 minutes. I was fine. The following day, we learned Amber was also negative. 

Outside of The Scare, our covid routine has been much of the same since I wrote about it in May and October. I’m drinking less and down to one beer a night on weekdays. The beer has a good amount of alcohol (New Belgium Brewing Trippel Ale), so it’s probably more like two beers. If we’re up late, I may have half a glass of wine to last through whatever show we’re watching. Come to think of it, maybe I’m not drinking less.   

As far as food, it’s still my pandemic splurge. I’ve become obsessed with fiber. Just the other day, I had a bunch of raspberries, prunes, spinach, arugula, Raisinets, and an avocado. That’s become typical. Now I can boo-boo with the best of ’em. I guess it’s not the most enjoyable thing to talk about, but man, it’s a quality of life improvement. 

How about the kids? They’re still handling the temporary normal really well. They like the freedom of virtual school, impromptu video games/recess, and, as you see in the picture above, pretending to be elves. But they do miss Amber. They’ve always been attached, but since she started working outside the home full-time they’re REALLY attached. I’m talking tears if she leaves the house after work (“Dada, we see you all the time!”) and early morning bedroom invasions in search of skin-to-skin contact. 

But one thing that’s helped is that our yard has become the yard where the neighborhood kids play. They’re outdoors, but it’s also the most covid-y thing we’ve allowed since March. The gang is loud and wild because they’re 6 to 12 and should be. I can’t say our neighbors enjoy it, but it’s helped the kids maintain and gain friendships. Maybe a little too friendly. A 12-year-old has left my almost-8-year-old love notes. “Cash-Cash, your eyes are the moon, so bright and handsome.” Gotta watch those tween cougars around my boys. 

The pandemic has lasted longer than it had to, largely due to selfishness and contagious stupidity. Even as I write this there’s a superspreader political rally going on in Georgia. I’m guessing we have another six months until semi-normalcy and maybe a year until we do gross things like eat birthday cake after someone blows out the candles. I know that seems long. And I get down just thinking about it. But I remind myself that we have our health, stability, and more than 70 episodes of 90 Day Fiance left to watch on Hulu.

Stay masked, friends.

-Dewan  Gibson 

The post ‘Rona Scares And Hella Fiber, Maintaining Through The Final/Worst Stage Of The Pandemic appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

Ideally we’d want the kids in traditional school. It’s one of the reasons we live in the comfortable boredom of suburbia. In exchange for ever-increasing property taxes, The Man guarantees safe and educational childcare that runs concurrently with the traditional adult workday, though the hours aren’t ideal for youth learning. 

But covid made the decision to do 100 percent virtual learning easy. My job’s been remote since the good ol’ days when you could go outside without ninja wear, but my employer, a healthcare conglomerate who spends millions on real estate, isn’t allowing its 50,000 in-office employees to return. You figure if gathering indoors was safe they’d be the first to encourage it.

I know kids handle the virus better, and the death rate for young and sexy adults around my age is relatively low. But there’s more to this virus than “Did you die, though?” I’ve read research—not memes—on long-term effects, even in children, including depleted brain function, severe fatigue and de-swagnation, and loss of lung capacity.

Anyhow, back to virtual school. One of the good things is that I’m able to give the boys individual instruction. Though it’s often in quick spurts between my own work, it’s still more than they’d get in a traditional class of 25. In a way it’s like private school, though in our case the one-on-one help is from an unqualified but determined teacher. Even if the best advice I can give is “Finish what you can…Mama will look at it when she gets home from work,” it’s a little more than what they’ll get from a busy teacher, who’s underpaid and dealing with kids who are unprepared due to lack of parental involvement. (Read to your kids, man!) 

Another positive is having a real recess. In their normal school they get 30 minutes of outdoor activity per day, which is about the same amount of yard time you get in prison. In the Gibson School For Rona Prevention, they get at least an hour of running through neighbors’ yards, often with friends who “mysteriously” show up during school hours. If they sleep in their beds for the entire night prior, thereby allowing their parents to have uninterrupted coitus (I have to watch my words, they read this stuff), they might get an hour and a half of free time. If I’m occupied in a work meeting, they might get two hours. Combine exercise with healthy meals, and hell, that’s covid-19 protection right there. 

Also, there’s a virtual school bonus: Kids dress up as superheroes during the school day just because.

Still, despite my privileges—a home with space to separate the kids into work stations, a low-stress remote job that pays well, kids without special needs, and the technological acumen to navigate what I call “app overkill”—man, there are some rough moments. A lot of ’em. 

For example, the boys ask 50 questions a day. They’re not bad questions, just untimely. I tell ’em to ask Google. They seek praise for finishing work and I’m too busy to offer much. Maybe a “Man, that’s good!” I’ve yelled like Principal Joe Clark. I snatched my oldest off the floor and damn near put him in a full nelson when he “passed out” in frustration over a writing task. And lastly, helping out with assignments is hard. I consider myself a numbers guy, but 4th grade math has made me reevaluate. 

But we get through it. Even though our district made us commit to an entire academic year of virtual learning, it’s only temporary. Plus the boys are growing up. They’re writing love letters to little girls down the street and asking to go to the creek alone. (The creek is big s**t in our neighborhood.) This might be the last time we get to hang out like this. Unless there’s another pandemic. Man!

-Dewan Gibson

The post Working From Home, Three Kids In Virtual School…And Kind Of Liking It appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

1) Many on the Right must have hit their massive heads while walking out of social studies class in second grade and do not remember the concept of birthright citizenship. Kamala is American, bro.

2) If I am one of the few Black people on your Facebook friends list and you’re questioning Kamala’s blackness, shoot me a message. It’s better that I annihilate you privately rather than publicly.

3) The very same people–I’m looking at you, Black Twitter–who routinely criticize random Dominicans for NOT claiming to be Black are now criticizing Kamala FOR claiming to be Black. Interesting.

4) Racial confusion has united the Left and the Right. Most of us don’t know someone who is Black Jamaican/Indian yet American. Black and White like Obama…yeah, we can grasp that. Well, some of us can. But there’s always nuance in biracial identity. Ask my kids. Their brains have yet to fully develop, but even they understand that they don’t need to fit in our lil’ boxes.

5) I wrote something weeks ago about how we (“The Blacks,” as Trump would say) never get the benefit of the doubt. Based on the nitpicking of Kamala’s record, it’s clear that we also do it to ourselves. And quickly, too! Did we even give ourselves a few hours to be proud? To put it plainly, can a ni**a even get a congratulations?!?

6) Kamala went to an HBCU and joined a Black sorority. Her racial identity was not a political calculation. Hell, if it was, give her credit for having such foresight as a youngster in the early ’80s.

7) If racial purity is a litmus test for your (lack of) support for Kamala Harris, let me see your Ancestry.com results.

8) Kamala was not my first choice for president. I preferred Auntie Liz. For vice president, I wanted Susan Rice. But after reading reactions to Kamala for VP, I will now defend her like half of all White Americans defend that guy in the White House. Yes, literally half.

9) Let’s be honest. Kamala’s overqualified for this job. If Democrats win this will be another case of what we see far too often in corporate America: the underling is sharper than the boss.

10) Mississippi Masala is a great film. I’d go into more detail, but this meme just caught my attention and I want to end things here.

-Dewan Gibson

The post A Few Thoughts On Kamala Harris Getting A New Job And Y’all Acting A Damn Fool appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

But having had a couple of weeks to reflect, I have some points to make about recent events. 

1) I know white folks who have recently called out racist family members online, thereby sacrificing relationships. This is a good thing. We need more of that. You figure if the wokest white man of all time, John Brown, can lead a violent anti-slavery rebellion, your average white person can tell her ol’ ignorant aunt to shut the hell up. 

2) Race relations are where they are due to white fear of demographic change. Antibellum: “Black savages” will violate white women. Jim Crow: Black will vote en masse and have too much political power. Today: The U.S. will soon be a majority-minority country. So let’s “build the wall,” ban Muslims, and reminisce of a time when America was “great” or at least less colored. Relax. We’re not going to treat you like you treated us. 

3) It’d be nice to see Starbucks employees in Black Lives Matter gear, but if I agree that the serving of frappuccinos can be politicized, I would also have to be accepting of Starbucks staff in MAGA hats. I’ll pass. It’s inconsequential either way. What matters is if Starbucks has black folks in executive leadership and if its hourly employees are paid a living wage. 

4) Crime in the black community is a real thing, and we are over-represented as victims and assailants of violent crime. There are reasons: over-policing, mistrust of police which decreases the number of criminals who are convicted, 400-plus years of oppression (we didn’t even have our rights “guaranteed” by the government until 1964), an outright racist justice system (research sentencing disparities), American gun culture, and lack of economic opportunity. 

But typically when white folks mention this during a police brutality discussion, they don’t really give a shit about “black-on-black crime.” They want to score political points. Or else they would have already done something to reduce crime in black communities, or at least known that others are dedicated to this cause.

5) Viral videos of cops doing what they’re supposed to be doing are silly. You don’t get extra credit for that. Yes, there are good cops. I get that. But it’s like that Facebook friend who you know doesn’t see his kids. He finally takes the kids for a day, gets thirsty for likes, and starts hashtagging pictures #DadLife. Man, that’s your job! 

6) How strange are these times? I have non-black childhood acquaintances who have made racially insensitive comments in the past. One even dropped the N-word (with the played out “er” ending) back in the day. Now they’re out here protesting. Part of me thinks “Nigga please!” but since I’ve become anti-cancel culture, I just give the side-eye.

7)  A bit more about cancel culture…Everyone says dumb things. Ignorant statements are magnified if you’re a public person. Let’s use LL Cool J as an example. He caught flack for the tweet below.

Yeah, it was an odd, ill-timed question, but not mean-spirited or offensive. Plus, it’s LL! He gave us great music. He’s done a lot in the community. And most importantly, he purposely hid his gargantuan cranium for years, as to not scare his fans. But due to a tweet he was under cancel consideration. I felt terrible seeing him near tears in his Instagram response video. Dude was so upset that he didn’t lick his lips the entire time. Maybe we should all be more mindful of others’ actions and intentions, not only their ill-advised words. Especially when they’re allies. 

8) Corporations expressing that Black Lives Matter is a nice gesture, but it would be more powerful if they shot me an email about a Vice-President of _______ job opportunity. I’m not the most diligent worker, but considering the mediocrity I’ve seen among corporate and national leaders, I should be running something besides this website.

9) Defund the police is a terribly misleading phrase, about as misleading as “death panels” was during Obamacare arguments. People who read headlines but not articles will run with this in opposition to what’s sound policy. This won’t fit on a meme, but let’s rephrase it as “Reallocating excessive police funding so they don’t buy tanks and stuff.”

10) I’m not into listicles. And I’m not going to come up with a tenth point just to have a nice whole number.

Well, 800 words later and I don’t have answers to solve racism. Ultimately, legal and political change will provide concrete progress and make bigotry less overt, but changing minds stained by generations of white supremacy will take time.

Until then, give black people the benefit of the doubt, even when supremacy makes you suspicious. Hell, give us a tenth of the benefit of the doubt that you give to Trump. Sexual assault allegations, disrespect of veterans, sham university, birtherism, housing discrimination…CORONAVIRUS! “Oh, he’s just misunderstood. You see, he’s not a politician…” Black man goes birdwatching. “Shit! Call 911!”

George Floyd should have made it home that day. Rayshard Brooks should have made it home that night. Breonna Taylor was already home and should have been able to see the next morning. Do better. We’ve seen what reluctance to change has done to this country.

*Note: I had a hard time deciding what picture to have on this post, so I went with one of me smiling. We need more pictures of black men smiling.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Pro Tip: Give Black People The Benefit Of The Doubt (Thoughts On Recent Racist Events) appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

I get up each morning around 6 a.m. Work doesn’t even start till 8, but since COVID the boys have craved more skin-to-skin contact. They’ve gotten back into the habit of invading our bed around 2 a.m. and putting Amber in a headlock. They twist and kick and claim space. I’m like, “Might as well get up and see what the internet’s talkin’ about…” 

I was already working from home prior to the pandemic. The only change has been the cancellation of work travel to quirky Midwestern cities. But with all five of us home, and the kids as loud as your favorite rapper’s hypeman, I rarely leave the basement during working hours. Don’t get me wrong, the setup is nice, and I only have to share the space with centipedes, but during video meetings I give off “banished to the dungeon” vibes.  

The kids wake up around 8 a.m. and latch on to devices. YouTube, videos of other people watching YouTube, Roblox, NBA 2K20 on Nintendo Switch, Disney +, Netflix. After an hour and a half they pause for air and cereal. Then Amber gets up (thick women need their sleep) and gets the boys started with schoolwork. 

Amber’s a teacher so she takes the schoolwork extra seriously. The kids are at three different levels—kindergarten, first grade, and third grade—but in a way, they’re now in the same class. I figure if they can demonstrate knowledge of the material by answering “yes” when I say, “Hey, you know how to do that, right?” there’s no need to finish every page of their thick homework packets.

In between breaks, repeating “bruh” hundreds of times, making YouTube and Snapchat videos, and fighting, they’re not done with school until 5 p.m. 

My main role is to come up from the basement and regulate when I hear things getting out of control, mostly the aforementioned fighting. It’s gotten to the point where I don’t even break ’em up. I just give tips on holding their own: “If he has you on the ground and he’s crouched over, start kicking!” Mind you, these are the same kids who win Student of the Month at their real school. Must not be much competition! 

After hours of off-and-on little people conflict, Amber breaks down crying on occasion. She feels their behavior at home is reflective of her teaching and parenting. Plus she’s mad at herself for yelling. I figure it’s all normal and not too bad considering the apocalypse is here. But to make things a little better, I’ll force the boys outside and lock the door. “Go out and play basketball! Find some bugs or something! See how wet you can get in the rain!” 

Once everything settles down we start dinner. Since there’s nothing much to buy, we splurge on food. The finest scallops Aldi has to offer, organic whole chicken seasoned with ground lemon pepper that wasn’t on sale but we still bought it, smoked turkey necks so damn good you eat them in a manner that would make Karrine Steffans blush…Man! 

The day winds down and I go running-while-black. Our neighborhood is diverse: black Americans, Jamaicans, Somalis, white folks, Salvadorans, a giant crackhead, Ethiopians, fellow members of Team Swirl, and so on. But I’m conscious of sprinting at dusk, lest I be seen as “suspicious.” I make sure to look like a runner; I wear sweatpants and headphones. Gotta be careful. Neither racism nor violence has sheltered in place. 

I return home and the bedtime process for the boys starts. Pee, brush your teeth, take allergy medicine, wrestle, read a short book, lay down while Dad puts you in a meditative state by counting to 100, and then bounce back up to request back massages from Mom. One long hour later: asleep. 

Amber and I retire to the basement for Netflix and other activities. One being drinking. We had a wine stash that was supposed to be saved for a mandatory shutdown. We finished it in about a week. We’ve restocked and made our way through more bottles. Since being sheltered-in-place, wine no longer gives me a buzz. If only the sell of marijuana edibles was essential business in Ohio. 

But overall, we’re holding up well. The kids are getting a bit bored, which has led to odd tantrums. Like (as seen below), my oldest crying because we wouldn’t let him tape a real knife to his plastic bat, which he wanted to use to fight bad guys. Apparently, cutting himself would not be a problem because his superpowers include “healing.”

This tantrum lasted about an hour, until “Jump Around” came on Google radio and distracted him. (Shout-out to House of Pain.) Or so we thought. He ended up sneaking out the house to “walk to the city and fight bad guys.” We found him two blocks away.

We’re trying to mix things up for the kids. I’m not a mental health expert, but I did take Psychology 101 twice in college. In order for children to blossom into emotionally mature adults who can hold small-talk at children’s birthday parties, it’s important that they socialize and learn through outdoor play.

Amber organized a field day where they competed in different sports, and I’ve been taking them to our nearby creek, where they splash each other and search for tadpoles, as I stand on the bank and yell, “Watch out for the goose boo-boo!” We also play basketball and go for runs. But it’s just us. They’ve only played with other kids through device screens and storm doors.

Despite the monotony, we have no real complaints. We’re healthy, financially stable, and privileged as what. Think about it: We’re “quarantined” with nonstop entertainment just the touch of a button away. Interested in an obscure Spanish drama with frontal nudity? I bet you can find it on Netflix. Hungry for a late-night snack? There’s 12 bags of popcorn in the pantry that I didn’t even have to go into the store to buy. I just drove to Target, parked, and an under-compensated retail worker who has to deal with dickhead customers having fits about wearing masks, dropped it in my trunk. 

I know there are millions of people having legit hard times and grieving the loss of loved ones. We’ve also lost extended family to COVID. But for us and many Americans (I suspect this includes the armed “open up” protesters), this ain’t oppression. At all. We’ll stay with our COVID-19 family routine until the scientific consensus says otherwise, or at least until we learn results from the experimental groups who are out Memorial Day weekend.

Stay safe, and see y’all when America gets over its illnesses.

-Dewan Gibson  

The post Kid Brawls And Alcohol: A Covid-19 Family Routine appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

I met my e-friend Gybson after happy hour. Crazy story, but he’s from Burundi and added me on Facebook after searching for people with similar names, hoping to meet friends while seeking asylum in the West due to ethnic conflict in Central Africa. Inspired by great legal minds like Judge Greg Mathis, I helped as I much as I could and he ended up finding refuge in Ottawa. We talked about an attempt to flee his country, only to be caught in the forest by security forces. He described it as casually as I’d explain, say, transferring high schools. He was now thriving in Canada. Working and soon to become a nurse, and only 2 to 3 years away from citizenship. 

My night continued with sightseeing downtown. The area is full of castles that double as government offices and overlook the river. Then there’s a long stretch of bars and restaurants. All were packed despite it being a weekday. 

I got lost walking back to my apartment. Ottawa looked grimy once outside of downtown. It reminded me of Cleveland, or any of The Land’s twin cities: St. Louis, Oakland, or Baltimore, though with far less poverty and neglect. It’s Canada, ya know. I found my way and thought I’d check out a brewery after making dinner. I placed a duck leg, a piece of rainbow trout, some spinach, and a tomato in a covered pot with a little water and butter. I let it cook until the fire alarm went off. I stuffed myself and fell asleep for the night while watching the Democratic debate.  

The next day I went to Morrison’s Quarry, a swimhole outside of Ottawa with Caribbean-looking water and a zipline. I walked around the park and tried to have a car nap before driving to Quebec City. My phone addiction didn’t allow much rest, so to the highway I went. Once I hit the province of Quebec everything went from French and English to just French. At first I got flustered, but my Duolingo paid off, at least well enough to read street signs and order food. 

I stopped at McDonald’s on the way, which is a thing I do when abroad. I like to see the different menus and taste the difference in the beef. It’s been my experience that the United States has the shittiest meat. I spoke French when ordering a Big Mac meal: “Je voudrais un Big Mac sans fromage…uh, the whole meal.” The cashier giggled and spoke back to me in English. I felt her checking out my lil’ skinny ass as I walked away. 

I crashed in Trois-Rivières, a smaller city 90 minutes from Quebec City. Trois-Rivières is not very diverse–there are more rivers than black people–but the harbor area is great for wandering. There was a sex toy shop and a strip club on the main strip. Both within view of a towering chapel. I walked through alleys and snapped pictures of street art. I looked at the classic cars parked near the water. Then a storm hit. 

My hotel was in nearby Bécancour. Along the way I spotted some farm houses just as the sun was going down. I thought my wife would like pictures of it. She was supposed to come on the first leg of the trip, but life happened and childcare fell through. She insisted I still go, and I felt bad leaving her to battle the kids alone, but you don’t have to tell me “go ‘head” twice. I drove on somebody’s property for the “perfect” picture that didn’t come out as envisioned, but not too bad nonetheless.

Montmorency Falls was my first stop after arriving in Quebec. I’ve been on the lookout for waterfalls since seeing a little slice of Hawaii in Southeast Ohio, and other than getting drenched in the tourist trap that is Niagara Falls, Montmorency has been my favorite. You can take a cable car down and back up to see the falls, or you can save $14 by walking 487 steep steps each way. I skip leg day–actually I’ve never had a leg day–so within hours my calves felt shredded. Also, if you go to Montmorency, go early. I was there around noon on a Thursday and it was already getting packed. Hundreds of slow walkers killing my manic stride! 

After the falls I cruised over to Old Town Quebec City while listening to 96.9, a French and English rap station. There’s no censorship, so plenty of N-bombs were dropped. I don’t know the ramifications of this, if any, but it’s wild to think of some of the things we export. Somebody might need to put some tariffs on “nigga.” 

Old Town was an ol’ tourist trap. I mean…it’s worth a look, but any area with multiple souvenir stores is not a place I want to be for too long. What I did find interesting was the Maison de la Littérature, a public library housed in an old church. I read and spied on other readers for an hour.

I stayed at the Hôtel-Musée Premières Nations. It’s on Wendake land, an urban reservation 20 minutes outside of central Quebec City. The rooms featured animal hides and indigenous decor. The hotel had a spa and pool, Native museum, and restaurant. Don’t think I’m extra-extra cultured. It’s the hotel that came up when I searched for a four star for less than $100 a night. But yeah, I lucked up.

My short stay in Quebec City ended at a French restaurant near my hotel. Unfortunately I don’t have an Instagram-worthy dinner picture because I only ate a salad. I can only handle mild cheeses and damn near everything on the menu included something that sounded smelly. But shout-out to the waitress for bearing with me and correcting my French when I used the literal translation for “take out,” as opposed to the more common phrase, which I’ve since forgotten. Dammit.

I left the following morning to meet my frat brother Mike in Montreal, the final stop on my road trip through Central Canada. I was supposed to pick him up at the airport, but sleep paralysis the night before ruined my rest. I told him “I’m on my way,” which really meant that I fresh out the shower and still had 2.5 hours to drive.

But I got there soon enough and we started our tour of Montreal at the Musée d’art contemporain de Montréal. It reminded me of what I think Kanye West’s house would look like. Wide open minimalist spaces with an art collection that perhaps made too much of an effort to be deep, or maybe I’m simple and just didn’t get it.

From there we went to Crescent Street, which is Montreal’s main district for shopping and eating. I wanted to buy marijuana (note to my employer: it’s completely legal in Canada), but the line to get in the SQDC store was too long. So I settled for a t-shirt from a nearby Urban Outfitters.

We walked around some more and ran into Lil Rel, the actor from Get Out and the recently canceled series Rel. He was shopping at Zara and minding his own damn business. I didn’t want to bother him, but we happened to be at the same clothes rack. I said, “Man, I thought that was you. But I ain’t even going to bother you…” He laughed and that was that.

Mike and I then hiked past McGill University and up Mount Royal Park, which offers stunning views of Montreal and runners’ butt cleavage. After pre-gaming at our Airbnb, which these days means taking a nap, we checked out the bar scene on Boulevard Saint Laurent.

We started off at Big In Japan, a speakeasy that announced us as we entered and served us some pretty damn good cocktails. We tried to bar hop, but Montreal’s drinking age is 18 and all the spots were dominated by kids. I ate a smoked meat (corned beef) sandwich and then walked back over near Crescent Street to see if anything else was going on. There was not.

The next morning we went to another SQDC (marijuana) shop in the ‘burbs. Seamless process: You show ID, browse the menu, and place an order with the budtender. Well, they’re not called budtenders, but that’s what they say in Colorado, which I thought was cool. Anyway, I paid $8 for a joint pre-rolled with a sativa strain called Riff.

After a quick stop through Montreal’s Japanese Festival, and of course, more naps, we took the city’s highly efficient and clean metro system to Parc Jean-Drapeau for Osheaga Music and Arts Festival, featuring (on the night we went) Janelle Monae, the Chemical Brothers, Logic, and a few young rappers that were popular to many others besides me.

Jeanelle Monae’s performance was a great combination of political activism and simulated girl-on-girl action. That’s one way to lead The Resistance. Logic was OK. He reminds me of his idol Eminem, though less skilled. So pretty much Eminem without the special du-rag powers.

But the cannabis made each performance a little better. It also gave me a ravenous appetite. Within a three-hour period I ate jerk chicken, poke, shawarma, and another smoked meat sandwich.

I conked out by midnight and hit the road at 7 a.m. I drove 12 hours to home, stopping only once. Never underestimate a father’s energy when he hasn’t had any play for a week and also misses his family.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Smoked Meat, Nice Views, and Reefer: A Road Trip Through Central Canada appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

The tiff reinforced what we’ve known for and practiced for years: We are better partners and parents if we take time for ourselves. One way to do that is to travel alone every now and then. So as the (co-)head of the household, I decided to make a solo trip to my old San Diego stumbling grounds.

After arriving in “Daygo,” I rented the Kia featured in the hamster commercial and went straight to the mall. I’m not big on shopping, but wanted a new outfit to match my first barbershop cut in six months. One big problem: I couldn’t figure out what to buy. I have three or four go-to outfits. Anything that deviates from that makes me confused. I bought a jacket from Gap. It looked like the old Members Only jackets, which I wore around the year Michael Jackson’s hair caught on fire. (Before 9/11, Michael On Fire was my 9/11.) I guess they’re back in style, or maybe not since it was marked 50 percent off.  

With time to kill before my good friend/host got off work, I went to loiter at my second alma mater, San Diego State University. I hoped to visit a couple of my former professors, but it was 3 p.m. on the last day of school before spring break. There were a few students around. I felt like one of those guys who doesn’t actually go to the college but hangs out on campus to hand out party flyers.

After a car nap, I caught up with my friends and “pre-gamed” before checking out hip-hop night at a dive bar. It’s funny. Once you have kids you get one of two responses from friends and family when showing up alone: 1) A deflated “Oh…just you?” or 2) An enthusiastic “Man, you’re coming alone!” My friends in San Diego expressed the latter.

It was just like the old days, except some of us needed Schedule II substances to stay awake. We retired for the night after three bars and tens of beers. Well I retired. Two of the guys stayed up talking till daylight as I slept on the couch with the covers pulled over my head, occasionally waking from non-REM sleep to add my two cents. There we are below. I actually don’t know those three guys on the left, but I’m sure they’re cool, too.

The next day I met my old professor-roommate-friend for lunch at In-N-Out (great burgers, terrrrible fries). He and I agree on many things but also challenge each other’s views. He’s prone to asking “Why?” and then following up with a dismissive “Oh…” Then, as someone who’s game for debate, I better explain my position. It keeps me sharp. For what? I don’t know. Facebook debates, I guess.  We carried on for about an hour and then I went to a coffee shop to meet with some of my fellow Espacio Migrante board members.

Espacio Migrante provides shelter and other resources for migrants in Tijuana, many of whom were deported from the U.S. or denied entry after That Guy In The White House ended protected status for Haitians and other groups. We discussed fundraising and program planning and it felt good to be with members of The Resistance who do much more than post memes.

I was two days into my three-day when I hit a wall. I’m used to being around my family and the allure of semi-loneliness expired within 48 hours. Man, I missed my jiggly wife and wild kids. They sent pictures and we spoke on the phone, but I felt like I was missing out on breaking up fights and hearing random facts from kids. “Dada, did you know John F. Kennedy was the same tall as you?” Another night of friends and alcohol would provide a band-aid solution.

This last night at the bar was more subdued than the night before. The big surprise was that my friend Will, also married with three kids, made it out for a second time. My other friend Matt was like, “Man, you sure Wifey isn’t gonna be mad at us?” He assured us she wouldn’t, but best believe his ass wasn’t out till 7:00 a.m. like the night before.

Like most of our bar nights, we stood near the dance floor to drink and talk. An Asian girl wearing tight jeans and Chucks, short, about nipple high to me, came near, waiting on me to say something. She was young, too young to even remember 9/11, let alone Michael Jackson getting his hair burned off. I’m married; of course I kept to myself. But the ego boost was appreciated, as I thought my Mandingo appeal had waned through the years.

My last day in So Cal ended with a quick trip to Orange County to see my older brother, and later that afternoon, a walk across the border to Tijuana for ceviche, street tacos, and liquor.

After a four-hour flight on the infamous Frontier Airlines, I returned home refreshed and well-received. I was more attentive to the kids. They again seemed more interesting than whatever nonsense was on Facebook. My sex drive was reinvigorated and my refractory period reduced. Most importantly, there was no egg residue in the sink. I reminded my wife that she was due for a trip.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Taking A Parenting Break With A Short Solo Trip To San Diego appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

That post, from way back in December 2017, included an embedded YouTube video of my kids being surprised with the bounce house. The clip was creatively titled, “Surprise Bounce House For Xmas!”

Fast-forward 15 months. I began receiving hundreds of emails from YouTube notifying me of new subscribers to my channel. Most of the subscribers were Latino; I assumed they found me through clips I shared of Baja Beach Fest, a Latin trap/walk-around-half-naked-in-Mexico festival. But nope…according to YouTube, almost all of my views were from that damn bounce house video.

The video is not hilarious. It is not really interesting. It just shows my kids jumping with joy after Dad’s budget was overruled by Mom to allow them a $200 gift.

But for some reason “Surprise Bounce House For Xmas!” has gone viral. My educated guess, based on the video’s analytics, is that it’s being recommended as a “suggested video” at the end of someone else’s popular video. And maybe the keywords “surprise bounce house” have caught on as a niche.

This month alone the video has received over 2.7 million views. And my subscriber numbers—I mostly post family videos and clip of concerts (ex: “DMX Show Interrupted By Big Girl Fight!”)—have jumped from 70 to more than 8,000.

As the views piled up, I considered deleting the video and my channel. I didn’t feel too comfortable with the thought of millions of strangers seeing my kids. But I settled down and saw my initial thinking as an overreaction, sort of like how parents went crazy over the Momo controversy-turned-hoax. Man, I knew that little chicken trollop wasn’t bothering anyone’s kids.

So I said, well, let’s see if we can make some money.

Up until 2018, anyone could run ads on their YouTube videos. Now you have to meet certain popularity requirements before applying to the Creators monetization program: Accumulate 4,000 hours of watch time and have 1,000 subscribers. Once accomplished, you can run ads on your videos.

YouTube can take up to a month to review your account, but I was accepted into the program within 10 days. I should have applied earlier, but didn’t grasp how fast my viewing hours were adding up. Since running ads on my videos I’ve been earning $40 to $130 a day–way more than I paid for the actual bounce house.

My oldest is somewhat able to grasp the concept of “going viral” and seems intrigued. Well, I guess. He asked how many subscribers we have and then followed up with, “What are subscribers?”

Anyway, I figure going viral is to kids today what wearing a Michael Jackson jacket was to those of us raised in the Jheri curl generation. My only hope is that they don’t become addicted to attention. I’d rather they not grow up to be the sort of guys who post pictures of their car’s temperature gauge on a hot day in an attempt to show off the Mercedes symbol on the steering wheel.

As for the future of my YouTube side hustle, now that I have a grip of subscribers I’m going to create travel videos, largely family travel, save for the few occasions when I escape on my own. Best case, we’ll make a little money. Worst case, we’ll be Youtube one-hit wonders who earned a “free” bounce house.

-Dewan Gibson

The post What To Do When Your Kids Are In A Viral Video (Hint: Make That Money!) appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

I’ve seen Browns tickets as cheap as $5. Typically this is when they’re on a losing streak and it’s cold as hell outside. But the game versus the Jets was a little different. It was early in the season, the weather was good, and coming into the game the Browns were on just as much as a tie streak as they were a losing streak. The cost for my middle-of-the-field nosebleed seat with a surprisingly good view? About $75 via StubHub.

The first half was typical Browns football: predictable play calling and lots of punts. But the Jets were playing beyond expectations. Their running back, Isaiah Crowell, who actually played for the Browns over the past few years, scored two quick touchdowns and celebrated by “lettin’ all the stank out.” What I mean is that he wiped his ass with the football and then threw into the stands.

My friend and I were seated behind a loud Jets fan who had eye black spread all over his face. He was blabbing about his team’s lead and pissing off us fed up Browns fans. Alcohol and football have been known to lead to violence, so I was wondering (maybe even hoping) that someone would clock him. Instead he was saved by his own silliness. It turned out that he had been sitting in the wrong seat and section. Off he went.

Browns starting quarterback Tyrod Taylor bruised his brain near the end of the second quarter and was replaced by rookie sensation Baker Mayfield. Baker came out ballin’. The fans went wild, especially the peculiar guy seated next to me. In between wiping his runny nose he’d offer me high-fives and low-fives, easily more than 20 times during the course of the game. I hate to be like George W. Bush, who infamously wiped his hand on Bill Clinton’s shirt after shaking hands with earthquake victims, but I gave my hands a deep cleaning right after the game. I think I’ll just fist bump next time.

Baker’s hot streak continued throughout the second half, our defense continued its aggressive play, and even the new kicker was making field goals. You sort of got the sense that the Browns first win was near. Not a tie. An actual win—for the first time since Christmas Eve 2016.

And it was. The Browns ran in a touchdown and then intercepted the Jets rookie quarterback twice. The final score was 21-17.

It felt like a Super Bowl atmosphere, though being a Browns fan I can’t really tell you what exactly a Super Bowl atmosphere feels like. I did see an emaciated, possibly drugged young man with spiked hair, whom my friend said reminded him of a rooster, gyrating and cursing in support of the team well after the outcome was decided. Is there another level that guy can reach for the Super Bowl…and actually survive? Doubt it. So yeah, this first win was our big game.

At least for now.

(Full disclosure: I grew up in Cleveland as a fan of John “Horse” Elway and the Denver Broncos. When I moved to California in 2001 and experienced unrelenting hate towards The Land, I became defensive and fully embraced the team whom friends in San Diego called the “Doo-Doo Browns.”)

-Dewan Gibson

The post A Nosebleed Seat View Of The Cleveland Browns’ September Super Bowl appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

I promised myself in June that I would salvage an otherwise swag-deficient year by submitting one article each month for publication on websites that pay writers and have much larger audiences than my own. Here’s the first, published by The Billfold: “The Cost To Clothe A Minimalist Family of Five.” It’s about hand-me-downs, washing Chuck Taylors, and saving money on work clothes by wearing only a skull cap and bathrobe. You can read a preview below; hit the link for the rest. If you don’t see me talking about a new publication next month, that means my ass got rejected.

A common misconception that comes with being a frugal family is that people think we’re poor. Well-meaning friends offer us bags of used kids’ clothes, and extended family gift us hip clothing fit for the coolest preschool Instagram models. We donate a lot of what we’re given, and the clothing we keep is shared among our three boys, ages 4 to 6. Otherwise, we try to keep our clothing expenses minimal and our kids looking somewhat presentable. As for us parents, we buy the clothing we need and some of what we want.

Over the past year, we have spent just under $400 on kids’ clothes. Our biggest expense was $97 for three winter coats from Target, which we had to buy after leaving Southern California for the face-freezing weather of Ohio. We expect the coats to last at least another year, maybe longer if you count the hand-me-down bonus. READ THE REST AT THE BILLFOLD…

-Dewan Gibson

The post Something I Wrote For The Billfold… appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

If you live near a major city there’s a pretty good chance a member of Wu-Tang will have a concert in your area every six months or so. Usually for around $25. Last night I saw my favorite Clansman, Ghostface Killah, at Newport Music Hall in Columbus.

Ghostface was joined on stage by Cappadonna, Killah Priest, and numerous hangers-on who comb his chest hair and ScotchGard his Wallys. He sped through verses from various Wu-Tang classics and performed snippets of songs like “Motherless Child” and “Cherchez La Ghost.” There were other songs that I wanted to mention in this post, but it was $3 beer night at the bar next to the venue and my memory is off from the $9 I spent in an hour. Oh yeah, Ghost invited fans on stage to perform Ol’ Dirty’s and Method Man’s verses from “Protect Ya Neck.” I raised my hand, but he chose someone else, which is a good thing because I saved myself the embarrassment of being booed off stage.

The crowd was made up of older dudes like me and a few younger people who listen to Wu-Tang and don’t just wear the logo t-shirt. The venue was a little musty, but I guess that fit the show. Plus it was the only concert venue I’ve been to that sells $5 drinks. Bonus: Newport Music Hall has a seemingly lax policy towards marijuana use, at least for the Ghostface show. I mean…you figure their college student security guards aren’t going to ask Big DaMarcus to put out his blunt.

Speaking of college students, school’s out at Ohio State for the summer. Had it been in session there would have had a lot more people in attendance. Still, the small crowd had a lot of energy, and Ghost did, too. Especially for a man who turned 48 last night. (Yes, the crowd sang “Happy Birthday.”)

If you’re interested in terrible audio and video from the concert, have a look at the video I shot. Also, check out the (adorable?) picture I took with Killah Priest. Thanks for the dad hug, bro.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Celebrating Ghostface Killah’s Birthday With A Concert In Columbus appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

As I grew older and more independent, I would buy candy whenever I could scrounge a little money. Nerds, Mike & Ikes, and SweeTarts. There was more sugar at home, especially Kool-Aid and Mom’s pop (don’t you drink all her damn Pepsi).

By the time I hit my teens, I was eating Twix bars for lunch and whole boxes of Little Debbie Swiss Rolls after school. I’d crash due to a sugar coma and wake up before midnight, just in time for the fun stuff on Skinemax. I’d stay up a couple-few more hours and have trouble staying awake in school the next morning.

I made slightly above above average grades, but had I moderated my sugar levels I could have gone to one of those colleges whose students always use the university’s name when the term “school” would suffice. Someone will ask, “How’s school going?” and the student’s like, “Harvard’s going great!” Come on, man, we know you’re fishing for another “Wow! Harvard!”

My sugar addiction continued into adulthood. I’ve done a lot of work in healthcare, and I know the research on the dangers of sugar. It stimulates the brain in the same manner as opioids and produces cocaine-like cravings.

That being said, sugar won’t make you sell handjobs behind Dollar General, but it can increase your risk of heart disease, yuck mouth, and cause general de-swagination. I really believe future generations will look back on us and say, “It was legal to put sugar in almost every food and hide it under confusing names like ‘dextrose’?” Sort of like how we think of cocaine-laced Coke from the early 1900s.

I’ve tried to stop eating sugar in the past and I’ve had, at best, weeks of success. But each time I try something derails my sobriety.

For example, about a year ago I had gone nearly a month without candy. But while deep cleaning a car that I was about to sale, I found a Jelly Belly under the driver seat. It had a little carpet on it, and maybe some WD-40, but after a quick rub against my shirt it was like new, and damn good. That little gram of sugar set me off, and that same day I bought a big bag of Jelly Bellys and devoured ’em within minutes.

As of today, it’s been two weeks since I’ve had sugar. Well, at least by my definition, which is I’ve stopped eating bags of candy. I don’t drink pop–unless it’s one of those rare instances where I’m eating a fast food value meal, in which case I’m not giving away free pop for water–and I don’t eat many processed foods, so most of my sugar comes from big boxes of Junior Mints and so on, which had been an everyday thing. Yep, every single day.

So far it’s been a struggle. It’s Easter season and the greatest candy of all time, Brach’s Speckled Jelly Eggs, are on sale. They’re a dollar at Walmart, which I’m boycotting until forever. Target also sells them, but they only have the XXL bag for $2.69. I put one in my basket last week, but put it back after walking around the store for 15-plus minutes and talking myself out of it: “Man, I don’t even want this but I’m buying it, like a crackhead!”

I feel better now that I’ve my addiction has waned. Well, except for the withdrawal shakes I’m having. My nap time has decreased, though I still take a short one after dinner when the kids go buckwild as some sort of pre-bedtime ritual. I’m less moody and more engaged during the day, even when my wife’s showing me Ellen’s “hilarious” Instagram posts. Most importantly, I’m proud of myself for showing a little discipline.

We’ll see if that holds up when Speckled Jelly Eggs are 50 percent off the day after Easter.

-Dewan Gibson

The post I Tried To Stop Eating Sugar And Learned I’m Actually A Sugar Addict appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

Diversity
San Diego’s a majority-minority border city and a popular destination for international newcomers, so you find pretty much everyone there, though unfortunately very few black folks. Pickerington is mostly white, maybe 15 percent black. There’s also a Latino family across the street who waves when I see them cooking tortillas in the garage. Columbus, our closest major city and the 14th largest city in the country, is 20 minutes away and doubly black/African. In addition, there’s a growing populations of Asians and Latinos. Bonus: There are a lot of interracial couples here. Columbus may very well be the swirl capital of the United States, or at least the Midwest. It’s nice to get supportive head nods from fellow “cornball brothers” while at the store buying pumpernickel with our wives. Still, I miss the international vibe of San Diego and my dear Tijuana.

Weather
In Ohio we have this strange phenomenon called seasons, which result in horrendous weather from November to February, if not longer. During this four-month period I’d say about 30 to 40 of the days are brutally cold. So cold that my dog refuses to take a dump outside.

But, as I remind San Diego friends who post pictures of themselves at the beach in December, all shirtless with crusty nipples showing, technology has advanced to the point where I can press a button in my house or car and become as warm as I want within minutes.

The biggest adjustment to winter after 15 years of California has been getting the kids bundled up, especially since they have to ride in car seats. Amber and I don’t see eye-to-eye on this, but I’m always like, “You don’t need to wear a coat, hat, gloves, and scarf. We’re walking from the parking lot and to the store. Takes 10 seconds! Wear one of your hand-me-down sweatshirts!” The cold ain’t that bad.

Housing
Our house in Chula Vista (San Diego County) was a 3 bedroom, 2.5 bathroom townhome in a recently built planned community. The front yard was more of a porch and our backyard was a street where neighborhood kids would play dodgecar. We bought the place for $200,000 during the Great Recession and it nearly doubled in value before we moved. Our new home has the same number of bedrooms and bathrooms, but also has a big ol’ loft, dining room turned craft room, finished basement, deck, front yard, and a backyard with a bootleg Japanese garden thing going on. It’s more room than we need, but the kids have space to fight and run around without bugging me. And if I ever make new friends (more on that later) we can entertain at home. We bought the house for $219,000 and should be mortgage-free in the next four years. A similar home in San Diego would have ran us at least $800,000 and would have been paid off in 2000-never. Not to mention property taxes in San Diego were more than twice what we’re paying now. And oh yeah, HOA fees! We were paying our association $200 a month to have a landscaping company care for a yard that didn’t exist.

Social Life
Well, as of now, I don’t really have a social life or new friends. I say what’s up to the mailman and I once held a conversation with the cashier at Whole Foods, but if I’m not traveling I mostly stay inside. I just like my house and Netflix and lots of wine. The family’s pretty cool, too. And of course the internet never gets old. My best friend asked if I was depressed. I don’t think so. I’m just really comfortable, a condition for which the big drugmakers are not currently selling prescriptions, but you never know.

Amber and I do go out together out once a week. (She has friends nearby, so she’s out more often than I am.) The nightlife here seems to be centered around craft beer, much like San Diego. Our favorite restaurant foods–tacos and sushi–are easy to find and the only difference is the price, with the cost of both inflated the farther one goes east from California. I have gone to a nightclub twice (the same club that plays ’90s hip hop once a month) and I enjoyed it. However, if I was single and childless, I’d be more willing to pay the So Cal premium to enjoy bar hopping options every night and beach wandering during the day. Roommates could help reduce the outrageous costs, but I’m not sure I’d want to be leaving Do Not Disturb signs on my bedroom door at 38.

Jobs
My employment connections were well-established in San Diego and outside of one or two bad gigs I was respected as a pleasant guy who brings a lot to the table. This was not the case in Columbus. During our first few months here, I was just another name in a stack of resumes, constantly interviewing but unable to land a well-paid contract. Thankfully, I still had a job in San Diego and I was able to commute until growing tired of the travel in May.

In September, I started drinking wine before interviews and landed a three-month work-from-home contract with a large healthcare company (in addition to a gig with a social justice organization in California). The healthcare contract was renewed for a year in December and now I’m making as much as I ever made in San Diego, but paying an Ohio cost of living. Amber substitute teaches once or twice a week and may go back to teaching full-time once our youngest is in first grade. As long as we refrain from buying brand new cars and other forms of po’ folks kryptonite, we’ll be financial independent. I’m not sure this would have happened in San Diego.

The Future
I’m glad we moved to Pickerington, Ohio and I think this will be our permanent home, though we’re looking forward to spending a year or two abroad once the kids get a little older. (I’ve been making the case for Portugal, Amber wants Spain. Maybe we’ll find a city on the border of the two countries.) Obviously you can’t replace San Diego, its perfect weather, and the optimism you feel when moving there or just visiting for a weekend. But if you’re thinking of cashing out and leaving California, Ohio and many other parts of “flyover country” offer a pretty good quality of life, even more so if you rarely leave your house.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Leaving California For Ohio: Reflections After One Year appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

Even while traveling Walmart was one of my first stops in a new city. It gave me a feel for the locals, and like the Greyhound station, it was a fair representation of Real America. But I’ve realized no matter how much I love-ded Walmart, it was an unrequited love. And now, I’m done with ’em. As of January 15, 2018, I will never shop there again. Here are my reasons for boycotting Walmart.

For one, the customer service has become terrible. The store greeters don’t even say hello anymore. I look at them and think, “Yo’ ass got one job to do! And that’s say hi! Can I even get a head nod?”

And it gets worse once you get past the greeters. Just a few weeks ago I was at my local Walmart trying to buy a bottle of wine from their alcohol clearance rack. The regular price was $17, but it was marked down to $9. However, it rang up as regular price. I told the associate who was overseeing the self-checkouts that it was on sale. She insisted it was not. I asked her to follow me to the aisle so we could check the price tag together. I mean, I know my discount wines. She refused. We went back-and-forth and then she got all sassy and said, “If you don’t like it, don’t buy it!”

I stayed calm and asked to speak to the associate’s manager, who confirmed–with an attitude because she had a line of people waiting–that the wine was, in fact, on clearance. But…they were unable to do a price change on alcohol. So they changed the price on another item I was buying to almost equal the difference. The whole episode was a waste of adrenaline and 20 minutes. These slights are typical of Walmart.

But this was just one of the factors that led me to divorce Walmart. A friend, who was also my former coworker and “work mom,” got a job at Walmart after moving out of state. She’s high-energy (despite pushing 70) and funny and of course hardworking. I know because I used to send her to the local jails and prisons to do health education presentations. That’s not easy work. Anyhow, she got injured while working at Walmart and management intimidated her into not filing a workers’ compensation claim. Her manager’s words were somewhere along the lines of “YOU WON’T WIN.” This, on top of the lack of benefits and peasant pay, leads to low employee morale, which in turns creates “If you don’t like it, don’t buy it!” customer service.

Lastly, Walmart’s just full of plastic. They provide customers the smallest and thinnest bags possible, knowing full well everybody’s going to double and triple bag groceries and everything else. This isn’t a problem in states like California where there’s a plastic bag ban and everyone brings their own (or pays five cents for a thick plastic bag). But for most Walmart stores it is, and they play a large part in polluting marine life and sickening the fish that I’m supposed to be eating. Man, don’t mess with my (sustainable) sushi!

So far, ditching Walmart has been surprisingly easy. Come to think of it, I should have left them back in the ’90s when they falsely accused me and my older brother of stealing. To make a long story that I’ve told before short, Walmart’s undercover security jumped him as he was leaving the store, pinching his nutsack to get him down. He ended up spending the holiday weekend in jail, where a bigger guy took his lunch. I got off because I was two weeks shy of 18, but not before some punk policeman threatened to “beat the shit out of (me)” if I ran. Thanks, Walmart.

Anyway, I’m buying my households goods from Target and groceries from Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods. Excluding the illustrious meat and seafood I get from the latter, the prices are comparable. And I’ll probably end up saving money because these stores close at reasonable hours and I can no longer make 1 a.m. impulse purchases. (Lawd, please don’t let me start shopping on Amazon at odd hours.)

So, Walmart, peace out. It’s been real and often real interesting, but I’m going to “Save Money and Live Better” elsewhere. Step your customer service game up, jabroni.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Unrequited Love: Reasons For Boycotting Walmart (After A Long Love Affair) appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

We’ve mentioned having another child in passing, but never seriously talked about it. Actually we never talked about having any kids. After our first I said things like “Let’s just see what happens,” and later, after we found out our third was on his way, “Dammit!” But for the most part, they sort of just showed up.

Now they’re in school (at least part-time) and they’re growing up and becoming independent and no longer pee on themselves. Soon they’ll be out the house almost the entire day, watched over by underpaid, often frustrated teachers who are de facto second parents. Considering I work from home and Amber’s here most of the day, we’re about to have a quasi-empty nest.

Plus we’d like to have a girl. And not just because my mom always says, “When somebody gonna give me a baby girl!” I’ve been told that daughters are closest to their fathers. I’m going to need this in the event my boys and I have that supposedly unavoidable “man of the house” conflict that ends with me choking them against the wall while yelling, “You don’t run s**t around here, mutha****a!”

Amber feels the same about wanting a girl. She alludes to being outnumbered and is unaccustomed to the testosterone and physicality that comes with having three boys and one man-child in the house. The boy brawls bring her to tears, and I’m like, “Well, that’s pretty much what we do. Must be innate.”

Still, taking on a fourth kid is a big task. We plan to spend a couple years abroad within the next few years and herding somewhat rational kids while in unfamiliar spaces is a lot easier than herding a toddler. Finances are also a concern. Kids come with unexpected expenses like earaches and weird rashes and parents are price-gouged for co-pays and medicine. Then you add in whatever Amazon Prime is selling (everything!) and next thing you know you can’t afford to buy anything for yourself. And you end up like me, wearing the same ol’ outfit you bought from Banana Republic’s sales rack two tax returns ago.

Then there’s the pregnancy itself. Amber was pregnant for about three straight years. I can’t completely empathize, but I imagine it felt like having to take a mean dump and only being about to do so once every nine months. The pregnancies were normal, though she almost salsa danced our first out the womb a few months early and our third was considered high risk because he had “markers” that indicated risk for developmental disabilities. Everything turned out OK with the kids, and even Amber somehow managed to escape without a single stretch mark or bout of postpartum depression.

One of the worst things about the experience was, as I recently learned, my smell. Like many pregnant women, Amber’s olfactory sense became canine-like. The excessive liquor that seeped out of my pores and mixed with deodorant, cologne, Negro hair product, and funk wasn’t doing it for her. For almost three years! (But I guess it wasn’t that bad if her ass kept getting pregnant.)

As of now it looks like a solid “No!” on number four. I asked internet friends with more than three kids what they thought and heard responses like: “It’s a trap!” and “Don’t do it!” I also did some research into tax policy and learned that once you have more than three kids you’ve exhausted the most lucrative refundable credits. Most importantly, we’re not sure we want to start “the process” all over again. It’s human propensity to look fondly upon the “good ol’ days,” but delivering and caring for an infant is heavy, no matter how fondly you remember it.

I looked into freezing my creation juice in case we change our minds, but I learned you can’t just put it on ice at home. You have to pay monthly. And freezing eggs is even more costly, up to $10,000. Who knows? Maybe we’ll be foster parents. I guess you can even get paid to cover the kids’ expenses, or buy yourself some new clothes from Banana Republic.

But as far as having kids goes, we’re done, and lucky-blessed to have three. They’ll always be babies to Amber. And well, maybe to me, too.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Deciding If We Should Have A Fourth Child (And Realizing To Do So Would Be Insane) appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

But of course, with three little ones and a wife, it ain’t really about my feelings. So each holiday season I hang in there and and try not to show my true colors as DeScrooge Gibson. And man, it was a struggle this year.

I kicked off the holiday season by spending Black Friday at Walmart. Not to buy gifts, just to see the spectacle up close. I lasted about seven minutes. It felt like I was in a crowded nightclub, with a fight brewing over liquor spilled on a new shoe, or, in this case, the last Fingerlings baby monkey. There was no “excuse me” from customers, no “Can I help you find something?” from employees, just a bunch of rude shoppers and fed up workers. It was stereotypical America: loud, excessive, unworried of debt, and obsessing over stuff-stuff-and-more-stuff.

By the start of December my wife was asking how much should we spend on Christmas. I avoided giving a direct answer for like 10 days, subconsciously hoping the holiday would be canceled due to some extreme circumstance. (Thanks for nothing, North Korea.) More time passed and she started to get upset, “Some of the things I have in my Amazon account won’t even make it here by Christmas! We’re waiting too late to buy!” Inside I’m thinking, “Hell yeah!” but I gave in and was like, “Just get what you need to get.” My goal was for us to not spend more than $1,000. But! That $1,000 included gifts, Christmas lights, Christmas dinner, gas money to see family, Christmas cards, and income lost due to decreased productivity…add all that shit up!

Christmas was about a week away and we were still a bit below my $1,000 limit. My sister texted and asked if I was getting our younger brother a Christmas present. I wrote, “Nope! He’s almost 30!” But see, she was really asking if I was getting her a present, which is a more realistic form of the so-called Christmas spirit: People generally get gifts for people who buy gifts for them. My answer was still “Nope!” But the three of us did combine our money to get our parents a hotel stay and dinner in one of America’s most underrated but hippest cities: Columbus, Ohio.

And then tragedy struck. The kids cracked the screen of our newish TV, which was actually the second TV they had cracked in about a week. The first screen broke after being hit by a flying remote control that was thrown during a fight between our two youngest kids. The second, an LED TV with 4k resolution, was intentionally broken by our middle child, who wanted it to look like “a TV in a haunted house.” Man, that boy has an imagination.

Much respect to his creativity, but I had a fit and accidentally gave up the truth about Santa: “I’m taking all your Christmas gifts back to the store so I can buy a new TV!” Oops. Luckily the kids didn’t catch on, or maybe they figured I would sell the toys to the store. Who knows what in the hell goes on in their little complex minds. See, it wasn’t really the cost of the TVs (both were relatively inexpensive “open box” purchases from Best Buy), it was what the TVs meant to us. Binge watching Netflix and Hulu on a high-resolution TV while getting drunk is an important part of our marriage and sex life.

Anyhow, Amber said it wouldn’t be fair to take back their toys, especially for our oldest, who was uninvolved in the crimes. I calmed down and agreed. Christmas would go on as reluctantly planned.

Christmas morning arrived and the kids were going crazy, but in a good way this time. They yelled and ran in place with excitement as they opened toys, even little toys like Pez dispensers, which might as well have been a Playstation to them. And of course they went insane when they saw their big gift, an indoor bounce house designed to keep them occupied and away from us grown folks. As Amber said throughout the holiday season, “It’s magical.” I wouldn’t go that far, but my Scrooge level did decrease while seeing them elated.

Our Christmas ended with a trip up to Cleveland to see my parents and nephews and siblings, minus my older brother who doesn’t like or talk to us anymore. But big bro was there in spirit, as we got some jokes off at his expense. From Dad: “What kind of nigga don’t even call his MOM!” (To be a Gibson is to know that there is no subject that cannot be laughed about.)

Anyhow, my parents got a kick out of having five grandkids under age 7 around for the holidays. I actually enjoyed this Christmas, too, though I still feel the stress in my stomach when I think of the weeks leading up to it.

Also, I bought a new TV the day after Christmas, which I hung to the wall while giving a “Don’t even think about EVER touching it” lecture to the kids. Of course it pushed us way past our holiday budget. But I guess that’s the Christmas spirit.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Surviving Christmas As A Parent Who Doesn’t Give A Damn About The Holidays appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

Since then LeBron’s won a few championships and is on pace to become to a billionaire. I won a $25 gift card during a company Christmas party and I’m on pace to pay off my minivan next year. Well, actually the minivan’s in my wife’s name, but hey…

Anyway, as a Cavs fan since the days of Mark Price, and as an admirer of excellence, I’ve followed LeBron’s career closely. From 25 straight points against the Pistons to lead an otherwise mediocre Cavs team to the Finals, to the terribly orchestrated but otherwise sensible Decision, to the passive aggressive tweets, to his growth as a social activist, to The Block and the 3-1 comeback, and to his development as the second greatest NBA player of all time, I’ve been there thinking, “This is a good dude and a baller!”

But until last week, I had never seen him play in person.

Here’s the thing: If I want to go to a concert or game and can’t afford a ticket close to the action, I’d rather stay home. With any LeBron game there’s a premium. An outrageous premium when he plays in Los Angeles, which has been NBA city closest to me during most of his career. And I wouldn’t pay thousand-something dollars to see anyone play ball, except maybe Prince, and only if he performed “Darling Nikki” and “The Beautiful Ones” at halftime.

But now that I’m living in Columbus, Ohio, I’m 2 to 3 hours away from three NBA teams: the Cavs, the Indiana Pacers, and the Detroit Pistons. So I’ve figured if I’m diligent with my online searches, maybe I can get a near-courtside ticket to see LeBron play in one of these cities for around $100.

What I’ve found is that tickets for Pistons game have gentrified along with the rest of Detroit. Crazy prices! The Indiana Pacers are one of the best values in the NBA. You can get an actual courtside seat for about $200 most games, though that price inflates to $700 on up when LeBron comes to town. As for the Cavs, our fans are spoiled. We can see LeBron at least 50 times a year, and some games are far more cheaper than others.

I lucked out when the Cavs hosted the lowly Atlanta Hawks. A few days before the game I found three tickets on StubHub (to be transferred via Flash Seats) for $57 each. They were 100 levels, third row, and next to the Cavs tunnel. Probably about 30 feet from the court. My family wasn’t too interested in going, and there was a threat of a snowstorm, so I resold two of the tickets for $90 each, which means I went to the game for free. So if there’s a “trick” for getting cheap, near-courtside Cavs tickets, I’d say it involves: bad weather, a lackluster opponent, and a weekday game.

Before the game started, LeBron had already turned grown ass men into fan boys, who struggled to make space against the rail that separated us peasants from The King’s tunnel. Security guards raised their fists in unison, the sign that players were set to come out for shootaround. LeBron was the last to stroll onto the court, oblivious to the crowd and looking about as interested as the rest of us are when we clock into work. “No flash, no flash,” the guards yelled as everyone held up their phones.

Women dressed for a night at the club gathered in a row behind me. Two wore lanyards that indicted they were either related to or having “relations” with Cavs players or staff. One of the women had hilariously huge butt implants. At first glance I thought she was Khloe Kardashian, who currently has Cavs forward Tristan Thompson in the Sunken Place. It was not; this woman was Asian, and the last time I saw Khloe she was about as black as her dad, O.J. Simpson.

After fewer than 10 minutes of warming up, LeBron was drenched in a sweat that only Patrick Ewing or my old biology teacher with the bad thyroid can understand. He left the shootaround early to return to the locker room for treatment for what looked to be a sore back. Like many of the other players, especially Kevin Love, LeBron appeared taller and leaner and more well-defined than what we see on television.

The game began and LeBron quickly established his superiority. He was not just quicker and more explosive than the other players, he was smarter. He does this thing where after getting the ball during a set play, he puts his down and looks out the corner of the eye, as if he’s visualizing or thinking into existence what’s about to occur. Next thing you know he makes a crisp pass the leads to a bucket, or leads to a pass that leads to a bucket. He gets to the hoop at will–left hand, right hand, crossover, post up, fadeaway–anybody can get it! He launches a three; you assume he’s letting the defense off easy, but it’s all net–he’s 40 percent from there this year. Then, just as you wonder if he can still jump out the building, he leaps from the hash marks and stuffs a two-handed dunk, the ball cocked behind his head, as his legs twist awkwardly.

The Atlanta Hawks would soon be outclassed and down by 20. The horn sounded and LeBron’s intensity relented. He joked with teammates before tossing a towel to a young fan and walking to the locker room. LeBron finished with 25 points, 7 rebounds, and a career-high-tying 17 assists.

I got more than my money’s worth, and I’ll back. Courtside, I hope, maybe even sitting next to the real Khloe Kardashian. LeBron’s given us 15 years of excellence, but there won’t be many more. Los Angeles and father time are calling. Catch the show while you can.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Finding A (Near) Courtside Ticket To See LeBron For About $50 appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

They ask to go outside and ride bikes. It’s 34 degrees. My wife, who’s white and supposedly more culturally acclimated to the cold, doesn’t want to go with them. To avoid dealing with simultaneous tantrums, I bundle up and take ’em out. An argument starts before they even get the bikes from the garage. Larke, the baby, is playing with a pogo stick that belongs to my oldest son, Nile, who’s at school. Ca$$ius, who believes he’s responsible for regulating toy transactions, throws a fit, tears and all. “That’s Nile’s! Get off it!” I tell him Nile doesn’t care. “How do you know!” he screams. “Cause Dada knows a lot of things.” Tantrum continues. I ignore. Tantrum continues. I tell him, “I’m not gonna sit outside in the cold and listen to you cry all day.” Tantrum continues. I drag him back in the house. Larke follows us, “OK. I can go out later,” he says in an understanding manner.

The tantrum gets worse. Ca$$ius swings his limbs and screams wildly. He catches with a good smack that lands far too close to the machinery that helped to create him. I smack his butt, restrain his arms, and carry him into his room. I sit with him and try to calm him. Too late. He’s only 4, but he’s down for a scrap. For the sake of both of us, I leave the room and hold the door closed. He kicks at it and screams. Amber runs upstairs to see what’s wrong. We usually play calm cop/out of control cop depending on which of us is deranged at the time. “He’s just bad,” I tell her, as I hold the door. She screams in a hushed voice: “Don’t say that! That’s not true!” I feel control leaving my body, “Well, he is! Look at him!” Now she’s about to cry. I let go of the door. They hug it out and calm is restored.

Later that day I think about my three-plus years as a stay-at-home dad. The kids weren’t the least bit self-sufficient, nor were they in school. It was nonstop monitoring and teaching (and laughs). Sure, sometimes I dozed off on them after too much wine for lunch and responded to tantrums with tantrums of my own, but for the most part, I just threw on my baby carrier, grabbed the stroller, and handled behavioral crises with calm. But now…man, I might get to wraslin’ one of these lil’ ni**@s. And I wonder…have my skills as a parent deteriorated?

Well, what better way to find out than a weekend alone with my three boys while my wife enjoys a short girls’ trip to Denver.

Day One
Nile had a YMCA basketball game at 9 a.m. He began the season as the least skilled 6-year-old in Central Ohio. Hey, just being honest. But in the two weeks after, I taught him to dribble, rebound, shoot a bit, and not be scared of the ball. But I didn’t really go over the rules. The game began. Nile grabbed a rebound and took off down the court without dribbling, like he was holding a relay baton. The ref blew the whistle and Nile looked ashamed. He glanced at me for approval; I gave him a thumbs up. Then I made his brothers cheer. It was progress! During the prior game he had shot at the wrong basket, just as I did in my day, though at a much older and much more embarrassing age, now he was at least going the right way.

After the game, we went to McDonald’s. The plan was just to get a yogurt and crash the playground, but McDonald’s in-store Happy Meal advertising is great at influencing undeveloped minds and crushing the wills of health-minded parents. I gave in to the kids’ wishes and got three Happy Meals, each came with a free Transformers mask. They devoured the chemicals and then went to the playground. It was packed; there was a private birthday party going on. I gathered my boys before they took their shoes off. “When I say it’s time to go, it’s time to go. No talkin’ back, no arguing. I’m telling you now. Everybody say OK.” Great two-way communication, huh?

We returned home and the kids spent hours playing “Africa” in the backyard. It’s a game where they pretend to be explorers who rob the continent of its most valuable resources and strongest people. Then they divide up the land for colonization, support dictators, and complain about the lack of democratic progress in the continent’s countries. Just kidding. It’s a game where they walk along the Nile River (my oldest son’s namesake) and capture wild animals.

Hours passed without a single fight or tantrum. This was not normal. I checked on them periodically, though I was careful not to break the golden rule of parenting: If the kids are quiet, leave ’em the hell alone. I brought them in for dinner. A relatively easy bedtime routine followed 90 minutes later. They were asleep by 8:15 p.m., earlier than usual. I celebrated by watching a boxing match and drinking half a bottle of wine and a few beers. I nodded off thinking, “Man, I could be a stay-at-home dad again.”

Day Two
Ca$$ius came to my bed around 3 a.m., screaming because his ear hurt. I wrapped myself in the blanket and walked to the kitchen for liquid ibuprofen and ear drops. After the meds, we fell asleep for another 20 minutes before the screaming started again. “I miss Mama! I miss Mama! Call Mama!” Of course she was in Denver and probably in a deep edible-induced sleep. “It’s too late to call. She’ll call you in the morning. Go to sleep! Or go in the garage and sleep!” More crying. So I called Amber and told Ca$$ius to leave a message. Hearing her voicemail greeting calmed him. Still, the commotion awakened the other two. They came to my bed and slept in various directions, limbs flinging for space. By 6 a.m. they were smacking and pulling me to get up. I kicked ’em all out: “Dang! Go in the kitchen and get a yogurt. Come back to bed after you eat.”

The rest of the morning was brutal. Everyone’s sleep is off. Fights and arguments, and yeah, maybe I bopped one of the boys over the head with an empty cereal box. After a few hours of chaos, I put everyone in the car. They asked where we were going. “It’s a surprise,” I said. It was a surprise to me, too. I just wanted to drive in hopes they’d fall asleep.

The two youngest were asleep within 10 minutes. Nile was also nodding off, but his curiosity kept him awake. “Where we going, Dada?” I took the exit for Ikea, where one can find stylish furniture, free babysitting, and good salmon. But it was Sunday and way too crowded. There wasn’t even a legit parking space to be found. Must have been a lot of parents suffering from kid fatigue.

So we went to Chuck E. Cheese. About a third of the games were broken and ol’ punk ass Chuck E. never came out to dance, but the kids had fun. We played the games 53 times and the kids were rewarded with enough tickets to get three tiny pieces of candy. I got a bookmark. Well, and a beer. Chuck E. Cheese sells $4 beers. Not bad. By the way, the only thing worse than a Walmart line on Black Friday is waiting for kids to pick their prizes in Chuck E. Cheese. Come on! Your choices are an Airhead or a plastic pinkie ring. Neither is going to last longer than a tenth of the time it takes you to decide. PICK ONE!

Anyhow, Chuck E. Cheese set the mood for the rest of the day. After returning home, we played outside and chased FedEx drivers, tried to resuscitate some type of weird beetle-praying mantis hybrid bug, and drew some zombies. I also let each of them steer our minivan/sport wagon around the block while I pushed the gas. Next thing I knew, it was time for dinner and bed, and in the morning, work and school, and then, Mom’s return.

The Aftermath
By Monday, I had regained confidence in my ability to remain calm while raising three boys who will be able to kick my ass in about seven years. Whatever the issue–fighting, whining, coming into my bed as I type this at 2 a.m. and asking “Why you always stare at that thing?”–it’s really just minor. There’s no need to give ’em the Joe Jackson treatment, though the potential millions that such parenting can generate is hard to pass up.

The time alone with the kids also reminded me that like wild animals, the boys need time to roam in the outdoors, even if that free time is spent pretending to be wolves and smelling each others’ asses (true story). Most of all, I felt oddly refreshed after the weekend. This will come in handy; Amber’s out of town again next week. If I had more than a couple friends I’d say I was due for a guys’ trip. Guess I’ll go somewhere with my boys.

-Dewan Gibson

The post A Weekend Alone With My Boys: Lord Don’t Let Me Bop These Kids Over The Head With A Cereal Box appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

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

The post Old School Cool: Nearly 40 Years Ago My Parents Got Married At McDonald’s appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

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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